7!

MABEL

The cab smelled like stale coffee and cheap air freshener, but I barely noticed. My eyes were fixed on the Manhattan skyline rising through the windshield like jagged teeth against the gray November sky.

Five years. Five years since I'd left this city broken and empty-handed.

Now I am back.

The driver merged onto the FDR Drive, and my stomach clenched. Somewhere in this concrete jungle, my son was breathing, laughing, living a life I knew nothing about.

Liam. His name echoed in my mind like a prayer.

My phone buzzed. Jenny, my assistant back in LA.

Jenny; Safe flight? Call me when you land!*

I typed back quickly; Landed. Talk soon.

I couldn't tell her the real reason I was here. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Some truths were too dangerous to share, even with people you trusted.

The cab turned onto Fifth Avenue, and memories slammed into me like physical blows.

Five years ago, I'd walked these same streets in a daze, divorce papers crumpled in my purse, my breasts still heavy with milk meant for a baby who wasn't mine.

I'd stumbled into a cheap motel in Queens, paid cash for a week, and spent three days crying until I couldn't cry anymore.

On the fourth day, I'd called a private investigator.

"I need to find my son," I'd told him, my voice hoarse.

"Do you have custody?" he'd asked.

"No. He was... taken from me. At birth."

The silence on the line stretched too long.

"Ma'am, if this involves kidnapping or illegal adoption…"

"It does."

"Then you need to go to the police."

"I can't."

Because who would believe me? The scorned ex-wife of a billionaire, claiming her baby was swapped at birth? They'd think I was delusional. Desperate. Crazy.

So I'd hung up and booked a one-way ticket to Los Angeles instead.

The cab stopped at a red light. A woman pushed a stroller past us, and my chest tightened.

In LA, I'd rebuilt myself piece by piece. Started with nothing, a rented studio apartment in a sketchy neighborhood, a sewing machine bought at a pawn shop, and three client referrals from a former colleague who'd taken pity on me.

The first year was survival mode. I styled C-list actresses for low-budget indie films. I lived on ramen and ambition.

At night, I'd search adoption databases, make anonymous calls to social workers, follow leads that went nowhere.*

Year two, I landed Dakota Mills as a client. She'd been a gamble, a rising star with a messy reputation.

But I'd styled her for a red carpet event, and the photos went viral. Suddenly, everyone wanted "that stylist who made Dakota look like a goddess."

Year three, I opened my own studio. Hired Jenny. Started making real money.

*MBut none of it mattered. Every success felt hollow. Because my son was out there, and I didn't know where.

Until three days ago, when that email arrived.

The cab pulled up to the Carlyle Hotel. I paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk, pulling my coat tighter against the November chill.

Inside, the lobby was all understated luxury, marble floors, soft lighting, the kind of quiet wealth that whispered rather than shouted. So different from the frantic energy of LA.

I checked in under my own name. Mabel James. Not Mabel Hoss. That woman was dead.

My suite was on the fifteenth floor, overlooking Central Park. I dropped my bags and walked to the window, pressing my palm against the cold glass.

Somewhere out there, beyond the bare trees and frozen pathways, Vanessa Latham lived in a penthouse with my son.

My son.

The phrase still felt surreal. For five years, he'd been a ghost. A what-if. A maybe.

Now he was real. Flesh and blood. A name. A face.

Liam.

My phone buzzed again. This time, an email from Rose Chen, Vanessa's assistant.

Subject; Schedule Confirmation

Ms. James,

Ms. Latham is looking forward to meeting you tomorrow at 2 PM. Please come to the residence. Security will have your name.

Attached: building address, parking instructions, NDA.*

Best,

Rose Chen

NDA. Of course. People like Vanessa Latham didn't trust anyone.

I opened the attachment and skimmed the legal jargon. Standard confidentiality agreement, what I saw in Vanessa's home stayed in Vanessa's home.

I signed it electronically and hit send.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll see him.

I unpacked methodically, hanging my clothes in the closet, setting out my styling portfolio on the desk. I needed to look professional. Calm. Like this was just another job.

Not like I was about to meet the child who'd been stolen from me.

That night, I didn't sleep. I lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, my mind spinning with scenarios.

What if he looks like me?

What if he doesn't?

What if I see him and feel... nothing?

That last thought terrified me most of all.

But then I remembered the photo. Those dark curls. That bright, uninhibited laugh.

No. I'd feel something. I had to.

Because he was mine.

And tomorrow, I'll finally meet him.