Chapter II: Shattered dreams and broken promises

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Clinton stood up and grabbed his suitcase. Sahara rushed to him, clinging to his leg.

“Please don’t go…” she mumbled through her tears.

“Honey, be a good girl. Daddy has something important to do…” His voice held a note of impatience now.

The little girl shook her head, crying harder and refusing to let go. Clinton looked around desperately, his eyes landing on Louise, who pretended to be busy.

Finally, his gaze settled on Monique, who returned his look with mocking disdain. He grunted in irritation.

“Be sensible, okay?” he said, prying Sahara’s fingers from his leg with barely concealed frustration.

The scene unfolding before her made Monique’s blood boil. How dare he treat their daughter so callously! How could he be so eager to leave behind the family he once cherished for his new life?

Louise, unable to bear the sight of Sahara’s distress any longer, finally stepped forward. “Come here, sweetheart,” she said gently, reaching for the sobbing child.

As Louise gathered Sahara into her arms, Clinton seized the opportunity to make his exit. He cast one last look at the scene behind him – his tearful daughter, his stone-faced soon-to-be ex-wife, the disapproving housekeeper – before walking out the door without another word.

The sound of the door closing behind Clinton seemed to echo through the house, a final punctuation to the end of their family as they knew it.

Monique remained at the bar, her knuckles white around her glass, torn between her own pain and the desperate need to comfort her daughter.Sahara’s heart-wracking sobs filled the air. She twisted violently in Louise’s arms, her small body turning into a flurry of frantic motion.

Even though Louise held her tight, the little girl’s desperation gave her a momentary, wild strength. She shoved her tiny palms against Louise’s shoulders, pushing away with a force that nearly sent them both to the floor.

”No! Daddy! Come back!” she screamed, her voice jagged and thin.She scrambled out of the housekeeper’s grasp and lunged toward the door.

Her small socks slipped on the polished floor as she tried to gain traction, her eyes fixed on the wood that now stood between her and her father. She reached out, her fingers clawing at the air as if she could still catch the hem of his coat.

The room began to spin.

The heat of her crying made the air feel thick and impossible to swallow. Her frantic gasps for air became shorter and shallower until they turned into a high, wheezing sound.

Just as her hand slapped against the cold surface of the door, her legs turned to water. The world went grey at the edges and then turned completely black. Her small frame went limp, hitting the rug in a silent, heavy heap before the adults could even reach her.

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Sahara lay unconscious by the door.

Monique, frantic with worry, screamed and shook her in a futile attempt to wake her.

Mr. Daniels, calmly picked up the unconscious girl and laid her on the sofa while his wife, a plump and rotund woman in her mid fifties, grabbed the phone off its cradle and punched in the doctor’s number.

When the doctor arrived, ten minutes later, Monique’s sobs echoed through the grand mansion, a stark contrast to its opulent surroundings.

He examined Sahara and declared, “Don’t worry, it was just a breath-holding spell. She will be fine, but I would suggest not agitating her emotions.”

Relieved but still anxious, the misty eyed Monique held Sahara’s hand as the little girl slowly regained consciousness.

Sahara’s eyes welled up with tears as she sat up abruptly, and her small voice quivered, “Daddy!”

Monique hugged her tightly, tears in her eyes, “Oh, baby, don’t ever scare me like that.”

“I want Daddy. Where is Daddy? I want to go to Daddy. Take me to him,” Sahara pleaded, her innocent eyes searching for her father.

Monique’s heart sank as she struggled to find the words. “Honey… your daddy, he left us. He’s never coming back. He no longer belongs to us…”

“I want Daddy… I want Daddy…” Sahara’s cries filled the room as Monique looked on, hopelessly overwhelmed by her daughter’s pain.

“I am sorry I couldn’t keep your father… I am such a useless mother. I am sorry…”

The wails of the mother and daughter echoed off the walls of the grand mansion, a testament to the shattered dreams and broken promises that had led to this moment.

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A chill wind whipped through the city streets, gnawing at exposed skin and nipping at the heels of hurried office workers.

Mornings and evenings brought cooler temperatures, prompting office workers to clutch styrofoam cups of steaming coffee as they rushed to their destinations.

Amidst the bundled-up crowd, a woman in beige track shorts and a tee shirt, seemingly impervious to the cold, emerged from a 2000 Atlantic blue Mustang convertible.

Her long, usually intricately braided hair, was flung back in a messy bun, revealing puffy eyes and mascara tracks that painted her face with raccoon like stripes.

Ignoring the curious glances, she headed to the elevator and ascended to the seventh floor’s mother and child wing VIP.

She stopped in front of room 409.

Pushing the door open, she entered a spacious and luxuriously decorated room, resembling a deluxe hotel room.

A petite blonde woman lay on the bed, with her eyes closed.

Her delicate features serene in the soft light. Beside her, nestled in an Ivy Rose crib, a tiny baby, barely three days old, bundled up in blue,slept peacefully, his tiny fists curled into miniature fists.

The visitor stood, observing for a while, then reached in to gently stroked the baby’s face.

The infant stirred, grunting in his sleep. Tears welled up as the woman continued to caress the baby’s cheek.

Unable to resist, she picked up the three-day-old baby and held him close to her; his warmth a stark contrast to the icy storm raging within her.

The baby, startled by the sudden movement, squirmed and cried.

The woman, her voice choked with a cocktail of grief and rage, crooned a lullaby, her fingers gently stroking his cheek.

The blonde woman’s eyes flew open, then widened with fear as they landed on the woman holding her son.

She sat up, her heart thumping wildly.

“Monique!’’ she whispered fearfully, her eyes locked on the baby in the arms of the other woman.

Monique paid her no heed, coaxing the baby back to sleep.

‘’Monique, please…’’

Lydia’s pleas fell on deaf ears as Monique stared coldly.

‘’Monique, please,” Lydia begged, desperation creeping into her voice. “Put the baby down. He has nothing to do with this.”

Monique finally looked up, her eyes glacial. “Is that what you tell yourself to ease the guilt?” she spat, her voice laced with venom.

Lydia’s face paled. “Monique,” she pleaded again, her voice thick with tears. “Put Alex down, please. He’s just a baby.”

Monique flinched. “Alex?” she asked, a flicker of pain crossing her features. “You named him Alexander?”

Lydia nodded, her eyes downcast.

“Who chose that name?” Monique asked, her voice barely a whisper, a tremor of fear laced with a deeper hurt.

In the next second, a brittle laugh escaped Monique’s lips, a hollow sound that echoed in the opulent room.

“Clinton,” she mumbled, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “You are truly cruel.”

The baby, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, started to cry again. Monique, as if suddenly scalded, placed him back in his crib.

Lydia, her fear momentarily forgotten, rushed to her son, cradling him close, her eyes never leaving Monique’s face.

Tears blurred the world around Monique.

Lydia rushed forward, scooped him up and held him close to her with a heavy sigh of relief while eyeing Monique warily.

“Alex,” Monique mumbled, misty eyes fixated on the mother and son. Her gaze, cold and hostile, sent shivers down Lydia’s spine.

“I think you better leave,” Lydia said, forcing the words out.

“Alex, who named him?”

Silence. Lydia’s apologetic eyes told her everything.

Another bitter laugh escaped Monique’s lips. “Doesn’t matter, does it? You both did this on purpose.”

Lydia frowned. “Monique…”

Monique’s body trembled, fury,  a coiled viper within. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Don’t even dare.”

Tears glistened on her cheeks as her shoulders slumped. She turned to leave, her purpose for the visit forgotten.

“I’m sorry,” Lydia called from behind, a faint echo as Monique reached the door.”I just thought it was a suitable name…”

Monique turned back, covering the distance in big strides. The ferocious look on Monique’s face sent unadulterated fear down her spine.

Before Lydia could react, her cheek stung from pain. Staggering back, her other cheek felt a backhand.

“I told you to shut up!” Monique bit out the words.

Lydia gasped in shock, unable to utter a word, just as the baby started crying.

Monique turned to leave as the door opened. The gay mood of the new arrivals,  a stark contrast to the dark and turbulent emotions of the room’s occupants.

Clinton walked in with an elegant elderly woman, pushing a suitcase and carrying a bouquet of wine-red roses.

The smiles on their faces dropped.

“Monique?” the woman called out in shock.

Clinton dropped the bouquet and rushed to Lydia’s side.

Tears slipped down her swollen cheeks. “Are you okay?” he asked gently, pulling her into his protective embrace.

Monique watched them from the corner of eyes, her heart a cauldron of resentment. The world she’d known, the future she’d envisioned, lay in ashes around her. And amidst the smoke, a name hung heavy in the air – a name that had ignited the inferno.

Silence stretched, holding them hostage, thick and stifling.

After a while , Monique turned to live. Her footsteps were like ice cracks on a frozen lake, each one echoing the growing tension.

”Monique!” Clinton boomed, his voice cracking with a mix of authority and sorrow. “Explain yourself. Now!”

Monique ignored him and walked out with her head held high.  She walked past the woman like she was air.

The woman sighed heavily.

”Monique, who allowed you to leave? Don’t you need to explain yourself?”

All he got was the thunderous thud of the door.

Clinton clenched his fist, burning a hole at the door with his glare. His knuckles were white from the barely concealed fury.

”Calm down,” Constance said, walking towards them. She scooped up the crying baby, her touch magically silencing the baby’s cries. As she settled into the rocking chair, her gaze met the tear-streaked face of Lydia and the haunted look in her eyes.

“You have wronged her in so many ways,” Constance said, her voice low but cutting. “You should have expected this storm, Clinton. I warned you, you can’t have your cake and eat it.”

Clinton flinched at the accusation, but Lydia guiltily looked down, then rubbed her face, the memory of the stinging slap fresh on her cheeks.

”That doesn’t give her the right to lay her hands on anyone.” Clinton hissed.

”No, but she is well within her rights.”

”Mom!”

”If you had listened to me, we wouldn’t be in this situation. Now, there are two children involved and a very angry scorned woman. And I can promise you, this is not the end of it.”

Constance Beaumont sighed.”Lydia get a nurse to put a cold compression on your cheeks.”

”Yes, mother,” Lydia answered meekly.

”You should go after her.”

”Mom!” Clinton choked out, his protest strangled by a knot of anger and disbelief.

Constance cut him off. ”No matter what, she’s still the mother to your daughter.”

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