Chapter 92 92
Patricia had invited a handful of close family friends and business associates: an older couple from the country club, a prominent attorney and his wife, and a retired investor who still advised on Brooks family holdings.
Blair moved quietly around the table in the black pants and white blouse uniform, refilling coffee cups, clearing plates, and serving small portions of fruit and pastries.
She kept her head down, moving silently, trying to blend into the background the way Patricia clearly expected.
Lucas sat at the head of the table—still in weekend casual (dark sweater, sleeves pushed up)—nodding politely to the guests’ conversation about market trends. Olivia sat to his right—perfectly composed in a cream silk dress, smiling sweetly, hand resting possessively on Lucas’s forearm whenever she spoke.
Patricia presided at the opposite end—, occasionally glancing toward Blair with thinly veiled disdain.
The conversation flowed easily until—
A small, excited shout echoed from the hallway.
“Mommy! Daddy! I want to play!”
Mave burst into the dining room—still in his dinosaur pajamas, barefoot, teddy bear dangling from one hand—running straight toward the table.
Every head turned.
Blair froze mid-step, coffee pot in hand.
Lucas’s fork paused halfway to his mouth.
Patricia’s face changed instantly—eyes widening, then narrowing, lips pressing into a thin line.
Mave skidded to a stop beside Blair, tugging on her pant leg.
“Mommy, come play! The rocket needs a captain!”
The room went silent.
The older couple exchanged glances.
The attorney’s wife tilted her head.
The investor leaned forward slightly.
Lucas set his fork down slowly.
Patricia recovered first—smile tight, voice smooth as glass.
“Well… who do we have here?”
Mave beamed up at her—completely unaware of the shift in the air.
“I’m Mave! That’s my mommy and that’s my daddy!”
He pointed proudly at Blair, then at Lucas.
The attorney’s wife blinked.
“Lucas… you have a child already?”
The investor chuckled, surprised.
“Who’s the lucky woman?”
Olivia’s hand tightened into a fist under the table—knuckles white, nails digging into her palm. Her smile stayed fixed, but her eyes turned glassy with barely contained fury.
Patricia’s gaze flashed to Blair—coldly, assessing—then back to the guests.
She laughed lightly.
“Oh, no, no. That’s just the help.” She waved a dismissive hand toward Blair. “Mave is… a family friend’s child. We’re watching him for a while.”
She turned to the nearest maid—Clara, hovering near the sideboard.
“Clara, darling, take Master Mave to the playground, please. He can play there.”
Clara stepped forward quickly.
“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go build that rocket outside.”
Mave pouted, looking between Blair and Lucas.
“But I want Mommy and Daddy to—”
“Now, Mave,” Patricia said—still smiling, but voice firm enough to brook no argument.
Lucas cleared his throat.
“Go on, son. We’ll come play soon.”
Mave’s lip trembled, but he let Clara take his hand and lead him out.
The door closed behind them.
The silence that followed was thick.
The investor cleared his throat.
“So… the nanny, then?” he asked Patricia, tone curious.
Patricia sipped her coffee.
“Precisely. Temporary help. Nothing more.”
Olivia’s fist clenched tighter under the table.
Blair stood frozen near the sideboard—coffee pot still in her hand—face pale, eyes fixed on the floor.
Patricia set her cup down with a soft clink.
“Now, where were we?” she said brightly, turning back to the guests. “The new gallery opening next month, yes?”
Conversation resumed—slowly, awkwardly.
Blair stayed where she was—invisible again—until Patricia finally glanced her way.
“You may clear the table now.”
Blair nodded once—silent—and began gathering plates.
And Lucas—sitting at the head of the table—kept his eyes on his coffee cup.
The brunch dragged on for another half hour—polite laughter, clinking silverware, surface-level chatter about art auctions and summer estates.
Blair moved around the edges of the room like a shadow, clearing plates quietly, refilling water glasses, never meeting anyone’s eyes.
The guests had left when the dinning room door burst open.
Clara—the young maid—ran in breathless, face pale, uniform apron twisted from running.
“Mr. Brooks! Mrs. Brooks!” she gasped. “I—I left Master Mave at the playground like Mrs. Patricia asked… but I turned around for one second to answer the gate intercom and… and he’s gone. I can’t find him anymore!”
The room froze.
Blair’s tray slipped from her hands—porcelain shattering on the marble floor in a sharp, explosive crash. She didn’t even flinch. Her eyes widened, pupils blown with instant terror.
Lucas was on his feet before anyone else—chair scraping violently back.
“WHAT?”
He spun toward Patricia, face thunder-dark.
“Mom… what you did wasn’t necessary. That didn’t change the fact he was my fucking son.”
Olivia shot up, grabbing his arm with both hands.
“Lucas—wait! You can’t just—”
He shook her off—harder than necessary—without looking back.
“Don’t.”
He followed Clara out at a run, voice already barking orders down the hallway.
“Security—playground cams, now! Check the perimeter! Call the gate—nobody in or out!”
Blair didn’t wait for permission.
She dropped to her knees for half a second—gathering the broken shards with shaking hands—then abandoned them and ran after Lucas and Clara, bare feet slapping the marble.
“Not my poor baby,” she whispered—voice cracking, tears already spilling. “Not my baby…”
She pushed past Olivia’s outstretched hand, past Patricia’s rigid silence.
Out the French doors.
Across the lawn.
Toward the playground.
Blair stood frozen in the middle of the manicured lawn, the playground equipment looming.
Security guards were already fanning out—radios crackling, voices sharp—while Clara kept repeating “I only turned for a second, I swear” like a broken record.
Blair’s hands shook so badly she had to clasp them together to stop the trembling.
She spun toward Lucas the moment he reached her—eyes wild, tears already streaming down her face, voice cracking with raw, terrified fury.
“I knew it wasn’t a good idea to ever let my son step foot here—” she choked out, words tumbling over each other. “I knew this house, this family, this world of yours would swallow him whole. I knew it, Lucas. I knew it and I still let you drag him into—”
Lucas’s hand shot out—not hard, but fast—catching her wrist mid-gesture and stopping her cold.
“Let my son grow up in slums when I’m alive?” he cut in, voice low, shaking with barely contained rage of his own. “Never.”
Blair tried to yank her wrist free. He didn’t let go.
She stared up at him—chest heaving, tears carving tracks through her makeup-free face.
“You think this is better?” she whispered, voice breaking. “You think your mother calling him a bastard in front of strangers is better? You think Olivia’s jealousy and your cold shoulder are better than me loving him every single day with everything I have? You think—”
“I think,” Lucas said through clenched teeth, “that right now my son is missing. And every second you stand here screaming at me is a second he’s not found.”
He released her wrist so abruptly she stumbled back half a step.
Then he turned—without ano
ther word—and ran toward the tree line where the guards were sweeping the perimeter, barking orders into his phone.
“Full perimeter lockdown. Check the service gate. Check the west woods. Now.”