03

Chapter 03

Third Person's POV

The sleek black Mercedes-Benz came to a smooth stop in front of an imposing wrought-iron gate adorned with intricate scrollwork. As the gates slowly parted with a mechanical hum, Sonia caught her first glimpse of the Martinez estate—a sprawling mansion that seemed to stretch endlessly across manicured grounds, its neoclassical architecture commanding respect and admiration.

The circular driveway was lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and ornate lampposts that would illuminate the path come evening. Marble fountains dotted the landscape, their gentle splashing creating a symphony of tranquility that seemed worlds away from the chaos of her recent life.

As they stepped out of the vehicle, a small army of domestic staff materialized as if from thin air. Maids in crisp black uniforms with white aprons curtsied respectfully, while a distinguished butler in a perfectly pressed suit approached with measured steps. Their synchronized greeting spoke of years of training and discipline.

"Good evening, Mr. Martinez. Welcome home, young master France," the butler intoned with practiced formality.

France's small hand found Sonia's, his fingers intertwining with hers with the natural ease of a child who had found his anchor. His bright blue eyes sparkled with excitement as he looked up at her, his face glowing with pure joy.

"Mommy, this is our house. Do you remember?" he asked, his voice filled with innocent hope and expectation.

The question hung in the air like a delicate bubble, beautiful but fragile. Sonia felt her throat constrict, words failing her completely. How could she explain to this precious child that she wasn't who he thought she was? How could she shatter the happiness that radiated from his small frame?

"France, she's not your mom—" Fabian began, his voice gentle but firm.

"No! She is my mom!" France erupted with the passionate intensity that only children possess. His arms wrapped around Sonia's waist with desperate strength, as if holding her tightly enough could make his declaration true through sheer force of will.

Sonia bit the inside of her lip, tasting copper as she struggled to maintain her composure. The child's desperate need mirrored her own aching loss, creating a painful resonance in her chest.

Fabian exhaled deeply, running a hand through his dark hair—a gesture that spoke of countless similar scenes, countless attempts to explain the unexplainable to a grieving child. His eyes met Sonia's over France's head, and she saw exhaustion there, mixed with something that might have been hope.

"Let's go inside," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken conversations yet to come.

The mansion's interior was even more breathtaking than its exterior suggested. A grand staircase swept upward in an elegant curve, its mahogany banister polished to a mirror shine. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic rainbows across cream-colored walls adorned with original oil paintings. The marble floors reflected their footsteps, creating an echo that seemed to whisper of the countless lives that had walked these halls.

As they entered, the domestic staff who had greeted them outside seemed to melt away into the shadows, their presence felt but not seen—the mark of truly professional household management. However, Sonia was acutely aware of the curious glances thrown her way, the barely concealed whispers, the way conversations stopped when she passed. She kept her head down, her scarred face hidden as much as possible, the weight of their stares feeling like physical pressure against her skin.

The living room they entered was a study in understated elegance. Plush cream sofas arranged around a marble coffee table, floor-to-ceiling windows that offered views of the perfectly manicured gardens, and a fireplace large enough to heat a small apartment. Everything spoke of wealth, but also of loneliness—too perfect, too pristine, lacking the comfortable chaos that comes with a truly lived-in family home.

Fabian gestured for Sonia to sit on one of the sofas, his movements carrying the natural authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. As she settled into the impossibly soft cushions, France immediately claimed the space beside her, his small body pressed against her side as if afraid she might disappear if he let go.

"France, go take a shower and change your clothes," Fabian instructed, loosening his silk tie with practiced efficiency. Even in casual moments, he carried himself with the poise of someone constantly in the public eye.

"No! I won't leave. You'll make Mommy go away again!" France's voice cracked with the kind of desperation that comes from too much loss at too young an age.

Fabian's eyes found Sonia's across the room, and she could read the silent plea there. He was asking for her help, this powerful man reduced to helplessness by his son's grief.

Sonia cleared her throat delicately and turned to face France, her voice gentle but clear. "I'll wait for you right here," she promised, her words carrying the weight of someone who understood the value of keeping promises to children.

"You won't leave?" France asked, his voice small and vulnerable.

The question pierced Sonia's heart. She saw her own Vladimir in this child's desperate need for reassurance, remembered countless nights when her son had needed similar promises after nightmares or difficult days.

France raised his small pinky finger, the universal gesture of childhood promises. "Promise?"

Sonia felt tears prick at her eyes as she raised her own hand, linking her pinky with his in the sacred bond that children hold more sacred than any legal contract. "Promise," she whispered.

The smile that broke across France's face was like sunrise after the longest night. He jumped up from the sofa and raced toward the grand staircase, his small feet pattering against the marble as he called back, "I'll be right back!"

The silence that followed his departure was heavy with unspoken questions and careful politeness. Fabian settled into the sofa across from her, his posture relaxed but his eyes alert—the stance of someone accustomed to reading people, to finding the truth behind carefully constructed facades.

"I'm sorry about my son," he began, his voice carrying genuine regret mixed with exhaustion. "He doesn't understand yet that his mother isn't coming back."

The words hung between them, loaded with grief and the particular helplessness that comes with trying to explain death to a child. Sonia remained silent, unsure of what comfort she could possibly offer to this stranger's pain.

"It's been almost two years since his mother died," Fabian continued, his gaze distant as if seeing into the past. "France is still struggling to accept it. Some days are better than others, but lately..." He trailed off, the sentence hanging unfinished in the air.

Sonia nodded silently, recognizing the particular exhaustion that comes from watching a child struggle with loss. She understood the weight of being the only parent left, the pressure of trying to be everything to a grieving child.

"I'll have you driven home after we talk to France," Fabian said, his tone shifting back to the practical. "I know this situation is... unusual."

Sonia's hands twisted in her lap, her voice barely above a whisper when she finally spoke. "I don't have anywhere to go home to. You can just take me back to the park later."

The admission hung in the air like a confession. Fabian's eyebrows rose slightly, but to his credit, he didn't press for details. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful.

"Then perhaps you could stay here," he said carefully, as if testing the waters. "If you wouldn't mind, you could work as France's nanny."

Sonia looked up sharply, meeting his eyes for the first time since they'd sat down. There was something in his expression—not pity, exactly, but a kind of understanding that suggested he recognized desperation when he saw it.

Fabian scratched his cheek slightly, a gesture that seemed oddly vulnerable for someone of his stature. "If that would be acceptable to you. France isn't difficult to handle, as long as he believes you're his mother."

Sonia's brow furrowed at his words. "Besides being a nanny, you want me to pretend to be his mother?" The question carried a note of concern that went beyond mere employment terms.

She shook her head slowly, her voice gaining strength. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm willing to be a nanny because I need work, but I won't pretend to be your son's mother. That wouldn't be good for him in the long run." Her voice caught slightly as she added, "I have a child too."

The words escaped before she could stop them, carrying with them all the pain and loss she'd been trying to contain. Fabian paused, something shifting in his expression as he looked away briefly.

"I apologize," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to suggest anything inappropriate. I just... I'm at a loss with how to help him."

The sound of small feet on marble announced France's return. He appeared at the top of the staircase, freshly showered and dressed in pajamas decorated with cartoon airplanes. His damp hair was combed neatly, and his face glowed with the particular cleanliness that comes from a thorough scrubbing.

"Mommy!" he called out, racing down the stairs with the fearless abandon of childhood.

France reached for Sonia's hand as soon as he arrived at the sofa, his small fingers immediately seeking the comfort of her touch. Sonia felt her heart soften at the gesture, remembering countless similar moments with Vladimir.

"I'm not your mommy," she said gently, her voice filled with compassion rather than rejection. "I think you've mistaken me for someone else because of the bandages on my face, but I'm not your mother."

France remained silent, his blue eyes fixed on her face with an intensity that seemed far too mature for his age.

Slowly, deliberately, Sonia raised her hands to the bandages covering the scarred side of her face. One by one, she carefully removed each strip of gauze, revealing the damaged skin beneath—the price she had paid for saving her son's life.

"See? I'm not your moth—"

Her words died in her throat as France reached up with one small hand to gently touch her scarred cheek. His expression was soft, filled not with horror or disgust, but with something that looked remarkably like understanding.

"Are you hurt, Mommy?" he asked, his voice filled with concern rather than fear.

The simple question, delivered with such pure love and acceptance, shattered the last of Sonia's composure. Tears began to flow freely down her face—both the scarred side and the unmarked side—as she was overwhelmed by this child's unconditional acceptance.

Unable to contain her emotions any longer, she pulled France into her arms, holding him close as all the grief and exhaustion of the past months came pouring out. She was so tired—tired of fighting, tired of being alone, tired of being seen as a monster.

"I'm not a bad person," she whispered against his hair, her voice broken with sobs. "I just want to be a good mother."

France wrapped his small arms around her head, holding her with the fierce protectiveness of a child who understood pain even if he couldn't name it. "It's okay, Mommy," he whispered back. "I love you."

The crying session seemed to cleanse something in Sonia's soul. When her tears finally subsided, she found herself almost kneeling before Fabian, her voice thick with embarrassment and regret.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her words tumbling over each other. "I just... I miss my son so much. I didn't mean to break down like that."

Fabian's expression was gentle, understanding rather than judgmental. "It's alright," he said simply. "We all have our breaking points."

His gaze shifted to France, who had fallen asleep in Sonia's lap during her emotional release, his small body completely relaxed in her arms. The sight seemed to confirm something for Fabian, and when he looked back at Sonia, his expression had changed.

"France likes you," he observed, his voice thoughtful. "I don't think he's calling you 'Mommy' just because he sees you as his died mother."

He leaned forward slightly, his gaze direct and honest. "You can stay here as France's nanny. There's a room connected to his that you can use."

Sonia felt a wave of gratitude wash over her. Fabian's consideration in not pressing her about her son or the reasons for her breakdown spoke to a kindness that went beyond mere politeness.

"Anyway," Fabian said, standing and moving closer to where she sat with his sleeping son. He extended his hand to her in a gesture that seemed both formal and welcoming.

"I'm Fabian Martinez, and my son's name is France Martinez."

As Sonia looked up at him, she was struck by the surreal nature of the moment. As a model, she had been one of many people who would turn to watch Fabian Martinez walk by, who would follow his movements with admiring eyes. He was the kind of celebrity who commanded attention simply by existing, whose presence could change the energy of an entire room.

Now here she was, sitting in his home, about to care for his son. The reversal of fortune was almost too strange to comprehend.

She reached up to take his offered hand, her voice steady despite everything that had happened. "I'm Sonia Valenci—" She caught herself, the old name feeling foreign on her tongue. "Salazar. Sonia Salazar."

Fabian smiled, the expression transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely warm. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Sonia."

As their hands touched, Sonia couldn't help but remember the stories she'd heard about him during her modeling days—tales of his short temper, his wariness around strangers, his reputation for being difficult and demanding. She recalled the scandal about him allegedly throwing water in a sponsor's face, the whispers about his arrogance and aloofness.

The man standing before her now seemed nothing like those stories. Perhaps grief and fatherhood had changed him, or perhaps the rumors had been exaggerated. Either way, the Fabian Martinez she was meeting today was showing her nothing but kindness and consideration.

Fabian gently lifted his sleeping son from her lap, France's small body remaining completely relaxed even as he was transferred. The boy murmured "Mommy" in his sleep, the word barely audible but carrying the weight of his deepest wishes.

"Follow me," Fabian said quietly, careful not to wake his son. "I'll show you to your room, and tomorrow I'll introduce you to the rest of the staff."

As Sonia stood and followed him toward the grand staircase, Fabian continued speaking in low tones. "France is actually quite independent for his age. You won't need to do much except play with him and watch him after school. He can take care of himself—cleaning his room, getting dressed, bathing."

Sonia glanced at the sleeping child in his father's arms, her voice barely a whisper. "He can't."

Fabian stopped and turned, his eyebrows raised in question. Sonia blinked, realizing she had spoken aloud, and looked away slightly in embarrassment.

"I think his mother used to help him dress and bathe," she explained softly. "But since she's not here anymore, he's had no choice but to learn to take care of himself."

A soft laugh escaped Fabian's lips, though it carried more sadness than amusement. "You seem to know a lot about children."

"I have a son too," Sonia murmured, the words carrying all the weight of her loss. "He's the same way when I'm not around. We have maids, but he doesn't want anyone else taking care of him except me."

The words tumbled out before she could stop them, and she immediately realized she had revealed far more to this virtual stranger than she had intended. The pain in her voice was unmistakable, the longing for her own child evident in every syllable.

Sonia looked up, expecting to see curiosity or pity in Fabian's eyes, but instead found only gentle understanding. He smiled softly and gestured toward a door at the end of the hallway.

"We're here," he said simply. "This is France's room."

Sonia moved forward to open the door, revealing a child's bedroom that was both luxurious and welcoming. The walls were painted a soft blue, decorated with murals of clouds and airplanes that seemed to float across the ceiling. A large bed dominated one side of the room, surrounded by bookshelves filled with children's stories and educational toys arranged with care.

Fabian entered and gently placed France on the bed, pulling a soft blanket up to his chin. The boy stirred slightly but didn't wake, his face peaceful in sleep.

"Please, come in," Fabian said, gesturing for Sonia to enter the room.

As she stepped inside, Fabian's expression grew more serious. "When night comes and France is asleep, I lock his bedroom door. If you could keep an ear out for him always—sometimes he sleepwalks, and I'm terrified he might fall down the stairs."

Sonia stopped short, her eyes widening. "Sleepwalks?" she repeated, concern evident in her voice. For a child so young to be sleepwalking spoke of deep psychological distress.

"Yes," Fabian confirmed, his voice heavy with worry as he stood beside his son's bed, looking down at the sleeping child. "He goes to his mother's old room downstairs, or sometimes to the pond in the garden."

The image of a small child wandering through a dark house in search of his dead mother was heartbreaking. Sonia looked at France's peaceful sleeping face and felt her heart clench with protective instincts she hadn't expected to feel for someone else's child.

"I'll watch over him," she promised quietly, the words carrying the weight of a sacred vow.

As she stood in that beautiful room, looking at this broken little boy who had claimed her as his mother, Sonia realized that perhaps this was exactly where she was meant to be. Not the life she had planned, not the future she had dreamed of, but maybe—just maybe—the second chance they all desperately needed.

The soft sound of France's breathing filled the room, a gentle reminder that sometimes the most important promises are the ones we make to sleeping children in the quiet hours of the night.