Chapter 6 _ Evelyn

(Five years later)

If eight years felt like a lifetime of waiting, the last five years felt like a lifetime of running. Not running with my feet—my feet were planted firmly on the wet, cobblestoned streets of Manchester—but running with my heart. Running from memories. Running from the ghost of a man who lived thousands of miles away in London, yet somehow still haunted the corners of my small apartment in Manchester.

Manchester had become our sanctuary. It was different from London—less chaotic, less expensive, and gray in a way that felt comforting rather than depressing. The rain here was a constant companion, washing away the dust of the past, day after day. It felt like a second home.

I looked at the boy sitting at the kitchen table.

Freddo.

He is five years old already, but looking at him was like looking through a time machine. He had the same sharp jawline, even at this tender age. The same dark, intense eyes that seemed to analyze everything before they accepted it. The same way of tilting his head when he was thinking.

He was Jason Sterling in miniature.

But then he would smile—a shy, lopsided grin that was all me—and the ghost would fade, leaving only my son. My brilliant, terrifyingly smart son.

"Mother," he said, not looking up from the thick book he was reading. It was an encyclopedia of geography. Most five-year-olds were learning to tie their shoelaces; Freddo was memorizing capital cities and tectonic plate movements. "Did you know that the population of London has increased by fifteen percent in the last decade?"

I froze, the knife hovering over the cucumber I was slicing.

"London?" I asked, keeping my voice steady. "Why are you reading about London?"

"It’s in the book," he said simply, turning a page. "It’s where you’re from. Statistically, it’s a very chaotic city."

"You have no idea," I whispered to myself.

Freddo wasn't just smart; he was a genius. The school had called me three times in the last year, not to complain, but to beg me to move him up a grade. He had represented his prep school in Manchester in spelling bees, math Olympiads, and science fairs. He crushed competitors twice his age with a calm, unnerving focus.

I worked hard to keep up with him. I worked double shifts at a logistics firm, managing supply chains, just to afford his tuition and the endless stream of books he devoured. I worked smart, too, investing the little I saved, determined to build a fortress around us.

I stayed away from relationships. Men had tried. There was the kind accountant at work, the handsome neighbor who always helped with the groceries. But I couldn't do it. My heart was a closed shop, boarded up and condemned. I couldn't risk bringing another man into Freddo’s life, and I certainly couldn't risk being broken again.

My only connection to the outside world, really, was Stella.

She was still my rock, even from a distance. She had flown over a few months ago, glowing and radiant. She is married now—to a good man, a kind man—and she is three months pregnant.

"You need to live a little, Eve," she had told me, rubbing her small bump as we sat in my living room drinking tea. "Freddo is five. You’re young. You can’t hide in Manchester forever."

"I’m not hiding," I had lied. "I’m building."

"You’re surviving," she corrected gently. "There’s a difference."

I thought I was doing fine. Life was going well. We had a routine. We had peace.

At least, that’s what I told myself until the day Freddo came home with The Letter.

It was a Tuesday. The rain was lashing against the windowpane, blurring the outside world into a watercolor painting of gray and green. Freddo walked in, his school blazer soaked, clutching a heavy cream envelope in his small hand.

"What’s that, baby?" I asked, kneeling to help him with his coat.

"It’s an invitation," he said, his voice trembling with a rare excitement. "Read it, Mom."

I took the envelope. It was light, expensive paper. I opened it, and the words jumped out at me.

The International Junior Mensa Quiz.

Venue: The Royal Lancaster Hotel, London.

Grand Prize: Full Scholarship to Eton College & £50,000 Cash Prize.

My stomach dropped.

"They want me to represent the region," Freddo said, his eyes shining. "It’s an international event, Mom. Kids from all over Europe, Asia... even Africa. If I win, I get the scholarship. I get the money."

"London," I murmured, the word tasting like ash.

"Yes, London!" Freddo beamed. "We have to go. The finals are next week."

"No," I said. The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Freddo’s smile faltered. "What?"

"We can’t go to London, Freddo," I said, standing up and turning away, my hands shaking. "It’s... it’s too far. It’s expensive and I can’t take time off work."

"But Mom," he persisted, following me into the kitchen. "The school is paying for the flight and the hotel. You don't have to pay anything."

"It’s not just about the money!" I snapped, louder than I intended.

Freddo stopped. He looked at me, his gaze analyzing, dissecting. He is five, but sometimes he looks fifty.

"It’s about him, isn't it?" he asked quietly.

I spun around. "Who?"

"The past," he said. "You never want to talk about London. You never want to talk about where I came from. But Mom, this isn't about the past. This is about my future."

"Freddo, you are five years old," I said, my voice cracking. "You don't understand."

"I understand that I am smart," he said firmly, stepping closer. He looked so much like Jason in that moment—the determination, the stubborn set of his jaw—that I almost couldn't breathe. "I understand that this scholarship can change our lives. I can help you. You work so hard, Mom. You’re always tired. If I win this, we have money. We have security."

He reached out and took my hand. His fingers were small, but his grip was strong.

"Mom, give me a chance," he whispered. "Please. I promise I won't let you down. Just give me a chance to prove myself."

I looked down at him. My son. My miracle. He was offering to carry the weight of our survival on his tiny shoulders. He wanted to fight for us.

How could I let my fear of a ghost stop him from flying?

"Okay," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "Okay, Freddo. We’ll go."

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

The days leading up to the trip were a blur of anxiety. I packed our bags with trembling hands. I checked the flight schedules three times. I checked the attendee list online—thankfully, it was private.

"It’s just a quiz," I told myself in the mirror. "We go there, he wins, we come back to Manchester. Simple."

But nothing involving London was ever simple for me.

We took the flight south. As the landscape shifted from the rolling hills of the north to the dense, urban sprawl of the capital, I felt my chest tighten. London. The city where I was broken. 

We arrived at the airport, and the noise hit me like a physical blow. The announcements, the crowds, the rush. I held Freddo’s hand so tight I thought I might crush it, but he didn't complain. He just looked around, eyes wide, absorbing everything.

"It’s big," he noted.

"Come on," I said, pulling him toward the taxi rank. "Head down, Freddo. Stay close."

We checked into the hotel provided by the organizers. It was a nice hotel, luxurious even, but I treated it like a bunker. I ordered room service. I kept the curtains drawn.

"Mom, can we go see the London Eye?" Freddo asked, looking out the window at the slice of gray sky.

"No," I said, too quickly. "You need to rest for the quiz. We need to focus."

"You’re scared," he observed.

"I’m cautious," I corrected.

I was terrified. I knew Jason lives in London. I knew the chances of running into him in a city of nine million people were statistically zero. But trauma doesn't understand statistics. Trauma tells you that the monster is around every corner.

And this was an international event. The elite. The wealthy. The kind of circles Jason Sterling moved in.

"I tried my possible best to stay inside," I whispered to myself, pacing the room while Freddo slept. "Just two days. Just get through the quiz, grab the prize, and run back to Manchester."

The morning of the quiz arrived with a heavy fog hanging over the city.

I dressed Freddo in his best suit—a little navy number that made him look like a distinguished professor. I wore a simple black dress, modest, unassuming. I wore large sunglasses, even though it wasn't sunny.

"You look beautiful, Mom," Freddo said, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror.

"You look like a winner," I said, kissing his forehead. "Are you ready?"

"I was born ready," he said.

We took a cab to the venue. It was a massive convention center in central London, draped in banners for the "Global Young Minds Summit." There were news vans parked outside. Paparazzi.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Why are there cameras?" I asked the driver.

"Big event, ma'am.," he said. "Some big sponsors this year. International tycoons and all that."

International tycoons.

The blood drained from my face.

"Mom?" Freddo touched my arm. "Your hands are cold."

"I'm fine," I lied through my teeth. "Just... excited for you."

We got out of the car. I kept my head down, shielding my face with my purse, ushering Freddo quickly through the glass doors. The lobby was swarming with people—proud parents, nervous children, organizers with clipboards.

We registered Freddo at the desk.

"Freddo... Evelyn," the woman typed into her computer. "Ah, yes. Representing the Northern District. You’re in Hall B. Good luck, young man."

We walked down the long corridor. The air smelled of expensive perfume and anticipation.

"I’m going to win," Freddo said confidently.

"I know you are," I said.

We found our seats in the auditorium. It was huge. Hundreds of seats facing a lit-up stage with podiums. I sat in the parents' section, three rows back, trying to make myself as small as possible.

Freddo went up to the stage with the other finalists. He looked so small up there, his legs barely touching the floor of the high chair, but his face was calm.

The quiz began.

It was intense. Questions about astrophysics, history, advanced mathematics. Children were eliminated one by one. But Freddo remained. He answered with a quiet precision that made the audience gasp.

"Correct." "Correct." "Correct."

I watched him, pride swelling in my chest, momentarily pushing out the fear. That was my boy. My son.

Then, they announced the break before the final round.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the host’s voice boomed over the speakers. "We will take a brief fifteen-minute intermission before our final two contestants face off. We would also like to acknowledge our primary benefactor for this year's scholarship fund, without whom this event would not be possible."

I froze.

"A man who values education and excellence," the host continued. "Please welcome the CEO of Sterling Oil and Gas... Mr. Jason Sterling."

The name hit me like a bullet.

The world stopped, the sound was sucked out of the room.

I watched in slow motion as a figure walked onto the stage from the wings. He was older now. His hair had a touch of gray at the temples now but it was him. The same confident stride. The same devastatingly handsome face. The same man who had destroyed me.

Jason.

He took the microphone, smiling that charming smile that had once been my entire world.

"Thank you," Jason said, his voice echoing through the hall. "It is an honor to be here in London to witness such brilliance."

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move.

He is here. He was literally ten feet away from my son and then Jason turned.

 He looked at the two finalists remaining on stage. His eyes swept over the girl on the left, and then landed on the boy on the right.

He looked at Freddo.

I saw the moment it happened. I saw Jason’s smile falter. I saw his eyes narrow in confusion, then widen in shock.

He was staring at a five-year-old version of himself.

Freddo, unaware of the tension, just looked back at the man, his head tilted to the side in that analyzing way.

Jason’s gaze snapped up to the audience. He was scanning the crowd as though he was looking for the mother.