Oliver’s POV

I woke up in Cedar’s apartment, sunshine filtering through unfamiliar curtains. For a split second, confusion clouded my mind before memories of yesterday rushed back. I sat up quickly, scanning the room for her.

She was already dressed in a pantsuit that made her look like those important ladies at Daddy’s company, but prettier. Her hair was neatly pulled back, and she moved about the kitchen with purpose.

“Good morning, Oliver,” she said when she noticed me watching. “I made you cereal and orange juice.”

I rubbed sleep from my eyes and padded to the kitchen table. The cereal was store-brand, not the organic imported kind we had at home, but somehow it looked more appealing.

Cedar knelt beside me, meeting my eyes. “Oliver, I have to go to work. There’s money on the counter if you want to order food.”

My heart sank a little, but I nodded bravely.

She handed me a small piece of paper. “This is my phone number. If you need anything—anything at all—call me right away.”

I accepted the paper with reverence, as if receiving a precious artifact. “Okay, Mommy. Can I call if I just miss you too?”

Cedar’s fingers gently combed through my hair. “Yes, of course.”

I leaned into her touch, savoring the moment. It felt so natural, so right.

Mommy didn’t bring up sending me back yesterday, and she didn’t correct me when I called her mommy. She seemed to be adapting to her role as my mom now. That’s wonderful!

“Mommy… I can keep calling you that, can’t I? Forever?” I asked hopefully.

“Well, Oliver…” She paused, her expression softening. “If calling me that makes you feel safe, then I’m okay with it. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need to. I’ve grown quite fond of you, you know.

“And you won’t force me to go back?” I asked, my voice small.

She sighed gently. “I think we should contact your family when you’re ready. But even if they come for you someday, we can still keep in touch. I’d like that, actually.”

My smile faltered a bit. Not exactly the answer I was hoping for, but it was something. At least she wasn’t pushing me away.

After she left, I carefully folded the paper and tucked it into my pocket, patting it twice to make sure it was safe. Then I positioned myself by the window, watching until she disappeared down the street.

Yesterday had been perfect. I smiled, remembering how I’d convinced Hunter to help me.

“Hunter, I need a favor…” I’d whispered into my smartwatch. “I want to surprise my mom.”

“Young master, that’s against protocol—”

“Please,” I’d begged. “I want to make her happy.”

Eventually, Hunter helped me to tidy the apartment and deliver dinner. The look on Mommy’s face when she came home had been worth every bit of Hunter’s grumbling.

Later, she’d given me one of her T-shirts to sleep in. “It’ll be big, but probably more comfortable than sleeping in your clothes,” she’d said.

I’d buried my face in the soft fabric. “It smells like you.”

And the bedtime stories! She’d read three whole books, not just one like the nannies at home. Aiden only got to discuss boring charts with Father, but I had Mom’s hugs and stories.

Elara’s laugh was brittle. “How noble. Let’s hope your principles are worth eight million dollars.”

Back at my desk, I exhaled slowly. Family shouldn’t operate like a business transaction. Love shouldn’t come with invoices. Yet here I was, negotiating my freedom like a corporate merger. The realization brought an odd mix of clarity and determination—I would win my independence through my work, not compromise.

I immersed myself in perfecting the Wilson project, integrating Chicago’s architectural heritage with sustainable materials.

“This will be my final work for Wright, and it will be my best,” I murmured to the rendering on my screen.

Hours passed. The office light shifted as colleagues departed, but I remained focused. When I finally completed the adjustments, satisfaction washed over me. I organized everything into a sleek black portfolio.

Just then, my phone buzzed with an email notification. I glanced down to see a reply from Emily Parker, Wilson Group’s procurement director. I’d met her briefly at last month’s Chicago Design Expo and had been impressed by her professionalism.

[Ms. Wright, I’ve reviewed your preliminary concepts and would like to discuss them further. Could you meet me at the Preston Hotel, Room 412, at 7:00 PM today? I have a meeting there. We can meet before that. I believe we could find common ground that satisfies both our companies’ interests.]

Relief washed over me. Emily’s involvement changed everything—she had a reputation for being fair and focused purely on design merit. This was exactly the opportunity I needed—a chance to present my work to someone who would judge it on quality alone.

Checking my watch, I called a car to the Preston Hotel. This meeting would determine my trajectory—continued servitude to the Wright family or finally, freedom.

In the elevator, I took deep breaths, centering myself. “You can do this. For your freedom.”

I found Room 412, my hand raised to knock, when sounds from inside stopped me cold—moaning and shouting that couldn’t be mistaken. My hand froze midair as shock rooted me to the spot, undecided whether to retreat or proceed.