Chapter 2 - The Boy in the Cottage
The transition from the grand manor to the eastern orchard was a descent into an entirely different reality. While the main house boasted imported Italian marble, vaulted ceilings, and priceless oils, the old caretaker’s cottage hidden behind the neglected apple trees had been abandoned since Duncan’s grandfather’s time. Its whitewash was peeling, the slate roof sagged under the weight of wet moss, and the only heat came from a rusted cast-iron woodstove.
Anwen ran.
She ran clutching Duncan’s soaked jacket around her chest with one hand and the dripping bundle of cash with the other. Her lungs burned with the raw taste of autumn air. She knew the rules; she had lived by them for four agonizing years. Felice’s rules were simple: *Live as a ghost, work until your bones ache, and never, ever let Duncan Vance look at your face. If you speak, if you tell him who you are, Leo goes into the state system under an anonymous ward, and you will never see him again.*
Felice had the money, the political connections, and the legal power to make good on that threat. She had proven it once before when she had forged the psychiatric evaluation that had stripped Anwen of her identity after the accident.
"Mommy?"
A small, raspy voice broke through the dark cottage room.
Anwen slammed the heavy oak door shut, throwing the rusted bolt. She sank down against the wood, her knees giving out, her chest heaving as she let out a sound that was half-sob, half-choke.
In the corner, nestled beneath a mountain of patched wool blankets on a makeshift cot, a little boy pushed himself up. He was pale—too pale—with soft, wavy dark hair that fell into eyes of the exact same piercing, steel-gray shade as the man standing soaking wet back on the terrace. On his right collarbone, peeking out from the oversized flannel pajama top, was a distinct, star-shaped birthmark.
"Mommy, you're all wet," Leo said, his voice whistling with the tight, suffocating wheeze of a bronchial spasm. He coughed, a dry, barking rattle that tore through Anwen’s heart. "Did it rain?"
"No, sweet pea," Anwen whispered, wiping her tears furiously with the cuff of Duncan’s jacket before crawling over to the cot. She caught the scent of Duncan’s cologne still clinging to the wool—bergamot and cedar—and for a second, she allowed herself to remember a penthouse in London, five years ago, where that same scent had meant safety, love, and the promise of a lifetime.
*He didn't recognize you,* she told herself brutally, crushing the memory beneath the weight of reality. *He looked right at you, and all he saw was a broken maid. The crash took his memory of you, and Felice took the rest.*
She pulled the dripping bills from her pocket and set them on the wooden nightstand, then reached for the small, half-empty inhaler. "Here, baby. Take a breath for Mommy. Deep breath."
Leo obeyed, his tiny fingers wrapping around hers. As he inhaled the mist, his breathing eased slightly, though the fever radiating from his forehead remained terrifyingly high.
Suddenly, heavy footfalls crunched against the gravel path outside the cottage.
Anwen froze. Her hand instinctively drifted to Leo’s back, pressing the boy down beneath the covers. "Shh, Leo. Stay down. Don't make a sound."
*Felice sent someone,* she thought in sheer terror. *She’s going to take him. She knows Duncan is asking questions, so she’s going to get rid of the evidence.*
Anwen grabbed an iron fire poker from the hearth. Her body was trembling, but her stance was rigid. She would die on this floor before anyone took her son.
A firm, heavy knock rattled the wooden door.
"Anwen."
It was not Felice. It was not one of the estate guards.
It was Duncan.
"Open the door," his deep voice resonated through the thick timber. "I have Dr. Mercer with me. He has the pediatric nebulizer and the IV antibiotics."
Anwen’s heart slammed against her ribs like a caged bird. Dr. Mercer was the Vance family physician—an elite doctor who only treated high-society elites. Why would Duncan bring him here?
"Go away!" Anwen cried out, her voice fracturing. "Please, Mr. Vance, just leave us alone! We’ll be gone before sunrise! I won't ask for the rest of my wages!"
The door handle rattled violently. "I don't care about the wages, Anwen. I care about the child coughing loud enough to be heard from the path. You open this door, or I kick it off its hinges. You have three seconds."
"Duncan, please—"
*One.*
*Two.*
Anwen dropped the poker. Defeated, terrified, and shaking with an exhaustion that went straight to her soul, she slid the bolt back and pulled the door open.
Duncan stood on the threshold. He had changed into a dark dry sweater and jeans, but his hair was still damp. Behind him stood Dr. Mercer, a silver-haired man carrying an oversized medical bag, looking bewildered and intensely uncomfortable.
Duncan’s gaze swept over the cottage in a single, scathing second: the exposed beams, the damp corners, the bare woodstove, the sheer poverty of the space, located barely five hundred yards from his multi-million-dollar estate. His jaw hardened into pure granite.
Then, his eyes moved to the cot.
Leo had sat up again, clutching his blanket to his chest, his gray eyes blinking at the tall stranger standing in the doorway.
Duncan stopped breathing.
The world seemed to spin on its axis. Duncan had never seen this child before. He had spent the last five years buried in work, detached from emotion, living in the cold, clinical aftermath of the car accident in Switzerland that had wiped out nearly eight months of his memory. The doctors had told him the forgotten months were inconsequential—just an extended holiday before he returned to take over the family empire. Felice had been there when he woke up, presenting herself as the devoted fiancée who had waited by his bedside.
Yet, looking at the little boy on the cot, Duncan felt a violent, visceral shock wave rip through his central nervous system.
The dark, wavy hair.
The exact shape of the jawline.
The slate-gray eyes, rimmed with a darker charcoal ring—an exceedingly rare genetic trait that had belonged to the Vance men for four generations.
"Duncan?" Dr. Mercer murmured, stepping forward. "Should I examine the boy?"
Duncan couldn't answer. He couldn't speak. He walked past Anwen, his boots heavy on the floorboards, until he knelt down right beside the cot. He was an intimidating man, vast and powerful, but as he reached the boy's bedside, his posture softened with an instinct he did not know he possessed.
"Hello," Duncan said, his voice dropping to a gentle whisper.
Leo looked at him, completely unbothered by the man’s size. "You’re wearing Mommy’s jacket. Well... Mommy was wearing yours."
"I am," Duncan whispered.
Leo sneezed, then coughed again, the rattle deep in his chest. As he shifted, the collar of his pajama shirt pulled back, fully exposing the star-shaped mark on his collarbone.
Duncan’s hand rose unconsciously. His fingers hovered just inches from the mark. He had the exact same mark—mirrored—on his left shoulder blade.
Behind him, Anwen let out a small, strangled whimper.
Duncan slowly turned his head to look up at her. The anger that had been simmering on the terrace was gone, replaced by a dark, terrifying clarity.
"You worked in the London office," Duncan said, his voice flat, dangerously calm. "Five years ago. Before my crash."
Anwen pressed her back against the doorframe, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. She didn't nod. She didn't shake her head. She just looked at him with the haunted eyes of a woman who had lived in hell.
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"Dr. Mercer," Duncan ordered, never taking his eyes off Anwen’s face. "Stabilize him. Pack him up. We are moving him into the main house right now."
***