Chapter 2: The Barefoot Messenger
The heavy oak doors of the banquet hall creaked open. It was an intrusion so jarring that the entire room went silent. Security rushed forward, hands on their earpieces, expecting a protestor or a press leak.
Instead, they encountered a boy. He couldn't have been more than seven years old. He was barefoot, wearing a tattered white shirt that had clearly been retrieved from the laundry chute, his face smudged with dirt.
"Stop!" the security chief barked, moving to intercept him.
The boy ignored him. He moved with a strange, gravity-defying calm, navigating the maze of silver-clothed tables and bewildered socialites. He didn't look at the champagne or the caviar. He looked only at the head of the table.
Vanessa’s face twisted in disgust. "Get this rat out of here! This is a private estate!"
The boy didn't stop until he reached the wheelchair. He didn't ask for permission. He knelt on the cold marble floor, his small, calloused hand reaching out to touch Arthur Sterling’s expensive Italian leather shoe.
"They told me to be quiet," the boy said, his voice ringing through the hall like a bell. "But you’re not sick. You’re just sad. And she’s the reason."
A collective gasp swept through the room. Vanessa stood up, her chair screeching against the floor. "Throw him out! Now!"
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But before security could act, the boy leaned closer to Arthur’s ear. "I saw her put the drops in your tea, Mr. Sterling. I saw it in the pantry. She told the cook it was medicine."
Arthur Sterling, the man who hadn't moved his legs in six months, reacted with a sudden, kinetic violence. He gripped the armrests of his wheelchair. His knuckles went white. With a roar that shook the crystal glasses on the table, Arthur pushed himself upward.
