The Billionaire's Insignificant Wife novel Chapter 79

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The Fall

At ten minutes past five in the afternoon, a black car pulled into the mansion’s driveway.

Junior got out with a backpack on his back, his steps slow as they had been lately. The driver opened the door for him, but Junior only nodded slightly without smiling.

Mrs. Helen greeted him at the door with a warm smile that was trying too hard. “Young Master Junior, how was your lesson?”

Junior shrugged. “Fine.”

“Would you like a snack? There are freshly baked cookies.”

“No, thank you.” Junior walked past her, heading for the stairs.

Mrs. Helen watched him with deep concern but said nothing. The boy clearly needed space.

Junior went up to his room with mechanical steps. Threw his bag on the bed. Sat on the edge with eyes staring blankly at the wall.

Where Transformers robot posters used to hang, there was now an educational poster about the solar system that Clarissa had put up a week ago.

“More educational,” she had said with a smile. “Junior needs to learn about planets, not just play.”

But Junior didn’t care about planets. He cared about Optimus who was gone. About Mama who wouldn’t talk to him anymore. About everything that had changed and he didn’t understand why.

His eyes fell on the bookshelf in the corner of the room. A tall shelf with five levels.

On the very top shelf was Junior’s favorite storybook. “The Little Prince.” The book Mama Alina gave him for his fourth birthday. That they read together every night before bed.

Junior hadn’t read that book since Optimus disappeared. Since everything became… wrong.

But now he wanted to read it. Wanted something familiar. Something that reminded him of when everything was still okay.

He stood, walked to the bookshelf, looking up.

The top shelf was too high to reach.

Usually Mama Alina would get it for him. Or Papa if he was home. Or even Mrs. Helen.

But now…

Junior glanced at his bedroom door that was slightly open. Heard voices from downstairs. Clarissa talking with Grandma Margaret in the living room. Their voices loud. Discussing something about dinner arrangements.

No Mama Alina.

Mama Alina always knew when Junior needed something. Always there when he called.

But now Mama wasn’t allowed to come to his room without permission. And Junior didn’t know how to ask permission. Didn’t know who he should ask.

He stared at the book on the top shelf again.

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The Little Prince with its faded blue cover and bent corners from being read so often.

Junior wanted that book. Wanted to hold something from Mama. Something that still had her smell. Lavender and soft vanilla.

The decision was made with the impulsiveness of a desperate and lonely five–year–old.

Junior pulled the small chair from his study desk, pushing it to the bookshelf with effort. The chair was heavy but he managed.

Then he started to climb.

First onto the chair. Stable enough.

But still not high enough to reach the top shelf.

Junior looked at the bookshelf itself. Sturdy shelves with enough spacing to…

He started climbing again. Using the shelves like a ladder.

His small feet on the first shelf. Hands searching for grip on the second shelf.

Up one level.

Then another.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Now he was high enough. His hand could reach The Little Prince.

His fingers touched the book’s spine with small triumph.

But when he pulled the book out, there was resistance. The book was stuck between two other books packed tight.

Junior pulled harder.

The book came free suddenly.

And the momentum made Junior lose his balance.

He tried to grab the shelf to steady himself.

But his hand slipped.

His small body fell backward in horrifying slow motion.

From the fifth level of the bookshelf.

Junior didn’t have time to scream.

Just a small gasp as gravity took over.

He fell.

Hit the chair below with a sickening thud.

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Then was thrown from the chair, his head striking the edge of the wooden and sharp study desk.

CRACK.

A sound that shouldn’t be there. A sound that was wet and wrong.

Junior fell to the floor. Still. Too still.

Blood began pooling beneath his small head. Dark red against the cream carpet.

The Little Prince lay beside him. Pages open. Wet with spreading blood.

Downstairs, Clarissa and Margaret were still discussing the dinner menu, completely unaware.

“I think French cuisine would be appropriate for tomorrow night’s guests,” Margaret said. “Something elegant. Sophisticated.”

“I agree. Maybe coq au vin? Or-”

A sound from upstairs. A dull thud that was muffled but audible.

Clarissa stopped mid–sentence. “What was that?”

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