The Billionaire's Insignificant Wife novel Chapter 80

“JUNIOR!”

Her scream echoed through the mansion with piercing volume.

She ran to the small boy, knelt beside the still body, hands trembling as they touched his small shoulder.

“Junior, honey, wake up. Please wake up.”

No response.

Clarissa gently but panicked turned Junior’s head to see the damage.

A gash on the side of his head. Deep. Bleeding heavily. Eyes closed. Face pale.

“HELP! SOMEONE HELP!” Clarissa screamed again, her voice cracking with genuine panic now.

Running footsteps from downstairs. Margaret appeared in the doorway with Mrs. Helen behind her.

“What’s-“Margaret’s voice cut off when she saw the scene.

Junior on the floor. Blood. So much blood.

“Oh my God,” Margaret whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.

Mrs. Helen immediately took action. Took her phone from her apron pocket

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said with a voice surprisingly steady despite her pale face.

“Junior, please,” Clarissa was still on the floor, holding the unconscious boy “Please wake up. Mama is here. Please.”

But Junior didn’t move. Didn’t respond.

Just lying there with blood continuing to flow. Staining the carpet. Staining Clarissa’s dress. Staining everything.

And in the library on the floor below, Alina was still asleep in deep unconsciousness from the sleeping pills.

Not knowing that the child she loved like her own was bleeding out on his bedroom floor.

Not knowing that while searching for the book Alina had given him, while desperate for connection with the Mama taken from him, Junior fell.

Not knowing that maybe, if she had been there, if she could have gotten the book for him like usual, none of this would have happened.

Outside, the ambulance siren could already be heard in the distance.

Getting closer.

But for Junior lying still on the floor with blood pooling beneath his small head, help might be coming too late.

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Critical Hours

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The ambulance arrived in seven minutes.

Clarissa stayed on the floor, cradling Junior’s head in her lap, trying to stop the bleeding with a pillowcase Mrs. Helen handed her. The fabric turned crimson within seconds.

“Stay with me, baby,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Please stay with me.”

Margaret stood frozen in the doorway, face pale, hands gripping the doorframe so hard her knuckles were white.

Mrs. Helen guided the paramedics upstairs with efficiency born from years of crisis management, though her hands trembled as she pointed to Junior’s room.

Two paramedics rushed in with a gurney and medical kit.

“Ma’am, we need you to step back,” the older one said, kneeling beside Junior with professional calm.

Clarissa didn’t want to let go. Couldn’t let go.

“Ma’am, please. We need to assess him.”

Mrs. Helen gently pulled Clarissa back, hands on her shoulders, while the paramedics worked.

They checked vitals. Pulse. Breathing. Pupils.

“Pulse is weak. Breathing shallow. Possible skull fracture. We need to move now.”

They secured Junior’s neck with a brace, carefully transferred him to the backboard, then the gurney. The efficiency was terrifying in its speed.

“Is he going to be okay?” Clarissa’s voice cracked. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

“We’re doing everything we can, ma’am. Which hospital do you prefer?”

“St. Mary’s,” Margaret answered when Clarissa couldn’t. “It’s the closest with a pediatric trauma unit.”

The paramedics were already moving, carrying Junior down the stairs with practiced coordination.

Clarissa followed, still wearing the dress soaked with Junior’s blood, not caring about anything except the small body on that gurney.

“I’m coming with him,” she said. Not a request.

“Are you the mother?”

“Yes.” The word came out fierce. Absolute.

They loaded Junior into the ambulance. Clarissa climbed in after, sitting on the bench beside the gurney while the paramedic hooked up monitors.

Beeping filled the small space. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Oxygen saturation.

All the numbers too low. Too concerning.

“We’re going to intubate,” the paramedic said, already preparing the equipment. “His breathing is deteriorating.”

Clarissa watched in horror as they inserted the tube down Junior’s throat, connecting him to a ventilator.

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The machine started breathing for him.

For her son who couldn’t breathe on his own.

“Ma’am, I need you to call the father. Let him know we’re heading to St. Mary’s.”

Clarissa fumbled for her phone with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking.

Daniel’s number. Call.

One ring. Two. Three.

“Clarissa, I’m in the middle of-”

“Junior fell.” Her voice broke completely. “He fell and hit his head and there’s so much blood and he won’t wake up and we’re in the ambulance and-”

“What? Slow down. What happened?”

“He FELL, Daniel!” She was screaming now, not caring. “From the bookshelf in his room. His head–there was blood everywhere and he’s not waking up and-”

“Which hospital?”

“St. Mary’s. They said St. Mary’s.”

“I’m leaving now. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

The line went dead.

Clarissa stared at her phone, then at Junior on the gurney. So small. So pale. With a tube in his throat and monitors beeping and blood still seeping through the bandage on his head.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

None of this was supposed to happen.

***

Back at the mansion, Mrs. Helen stood in Junior’s room, staring at the blood on the carpet.

So much blood for such a small body.

The Little Prince lay where it had fallen, pages stained crimson.

She picked it up with shaking hands, closed it gently.

This was the book Alina gave Junior. The book they read together every night before Clarissa came back. Before everything fell apart.

Mrs. Helen looked at the bookshelf. The fifth shelf where the book had been. Too high for a five–year–old to reach safely.

Why was Junior trying to get it himself?

And then she remembered. Alina always got the books for him. Always.

But Alina wasn’t allowed near Junior anymore. Wasn’t allowed to help him. Wasn’t allowed to be his mother.

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So Junior climbed himself.

And fell.

Mrs. Helen closed her eyes, feeling tears she couldn’t afford to shed.

Then she remembered something else.

Alina.

No one had told Alina.

She rushed downstairs to the library, pushing open the door.

Alina was still on the sofa, exactly where Clarissa left her. Unconscious. Too deeply asleep.

“Nyonya Blackwood!” Mrs. Helen shook her shoulder. “Nyonya, wake up!”

Nothing.

She shook harder. “Nyonya Alina, please! Junior is hurt! You need to wake up!”

Still nothing.

This wasn’t normal sleep. Even exhausted people stirred when shaken this hard.

Mrs. Helen’s eyes fell on the tea tray. Empty cup. Faint residue at the bottom.

Her blood ran cold.

She picked up the cup, sniffed it. Chamomile. Honey. Lemon.

And something else. Something bitter underneath that she couldn’t quite identify but made her stomach sink.

She looked at Alina again. At the too–deep sleep. The complete lack of response.

And she knew.

Clarissa drugged her.

“Oh, Nyonya,” Mrs. Helen whispered, sitting beside the unconscious woman. “What did she do to you?”

She couldn’t wake Alina. Couldn’t bring her to the hospital. Not when she was drugged and vulnerable and would be blamed for not being there when Junior fell.

Because they would blame her. Margaret would blame her. Clarissa would blame her.

The woman who should have been there. Who always got the books from high shelves. Who always kept