Billionaire, Let's Divorce (Mark and Sydney) novel Chapter 419

CLARA

The dim glow of our laptop screens were the only sources of light in the large basement room.

The intercom rang and I immediately picked it up.

“There’s been another tip, Clara,“ she said in her usual calm voice.

“Send it in,“ I said as I opened up the tab where I receive the anonymous messages or phone calls we get.

“Abused teen and mother, address attached. Urgent,“ she summarized as the message popped in.

“Thanks,“ I said, taking it from her. “I’ll pass this to the retrieval team.“

I scanned the address before I went on to read the lengthy message someone must have frantically typed.

The message was typed by a thirteen year old who was forced to reach out because his jobless mom was too scared to leave his abusive stepfather. His step father is currently out of the state and they need help before he returns tonight.

Quickly, I typed out the details in our secure chat, flagged it as high priority, and sent it off to the retrieval team.

I have only worked for a few months at the charity house before I got promoted here and so far, so good.

One day, the head of the charity organization where I worked before had called me and commended me on my good work ethics and passion for my job.

It was then I found out that my boss was the son of abusive parents, both mother and father. I still found it hard to believe that he grew up to be such a kind man.

It turned out that he was not only affiliated to an underground charity network, but he was also its founder. His other charity branches were an extension of that underground network.

He came up with the idea because when he was growing up, anyone who tried to help him always got hurt as his parents were important figures in the society so he suffered in silence as he didn't want anyone to get hurt because of him.

Since I got promoted here, this place has opened my eyes to the number of people in abusive homes but are either too scared to reach out or are unable to reach out of shame and stigmatization.

After I'd sent the necessary info to the retrieval team and ensured that they had gotten on the move, I turned my attention to my routine info-gathering session.

As much as I loved my job, this part of the job was always draining. I sifted through records of people who’d reached out for help but haven't gotten any yet. Some cases weren't straightforward: no names, just pleas for help and an untraceable email. Others were heart-wrenchingly detailed, like the woman who described her husband locking her and her daughter, a toddler, in a basement for days without food.

I was scrolling through the latest entries when my burner phone buzzed on the desk. I picked it up, expecting a routine check-in or another update from a different branch. Instead, I heard muffled voices.

At first, it was just static and faint words and I briefly wondered where whoever was trying to get help was reaching out from. But then a man's voice came through, sharp and clear.

And I knew this one was no cry for help.

“—take the boy first-“

“We aren't taking the boy, fucker,“ another man said. “He's too young. Besides, how do we manage that? He's always in his mother's arms.“