05

Chapter 05

Third Person's POV

In the depths of the night, Sonia was jolted awake by the sound of something bumping against her door. The soft thudding was rhythmic but urgent, cutting through the peaceful silence of the mansion like a distress call.

She sat up in bed, her heart racing as she tried to orient herself in the unfamiliar room. The moonlight streaming through the curtains cast ethereal shadows across the floor, and for a moment, she felt disoriented—caught between the nightmare of her past and the strange sanctuary of her present.

"France?" she called softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Moving quietly, she approached the connecting door to France's room. The moment she opened it, the small boy tumbled forward, his body colliding with her legs with surprising force. Sonia immediately scooped him up into her arms, her maternal instincts taking over as she examined him carefully.

The child was still fast asleep, his eyes closed and his breathing deep and even. His small face was flushed, and she could feel the warmth radiating from his skin—not fever, but the heat that comes from distressed sleep and physical exertion.

"Mommy," France murmured against her shoulder, his voice thick with sleep and longing.

Sonia's heart clenched at the word. She held him closer, whispering softly, "Mommy's here, sweetheart. Mommy's here."

The lie felt both wrong and necessary on her tongue. She wasn't his mother, would never be his mother, but in this moment—in the dark hours when grief and longing were strongest—she could offer him the comfort he desperately needed.

Carefully, she carried him back to his bed, noting how his small arms instinctively wrapped around her neck, how his body relaxed against hers with complete trust. As she laid him down on the soft mattress, she noticed the red mark on his forehead where he must have bumped into her door.

"I shouldn't have closed the door," she whispered to herself, guilt washing over her. Fabian had warned her about France's sleepwalking, and she had failed in her very first night of watching over him.

Sonia settled herself on the edge of the bed, and immediately France's small hand sought hers, his fingers curling around her palm with desperate need. Even in sleep, he seemed afraid she might disappear.

"You miss your mommy too, don't you?" she whispered, her voice breaking slightly.

The question brought her own pain rushing back like a tidal wave. Vladimir's face appeared in her mind—his bright smile, his infectious laughter, the way he would curl up against her when he was scared or sad. The memory felt like a physical wound, sharp and unforgiving.

"I'm sure your mommy misses you too," she continued, her voice barely audible. "And I'm sure it breaks her heart to see you hurting like this."

Sonia gently stroked France's dark hair, the silky strands slipping through her fingers. The gesture was achingly familiar—how many nights had she done the same thing for Vladimir? How many times had she sat beside his bed, offering comfort in the dark hours when the world felt too big and scary?

She couldn't bring herself to leave. Something about this broken little boy called to the mother in her, to the part of her soul that had been shattered when she lost her own child. So she stayed, keeping vigil beside his bed, her hand in his, until exhaustion finally claimed her and she fell asleep sitting up, her head resting against the headboard.

At exactly 3 AM, Fabian made his way to France's room—a ritual he had maintained for months, knowing that this was typically when his son's nightmares were worst. In his concern for France, he had completely forgotten about Sonia's presence, forgotten that his son now had someone watching over him.

He opened the door quietly, expecting to find France alone and possibly awake with another bad dream. Instead, he stopped short at the sight that greeted him.

Sonia was asleep beside the bed, her feet still on the floor, her upper body curved protectively over his son. France's small hand was clasped tightly in hers, and both of them looked more peaceful than Fabian had seen either of them since they'd met.

Moving with the careful silence of someone accustomed to not waking a sleeping child, Fabian approached the bed. He gently adjusted France's blanket, tucking it more securely around his small frame. Then, noticing that Sonia looked cold in her thin t-shirt, he retrieved another blanket from the closet and carefully draped it over her shoulders.

She looked exhausted even in sleep, as if rest was something she had to fight for rather than something that came naturally. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her face bore the kind of weariness that spoke of long-term stress and grief.

Almost without thinking, Fabian found himself reaching toward her cheek, drawn by an impulse he couldn't name. At the last moment, he caught himself, clenching his hand into a fist and pulling it back sharply.

"What are you doing, Fabian?" he whispered harshly to himself, his expression darkening with self-recrimination. "Are you losing your mind?"

He turned away abruptly, striding toward the door without looking back. The sight of Sonia caring for his son with such natural tenderness had stirred something in him that he wasn't ready to examine—something that felt dangerous and unwelcome.

As the door closed behind him with a soft click, Sonia's eyes fluttered open. She had been awake for the last few minutes of his visit, aware of his presence but choosing to remain still. Now she sat up slowly, looking down at the blanket he had placed over her shoulders.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" she whispered into the darkness, her voice filled with confusion and something that might have been longing.

---

The next morning brought weekend sunshine streaming through the mansion's tall windows. France had no school, which meant Sonia's first full day as his nanny would be a trial by fire.

Early that morning, Fabian had called together the household staff—four maids and two butlers who formed the backbone of the mansion's daily operations.

"The staff quarters are in the separate building," Fabian explained to Sonia, gesturing toward a smaller structure visible through the windows. "When France and I aren't here, they come in to clean and maintain the house. When I'm not here, they usually prepare France's meals, but that will be your responsibility now as his nanny."

One by one, the staff members introduced themselves. They were a mix of ages and backgrounds, but all carried themselves with the professional demeanor of people who took pride in their work.

"I'm Sonia," she said when it was her turn. "I'm the new household staff member. It's a pleasure to meet all of you."

Her humble introduction drew surprised glances from the staff. Most people in her position would have emphasized their role as France's personal nanny, but Sonia seemed determined to position herself as just another employee.

"Ariel will show you around the mansion and answer any questions you might have," Fabian said, checking his expensive watch with the practiced efficiency of someone perpetually running late.

"I'm really behind schedule for work," he continued, already moving toward the door. "Sonia, if you have any questions, just ask Ariel. I'll call before noon to check on France."

With that, he was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of his cologne and the impression of barely controlled energy.

"Sonia, right?" said one of the younger maids, a girl who looked to be in her early twenties. "I'm Teresa, but you can call me Tere. I've been working here for almost four years. I'm also on scholarship from the Martinez family."

The revelation explained her youthful appearance—she was likely a college student working to pay for her education. It spoke well of Fabian's character that he provided such opportunities.

Immediately, the four female staff members surrounded Sonia with curious questions.

"How did you meet our boss?"

"Why do you seem so close to the young master?"

"What's your background?"

Sonia grimaced internally. How could she explain that France had mistaken her for his dead mother? How could she describe the surreal circumstances that had brought her here?

"Teresa and Vivian, stop with the questions," interrupted the elderly butler, his voice carrying the authority of years. He appeared to be in his sixties, with the dignified bearing of someone who had spent his life in service to others. "Go clean the kitchen. The young master will be waking up soon."

"Can you cook?" the butler asked Sonia directly.

Sonia nodded, grateful for the change of subject. Cooking had been one of the skills she had developed during her years as a housewife, never imagining that it would become professionally useful.

She began preparing breakfast with the confidence of someone who had fed a family for years. Bacon sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with its rich aroma. She prepared eggs, made sandwiches cut into fun shapes that would appeal to a child, baked fresh cookies, and warmed milk to the perfect temperature.

"Mommy? Where's mommy!"

The panicked voice from upstairs made Sonia freeze, a plate halfway to the table. Through the kitchen doorway, she could see France running down the grand staircase, his small face filled with terror.

"France!"

"Young master!"

The butler moved quickly to intercept the boy before he could run outside, but France was determined in his search.

"Mommy!" he cried, his voice breaking with relief when he spotted Sonia emerging from the kitchen.

He launched himself into her arms with the desperate force of someone who had thought they'd lost everything again. Sonia caught him easily, lifting him up and holding him close.

"I'm here, sweetheart," she murmured, her voice gentle and reassuring. "I was just preparing lots of yummy food for you."

France pulled back to look at her face, his eyes still bright with unshed tears. "Really? You made food for me?"

"I cooked it myself," Sonia confirmed, carrying him toward the dining area where the breakfast she had prepared was waiting.

France's eyes widened as he took in the spread—everything looked delicious and was presented with the kind of care that spoke of love rather than mere duty.

Sonia knew that France understood she wasn't really his mother. But the child continued to call her "Mommy," and she had decided to allow it. Her heart broke for this little boy who missed his mother so desperately, and if pretending could bring him some comfort, she was willing to bear that emotional weight.

As France ate, his face lit up with genuine pleasure. "This is so good!" he exclaimed between bites. "Daddy can cook some foods really well, but he's terrible with dry foods. I don't like it when he cooks dry foods even though they're my favorite, because the last time he tried—it was either completely burned or totally raw!"

Sonia laughed despite herself, charmed by France's animated storytelling. Around them, the cleaning staff paused in their work to smile at the sound. It had been a long time since laughter had echoed through the halls of the Martinez mansion.

"If your daddy hears you saying that, I'm sure his feelings will be hurt," Sonia teased gently.

France giggled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Even my mommy used to complain about daddy's cooking when he burned the bacon!"

The casual mention of his mother brought a soft, sad smile to Sonia's face. She could picture it—a normal family morning, parents teasing each other while their child watched and laughed. It was the kind of simple domestic happiness that seemed impossibly precious now.

"Do you miss your mommy?" Sonia asked gently, immediately regretting the question when she saw France's expression grow serious.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I shouldn't have asked that."

But France surprised her with his response. His voice was quiet but clear when he spoke.

"I miss my mom, but I'm also thankful because she chose to give up so she wouldn't be in pain anymore."

The words hit Sonia like a physical blow. The mature acceptance in France's voice, the way he had clearly been taught to think about his mother's death, spoke of conversations far too heavy for such a young child to bear.

Sonia wanted to ask more, to understand what had happened to France's mother, but she recognized that she had no right to probe into such painful territory. She was here to care for France, not to satisfy her own curiosity about his family's tragedy.

Instead, she reached across the table and gently squeezed his small hand. "Your mommy must have loved you very much," she said softly.

France nodded solemnly. "She did. And now you're here to take care of me."

The simple statement carried such trust, such hope, that Sonia felt tears prick at her eyes. This little boy had already lost so much, and yet he was willing to open his heart to her, to believe that she could fill even a small part of the void left by his mother's absence.

As they finished breakfast together, Sonia found herself thinking about the strange turns life could take. Yesterday she had been sleeping in a park, hopeless and alone. Today she was sitting in a mansion, sharing breakfast with a child who needed her as much as she needed purpose.

Perhaps this was how healing began—not with grand gestures or dramatic revelations, but with small moments of connection, with the simple act of caring for someone else when you could barely care for yourself.

The morning sun streamed through the dining room windows, casting everything in golden light, and for the first time in months, Sonia felt something that might have been hope stirring in her chest.