12 Doctors Couldn’t Deliver the Billionaire’s Baby
Cassandra’s eyes filled when she saw Marisol.
“Come here,” Cassandra said softly.
Marisol stepped closer, unsure.
Cassandra reached out and took Marisol’s hand.
Marisol’s hand was rough, calloused, stained by years of bleach.
Cassandra held it like it was precious.
“I saw you,” Cassandra whispered. “In that moment. You weren’t a custodian. You weren’t a risk. You were… certainty.”
Marisol swallowed hard.
“I was terrified,” she admitted.
Cassandra smiled weakly.
“Me too,” she said. “But you didn’t give me your fear. You gave me your calm.”
Preston cleared his throat.
“I was wrong,” he said, voice raw. “I thought expertise was a suit you wore. I didn’t realize it could be calluses and quiet.”
Marisol’s eyes burned again.
Cassandra squeezed her hand.
“My whole life,” Cassandra said, “people have told me what I’m worth. My face. My body. My donations. My photo ops.”
She looked down at her son.
“And in the most important moment of my life, the person who saved me was the one everyone ignores.”
Cassandra lifted her eyes back to Marisol.
“I’m going to make sure they can’t ignore you anymore,” she said.
Marisol’s throat tightened.
“Please,” Marisol whispered. “Don’t make me famous.”
Cassandra gave a tired laugh.
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