Chapter 5

Clara POV

The courtyard of the orphanage was alive with noise. Kids ran in circles, balloons bobbed above their heads, reporters moving up and down at the edges with their cameras snapping at every smile.

Someone had set up a mic stand, the sound system squealed once, then steadied.

I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and walked forward to give my opening speech.

“This is home,” I said, looking at the small faces staring back at me.

“isn’t just walls and beds. It’s hope. A place where children who were abandoned, forgotten, or left behind get to feel like they belong. And for me… this place is family. A place where we do not judge, many faces but all familiar and not strange. This is our little home. And until the day that I die, I’ll make sure they never feel the absence of parental love.”

My voice cracked a little on that last word. The reporters probably thought it was for effect. But it wasn’t. It felt good to be on that stage.

Applause rose, scattered but filling. A little boy tugged at my dress, and I bent down so he could whisper something about the sweets. I laughed, kissed his cheek, and let him drag me toward the tables.

I gave him some sweets and shared them with many other kids.

Behind me, Dylan hovered, hands stuffed in his pockets like always.

He hated attention, hated cameras more than anything, but he was here because I’d begged him. Truth was, this place wouldn’t even exist without him.

The money, the structure, the permits, it was all him. The idea was mine, but he built the skeleton and let me breathe life into it. And now, it was alive.

I went around greeting everyone present, then playing “green light, red light,” with the kids.

When the crowd reduced, I found him leaning against a pillar, sunglasses hiding most of his face. I saw him steal a smile while looking at a group of kids.

I smiled too.

“You look miserable,” I teased.

“Because I am,” he muttered. “This publicity thing isn’t me.”

I laughed. “And yet you showed up.”

“Only because you guilt-tripped me.”

“You love it here,” I said, nudging him. “Admit it. You love these kids.”

His lips moved slightly, almost a smile. “Maybe.”

We stood there for a moment, watching the kids attack the cake like tiny wolves. Then I asked, “How’s the company? You’ve been disappearing into it again.”

His jaw tightened, the way it always did when work was mentioned. “It’s fine. Running itself, mostly. You know me, I prefer this quiet place.”

“Quiet?” I raised a brow. “You call this quiet?”

He chuckled, and for a second, it really did feel like the old times, best friends, leaning on each other without needing to say it.

Later that afternoon, we slipped into one of the smaller rooms to visit Amie, the little girl who’d been sick for weeks. Her face lit up the moment she saw me, IV tubes and all.

“Doctor Clara!” she exclaimed.

I sat on the edge of her bed, brushing her hair back. “How’s my favorite patient?”

“Tired,” she pouted. “But better now that you’re here.”

Dylan stayed at the foot of the bed, watching, quiet but present. He always gave me space when I was with the kids.

******************

“Weldone doctor”

“Thank you. Prepare the patient back into the wardroom and make sure you monitor his recovery process”

The smell of antiseptic hit me the moment I stepped out of the theatre. My scrubs were still damp with sweat; I’d just come out of surgery, one that had taken more hours than I bothered to count.

I barely had time to wash my hands properly before Dylan appeared again.

“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low.

“Can it wait? I’m drained.”

“No. It’s important.”

That got my attention. I straightened, taking off my coat. “What is it?”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was afraid the walls might be listening. “There’s a child. Private booking. Critical case.

“A child? Someone you know?

”No, Clara. One of my biggest clients came to me last night. Their little girl needs surgery. A critical case. They said they’d tried reaching you and your secretary but couldn’t get through. Did research and heard I was close to you, they begged me to talk to you.”

I blinked at him. “A critical case?”

He nodded. “They said every surgeon refused it. Too risky. But I know you. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

Something tugged in my memory, my secretary had left a file on my desk a few days ago. She had mentioned a delicate, critical case.

“Oh yes,” I said slowly. “She did mention something like that, my secretary I mean”

“Same case?” He asked.

“Not sure, should we go check it?”

“Yeah, cool.”

We walked to my office together. I settled into my chair while Dylan stood across the desk, explaining why he needed me to intervene. That was his client’s friend and he wanted to help in any way he could. As he spoke, I reached for the file.

The first page stopped me cold.

“Oh my God,” I whispered. “This is critical.” My eyes scanned the reports, failed treatments, and several years of pain. A ten-year-old girl. A child who had been suffering almost her entire life.

It was boldly written: Congenital Heart Defect - HLHS

“I can’t imagine what pain this child has been through.” I sighed.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening.

“But I can try. For you, Dylan, I’ll take it myself. But it’s 50/50, let’s hope for a miracle from God.”

“I know you, Clara. You’ve never had a failed attempt.” He told me, and I smiled.

I turned another page, reading through more details. Then I froze.

Her name; Nellie Clark.

The ‘Clark’ did ring a bell.

The parents’ section stared back at me. Names and signatures.

Bruno Clark. Linda Clark.

My fingers went numb. The file slipped from my hands, landing on the desk with a dull thud.

“I… I don’t think I can take on this operation.”

Dylan frowned, stepping closer. “Why not? You just said you would.”

“Is everything okay?” He asked.

I looked up at him, my throat burning, the room spinning.

“Because,” I whispered, pointing at the file, “that’s Bruno Clark’s child.” “My Ex-husband child” I murmured out and a thick silence crashed between us.