Her Boy Fell Ill

The line clicked open. "Hello?" a deep, familiar voice answered—a voice that sent a massive, terrifying jolt straight down her spine.

Her heart leaped into a suffocating panic. Her breath hitched, catching sharp in her throat. She stared at the receiver in her trembling hand, her mind racing to comprehend the impossible. She had specifically dialed the administrative extension for the secretary. Why was the CEO answering his own lines?

"Hello?" Desmond repeated into the receiver. His calm, patient tone echoed through the small plastic speaker, grounding the terrifying reality of the moment in the present. She could hear the faint rustle of papers on his end, the ambient noise of a high-rise executive suite filtering through the connection.

Panic clawed at her throat, urging her to slam the phone down and run. Searching for an escape, Camilla squeezed the bridge of her nose. She adopted an exaggerated, nasal voice, pitching it an octave higher than her natural register to fake a wrong number. "Oops! Oh, goodness, is this Omnicrest Group? I think I might have messed up the number."

A beat of silence hung over the line. Then, Desmond laughed light into the receiver. The dark amusement dripped through the connection, sending a shiver over her skin. "Seems you've got the wrong number, ex-wife."

He caught the deception in a heartbeat. His sharp ear picked up the subtle nuances of her speech, seeing right through the clumsy charade. The blood drained from her cheeks, leaving her flush with a sudden, humiliating heat. Taking a long, steadying breath to rein in her racing pulse, Camilla pushed past the awkwardness. She dropped the fake pitch and slipped into her most formal, business-appropriate tone, projecting a confidence she did not feel.

"Mr. Vance," she began, gripping the edge of her desk until her knuckles turned white. "Vanguard Media is interested in your recent market strategies. I am calling to pitch a short, exclusive interview."

"No time," Desmond shot back. His tone shifted from amused to frigid, slicing through her pitch like a blade before the line went dead. The busy signal buzzed in her ear, a harsh, repetitive drone signaling her failure.

Camilla lowered the phone, exhaling a ragged breath.

Garrison popped his head over her cubicle divider. Despite the blunt rejection, her boss was stunned. A massive grin stretched across his face, thrilled that the elusive Desmond had bothered to answer the phone at all. "Did he actually speak to you? The Desmond Vance?"

"He said he has no time," Camilla muttered, rubbing her temples.

"Try again, but this time, turn on the charm," Garrison urged, hovering over her desk. He tapped his knuckles against the wood. "This is an opening. We need this."

Camilla stared at the dial pad. The weight of her mounting bills pressed heavy on her shoulders. Forced to swallow her pride for the sake of her needed paycheck, she dialed the number again.

Desmond picked up on the first ring.

"Mr. Vance," Camilla started, humbly pleading into the receiver for a fraction of his time. "Vanguard Media can offer an unparalleled platform. We only need a few moments—"

"You're gonna need a better pitch than that," Desmond sneered. He savored the power dynamic, enjoying the sound of her begging. He let the silence stretch out, forcing her to squirm, though he eventually relented just enough. "Send the interview details to me later."

He hung up again.

Seeking a safer barrier, Camilla opened the company's official WhatsApp account on her computer. She drafted a formal message detailing the interview parameters and hit send.

Seconds later, Desmond balked at the formality. A message popped onto the screen, demanding she use her personal number to contact him.

Camilla frowned, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She stubbornly steered the conversation back to strict business protocols, refusing to cross that personal boundary. She typed out a compromise, proposing they meet in person after work hours to discuss the logistics.

*Fine,* came his curt reply.

The clock in the corner of her screen clicked closer to the end of the day. Before that tense meeting could materialize, her cell phone blared with a shrill ringtone.

Camilla glanced at the caller ID and answered. "Hey, Daphne, what's wrong?"

A frantic, terrifying call poured through the speaker. Daphne's voice shook. "Cam, it's Callum. He is sick with a spiking fever. He keeps throwing up. We are at the local children's hospital right now."

The world tilted off its axis. A maternal terror seized Camilla's chest. She dropped her pen, grabbed her purse, and went rushing out of the office in a blind panic. She ignored the confused stares of her colleagues, her mind consumed by the image of her fragile son.

She sprinted through the bustling city streets, her lungs burning, until she reached the sterile, chaotic corridors of the local children's hospital. The smell of bleach and antiseptic assaulted her senses. She navigated the maze of the pediatric emergency wing, dodging nurses carrying trays of medication and frantic parents clutching sleeping infants, her eyes scanning the room for Daphne.

She found her best friend pacing near a narrow gurney. Callum lay on the stiff mattress, the thin hospital gown swallowing his tiny frame. His face was flushed a deep, alarming red, his chest heaving with every ragged breath.

Camilla rushed to his side, her heart shattering at the sight. She stroked his damp hair. Amidst the exhausting chaos of endless hospital lines, harsh fluorescent lights beating down from the ceiling, and the heartbreaking ordeal of securing an IV for her weeping child, Camilla lost all track of time. She thanked Daphne, urging her friend to go home, and took her place beside the gurney.

Just as the nurse managed to tape the IV line to Callum's small hand, Camilla's phone vibrated in her pocket.

She pulled it out, her eyes narrowing at the screen. It was Desmond.

Stepping out into the noisy hallway, she answered the call.

"Where exactly are we meeting?" Desmond demanded. His voice was sharp, cutting through the background noise of the hospital.

Camilla leaned her heavy head against the cool plaster wall. She felt overwhelmed, drained to her core. She cleared her throat, nursing a husky, exhausted voice. She spoke into the phone, her words thick with fatigue. "I can't make it. We have to push the meeting to another day due to an emergency."

Silence stretched across the connection, thick and unforgiving.

Desmond’s patience snapped. "Camilla, are you messing with me? You think I'm just sitting around, still in love with you?" he barked, his ego bruised by the sudden cancellation.

Before she could form a reply, the line went dead.

Camilla stood in the crowded hospital corridor, staring blankly at the dark screen of her phone. A nurse brushed past her, but Camilla barely registered the movement. Instead, she found herself bitterly recalling the dark, alcohol-fueled regrets of the disastrous night right before their divorce was finalized. The harsh words they had traded, the shattered glasses littering the hardwood floor, the unbridgeable chasm they had ripped between themselves—it all came flooding back, heavy and suffocating.

The night dragged on in a blur of vital checks and hushed whispers. After a grueling, restless night spent huddled in an uncomfortable plastic chair in the pediatric ward, her muscles ached with every shift in position. She kept her eyes glued to the steady drip of the IV bag, counting the drops falling into the clear chamber, praying for the fever to break.

The slow creep of morning finally brought a small, merciful reprieve. The gray light of dawn filtered through the hospital blinds, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor. Camilla reached out, resting her palm against Callum's forehead. His skin felt cool to the touch. The fever had broken.

Callum stirred, his eyelashes fluttering open. He sat up slowly, looking around the strange room with tired eyes. A nurse entered moments later with a breakfast tray, setting a bowl of plain, unappetizing hospital oatmeal on the rolling table.

Callum poked the gray mush with a plastic spoon, watching it clump together. He wrinkled his nose, reluctantly picking at the edges of the bowl. "I don't like it," he murmured.

Camilla pulled her chair closer, desperate to cheer him up. She brushed a stray curl from his forehead. "I know it doesn't taste great, sweetie. But you need to eat something to get your strength back. I promise you a massive future feast once you are recovered. You can pick whatever you want. Premium steak? Or maybe a giant double-cheese pizza?"

Callum's eyes widened at the thought of the decadent food. He managed a tiny, weak smile and took a small bite of the oatmeal.

By mid-morning, the doctor arrived to sign their discharge papers. Camilla began to gather their meager belongings, folding the small blanket Daphne had brought and zipping up her purse. They prepared to leave the dreary ward behind.

As she hoisted his small backpack onto her shoulder, Callum looked up at her. His large eyes were wide and pleading.

"You should find me a dad, Mommy," he stated. The words hung in the sterile air, striking her with the brutal honesty only a toddler possesses. "You won't be able to carry me when I get big."

The breath caught in her throat. A profound, tearing heartache ripped through her chest, threatening to bring tears to her exhausted eyes. She swallowed hard, forcing the emotion down. Masking her pain with a warm, unwavering smile, Camilla bent down until she was eye-level with her son.

She wrapped her arms around his small frame, holding him tight against her chest. She fiercely promised that she would always be strong enough to carry him. "I will always carry you," she whispered against his hair. "No matter how old or big you ever get, I will be here."

An hour later, they were safely locked inside their quiet apartment. The familiar scent of lavender and old books welcomed them home. Camilla tucked Callum into his own bed, making sure he was comfortable before stepping out into the living room.

She sank onto the sofa and pulled out her phone. The missed meeting with Desmond loomed over her head like a dark cloud. She opened her messaging app and texted Desmond once again. Swallowing her pride, she apologized for bailing on him the previous evening. She typed out a long, desperate message, practically begging him to reconsider the Vanguard Media interview and explaining she was ready to reschedule at his earliest convenience.

She hit send and placed the phone on the coffee table. She sat in the silence of her living room, staring at the glowing screen for an hour, watching the time tick by minute by minute. The screen stayed black. Her phone remained stubbornly silent.

A hot flicker of intense irritation ran straight through her veins. She clenched her jaw. Desmond had always been notorious for holding long, petty grudges. He was ignoring her on purpose, twisting the knife just to remind her of the power he held over her career.

The next day, Camilla crept into the Vanguard Media office, hoping to blend in with the gray cubicle walls. The bustling hum of the newsroom, the clacking of keyboards, and the ringing phones grated on her frayed nerves. She was on edge. She hadn't formally requested the emergency time off yesterday, simply vanishing when Daphne called. Worse, she had left the city's biggest billionaire hanging without a proper explanation.

She slid into her chair, keeping her head down. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Garrison's distinctive, bustling waddle. He was heading straight her way, navigating the maze of cubicles with unexpected speed.

Camilla gripped the edge of her desk. She braced herself for a harsh, loud scolding. She closed her eyes for a brief second, preparing for worse—her immediate termination.

Instead, Garrison abruptly clapped his hands together. The sharp smack echoed through the quiet room, drawing the attention of several nearby reporters. His boisterous laughter boomed across the floor.

"Camilla, you're a rock star!" Garrison cheered, a massive grin splitting his face. He flashed an enthusiastic thumbs-up in her direction. "The operations team can't function without you!"

Camilla's jaw went slack. Her brow furrowed deeply in confusion as she stood frozen by her desk. The exuberant praise washed over her, catching her off guard. She stared at her boss, trying to make sense of the sudden shift in reality.