Her lost son

Her lost son


Camila’s POV

At first, I was honestly excited to see a long-time classmate after all these years. But the excitement didn’t last…

Jocelyn tilted her head like a cat that had finally found its prey. So Jocelyn-like.

“OMG! That’s really Camila…” She slapped a hand dramatically over her mouth, then dropped it with a smirk. “Like, girl!! You look so different from the cleaner’s daughter I used to know.”

There it was. The old venom.

The full-time witch clearly hadn’t been delivered yet. That’s her cup of coffee, because I won’t stand by while she drags my late mother’s name through her dirt.

I smiled faintly, walking closer to her. “Seems you haven’t changed either, Jocelyn.” My voice was calm, almost amused. “Still the same dirty behaviour, same arrogance… and of course, the same cheap clothes you always thought made you the world's best fashionista.”

I stopped just a breath away from her. She stiffened, though she tried to cover it up with a sneer.

Reaching up, I casually picked a strand of her over-processed hair, twirling it slowly between my fingers, then dropped it back. I leaned in slightly, enough for her to feel the shift in power.

“And still the same girl who reeks of desperation, trying so hard to prove she’s above everyone else.”

I watched the flicker of panic in Jocelyn’s eyes and smiled. Poor girl.

She probably expected tears, the old Camila who folded like a cheap paper fan. She’d picked the wrong girl to poke.

She tried to speak…. “Camila, let me…”

“Shhh…” I hushed, pressing my pointer finger against her lips. “I’m not done talking.”

Her breath hitched like a stalled engine.

“Now listen to me carefully,” I snapped, my voice low and steady. “You don’t get to mock my mother ever again. Not in this life… and definitely not in any useless afterlife you’re clearly saving up drama for. Do you understand me?”

She shuffled back, her shoulder hitting the wall. “Camila, please—” She spat, looking like she had personally experienced rapture. “Just… stop, please.”

I tilted my head, studying her like she was something insignificant. “Now you want me to stop? No, Jocelyn. You’ll stop. You’ll stop dragging my mother into your childish games, because the next time you do, I won’t just speak. I will take substantial actions.”

She froze, her fingers twitching against the wall.

Satisfied, I slipped out a card from my bag and slammed it to her chest. “When you’re done being petty, call me.” I let my eyes sweep over her one last time, sharp and final. “Until then, stay out of my way.”

She held the card, then her lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. Better it didn't.

I turned and walked away. But behind me, I could hear her uneven breathing, the sound of someone who’d just realised the rules had changed.

This wasn’t the Camila she used to know. This was Camila, who would never be stepped on again.

\-----

Pioche, Nevada.

The town looked almost too quiet, too sun-drenched, too small… like the kind of place where you’d wonder if anyone actually lived here. That is, until you finally spotted someone and had to remind yourself they weren’t a ghost.

I parked across from a weathered one-storey house, the number painted faintly on a peeling wooden post. According to the address, this was where he lives… Anthony Marquez, a former Pinnacle Holdings employee. One of the last people who might know something about my dad.

I crossed the dirt driveway, gravel crunching under my shoes, and knocked on the faded blue door.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Silence.

I pressed my ear closer, hoping to hear even the faintest noise. Nothing. Not even the sound of a TV humming in the background.

“Hello?” I called softly, then knocked again, harder this time. Knock. Knock. Knock. Still nothing.

I circled the house, peeking into windows that only reflected my own impatient face back at me. Curtains were drawn tight, shutting me out. Great.

Is this the wrong address, or does no one live here anymore? I don't know.

Sighing, I checked my watch. Damn! This was eating into time I didn’t have….

I was about to leave when my phone vibrated in my palm.

“Samantha,” I muttered before sliding to answer.

“How’s it going?” she asked immediately, not even giving me a second to breathe.

“Negative. This place looks… deserted.”

There was a pause on her end, and when she spoke, her voice dipped with sympathy. “Oh, Cam… That sucks. You drove all the way out there for nothing?”

I let out a humourless chuckle. “Looks that way.”

“Damn,” she muttered, then sighed. “Okay, listen. You know I’m all for you chasing answers, but Pioche isn’t exactly down the street. If you don’t start heading back soon, you’ll be dragging yourself into Vegas at stupid-o’clock tonight. And you can’t afford that.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. “This isn’t one of those times you can brush off with your cute gym excuse,” she pressed, her tone sharpening just enough to cut. “You really want Asher…or worse ‘The Great Wizard’—sniffing around? Because trust me, no one will buy the martial arts cover story if you come back late at night.”

I rolled my eyes, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder. “Relax, Sam. I…”

The creak of hinges cut me off. The very door I’d been knocking on swung open slowly, like it hadn’t moved in months.

An old woman stood framed in the doorway, her frail hand gripping the knob, her back slightly stooped but her eyes sharp despite the cloudiness of age.

“Sam, I’ll call you back.” I ended the call before she could start lecturing me again.

I hadn’t expected this. The file said Anthony Marquez, male, mid-forties. I mean, not like I expected him to be the same after all these years…. But definitely not… her.

The woman’s gaze scanned me from head to toe, cautious but not unfriendly. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice raspy but steady.

My mind raced. No way was I throwing my real name around just yet.

“My name’s Elena,” I lied, slipping my best polite smile into place.

Her expression softened slightly. She nodded, gripping the edge of the doorframe. “I’m Theresa.” She motioned with her hand for me to come inside.

I hesitated only a second before following.

The living room was small but tidy, with faded family pictures lined across a mantel.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing toward a well-worn armchair. I did.

She moved to the kitchen with surprising speed for her age. Moments later, she shuffled back with two steaming mugs of coffee and set one in front of me.

I wrapped my hands around it, but my nerves kept me from taking a sip. Being careful, I guess.

“So,” Teresa began, her gaze pinning me with a quiet curiosity. “What are you here for?”

“I’m…” I cleared my throat, steadying myself. “I'm looking for someone.”

Her brows lifted. “And who might that be?”

I swallowed, then said it carefully: “Anthony Marquez.”

The name left my lips like a stone dropped into still water.

Her reaction caught me completely off guard.

Her breathing quickened and became uneven, and the coffee cup in her hand shook so badly it nearly spilt.

“Ma’am—are you okay?” I asked, leaning forward.

She parted her lips to speak… Then shut them again as tears slipped down her cheeks in an endless stream. My stomach twisted. What have I done?

“God… I’m sorry.” I leaned closer, guilt stinging my chest. “I didn’t mean to upset you…”

She shook her head, wiping at her cheeks with trembling fingers whilst struggling to find her words. When she finally did, her voice broke like glass.

“Anthony… was my son.”