Elaine stood in the downpour, laughing and weeping all at once, until the sound drew Greta from the shadows of the estate.

Greta had her hauled inside, her hands trembling as she grabbed a towel to scrub Elaine’s wet hair. "What in the hell is wrong with you? You haven't even finished your recovery, and you’re out here standing in the freezing rain! Do you want to die?"

Greta’s eyes darted down to Elaine’s hand. "And your hand—who the hell did this?!"

Elaine stared blankly, her eyes hollow, as if the soul had been ripped straight from her body. Her voice was a ragged whisper. "Grandma, I just want to go home."

Greta’s entire frame stiffened. She didn't need to ask for details; she knew exactly what had transpired.

She summoned a private physician to patch up Elaine’s battered hands and then slid a thick envelope across the mahogany table. "I hid these in the pile of standard business filings. Marcellus didn't look twice. Take them. In two days, leave. Run as far as your legs can carry you, and don't you dare look back."

A spark of life finally flickered in Elaine’s dull eyes. She whispered a choked thank you before curling up on the sofa and sinking into an exhausted, death-like sleep.

The next day, dragging her aching, bruised body, she returned to the West Wing.

Mavis, the maid responsible for Max, came sprinting toward her, pale as a sheet. "It’s bad, Elaine! The young master is running a fever—he's burning up, but the Mistress explicitly forbid us from calling a doctor!"

"What?"

Despite the countless times Max had been turned against her, Elaine’s heart twisted. He was still her child.

She hurried with Mavis to Max’s room, her pulse pounding in her ears. She scooped the limp, burning boy into her arms. His skin was searing to the touch, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps.

"He needs the hospital. Right now. If this fever spikes, he could suffer brain damage," she muttered to herself, turning to bolt for the door, only to be blocked by a shadow.

Morgan sauntered into the room, her expression draped in lazy malice. "Where do you think you’re going?"

Elaine shivered involuntarily, but she forced herself to stand tall, fear gnawing at her insides. "He needs to get his fever down immediately! If he ends up permanently scarred, not even you can bear the consequences!"

"It’s just a fever. Boys are tough. Besides, even if he burns out, no one would ever pin it on me," Morgan sneered.

Elaine knew she wasn't lying. Marcellus shielded Morgan like a diamond. She could commit any atrocity, and he would simply wash her hands clean of it.

Elaine’s knees gave out. With a sickening thud, she collapsed to the floor in front of her. "Morgan, please. I’m begging you. Take it out on me, just let me take him to the hospital."

Morgan let out a cruel, sharp laugh. "Such a touching mother-son bond. No wonder this little brat never acted like he was mine."

Morgan’s eyes glinted with sadism. "I’ll let you take him. But you have to pay the toll. One hundred knocks. Right here. Right now."

Elaine’s hands balled into white-knuckled fists, but she didn't move.

Morgan’s voice dropped, ice-cold and jagged. "Start knocking!"

A single tear slid down Elaine’s cheek. She leaned forward and slammed her forehead against the hardwood floor.

Once. Twice.

Her skin split instantly. A dark, ugly bruise bloomed on her brow, rapidly darkening to a deep, sickly purple.

Ninety-eight. Ninety-nine. One hundred.

Morgan let out a satisfied scoff, stepping aside to clear the path.

Elaine didn't waste a second. She heaved Max into her arms and ran.

Outside, the rain had intensified into a deluge. Morgan had already issued the order: no umbrella, no car keys. Elaine plunged into the storm, shielding the burning boy with her own body, stumbling blindly toward the hospital miles away.

By the time she reached the ER, she was half-dead, but Max was hooked up to an IV drip. After an agonizing wait, his eyelashes fluttered. He blinked, his eyes slowly focusing on the disheveled, soaking-wet woman hovering over him.

He stared at her, stunned.

Just as Elaine braced herself for the usual barrage of insults from her own son, he let out a tiny, shaky breath. "Did... did you save me?"

Elaine fumbled with her wet sleeves, forcing a soft, broken, "Yes."

The silence in the room was heavy, suffocating.

"Thank you," Max muttered, staring firmly at the sheets, his eyes rimmed with red.

Elaine’s heart melted. "It was the right thing to do."

Max was far too mature for his age. He had sensed the lies around him for a long time. He hesitated, his voice thick with congestion. "They say... they say you’re my real mother. Is that true?"

"Yes."

Elaine’s heart hammered against her ribs, a desperate, irrational hope rising in her chest. Could she actually leave this place with a shred of love? If Morgan was mistreating him, maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to take him with her.

Before she could process the thought, Max let out a jagged sob. "Why? Why do you have to be my mother? Why did you even show up? Because of you, Mom hates me!"

"I hate you!"

"Mom said Dad is going to die soon, and she has to marry Uncle. Please, just give him to her! If you give her what she wants, she’ll stop hitting me! She’ll finally love me!"

The boy was hysterical, his words a jumble of twisted logic and trauma.

Elaine froze. The warmth in her chest turned to ice, shattering completely.

"Okay," she whispered.

Max blinked, confused. "Really?"

Elaine’s voice trembled, brittle as dry leaves. "If you call me 'Mom' just one time, I’ll do it."

Max didn't seem to believe her, but he whimpered, "Mom... are you really going to leave?"

Seven years. She had waited seven years to hear him say it.

Elaine gave him a smile that looked more like a wound than a gesture of joy. She leaned down, gently wiping the tears from his cheeks.

"Yes. Mom is going to leave."