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I Refused To Leave My Innocent Son Behind Novel Cover

I Refused To Leave My Innocent Son Behind

A wounded woman staggers through a forsaken industrial labyrinth, her ruined Victorian dress leaving a crimson trail behind her. Each whispered plea for her baby fades into the desolate silence, yet she pushes forward until her strength collapses. Clutching her stomach, horror dawns: her own errors have doomed her child. With shadows closing in and time running out, she must fight to hold on—or lose everything she refused to abandon.
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Chapter 9

Lyla Greene woke up the next day around noon, feeling sore and wincing as she sat up. Last night, Cameron Carlson had been intense, leaving her completely spent until she blacked out.

As she got out of bed, Lyla realized something was off. A quick look around showed she wasn’t in her bedroom—she was in Cameron's. The room's sleek black decor matched his cool and distant nature. Rolling her eyes, she got up to head back to her own room, the unfamiliarity of spending the night there making her uneasy.

Leaving Cameron's room, Lyla bumped into Mrs. Williams, who was carrying a cup of coffee. The surprise in the maid's eyes was brief; it was unusual for Lyla to spend the night in Cameron’s room.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Greene!" Mrs. Williams greeted. She admired and respected Lyla for her kindness and lack of pretension with the staff.

Lyla managed an embarrassed smile. Sleeping in until noon wasn’t uncommon for her after one of Cameron’s exhausting nights, which often left her needing days to recover. Mrs. Williams seemed to be aware of this routine, frequently preparing healthy snacks for her, which touched Lyla deeply.

"Where is he?" Lyla asked casually, accepting the coffee. In this household, her and Cameron's separate bedrooms were an open secret, their strained relationship known to everyone. Although usually indifferent to his whereabouts, today was different. No sooner had she asked than she regretted it, casting an awkward glance at Mrs. Williams before retreating back inside.

"Mr. Carlson left after a call," Mrs. Williams replied with an understanding smile, handing Lyla a black leather-bound notebook before taking the coffee cup and leaving.

Lyla smiled at the notebook. This was Cameron’s way of communicating, always preferring to write things down instead of direct conversation.

She opened it to find his unmistakable handwriting: "6:30, Central Park." Brief and to the point, as ever. Lyla understood immediately.

Curiosity piqued by Cameron’s cryptic message, Lyla sprawled on the bed, flipping through old notes. The notebook’s cover was unique; though worn from over a year of use, the embedded gem in the center remained brilliantly sparkling.

Despite Cameron’s taste for the exceptional, the pages were filled with instructions for Lyla, effectively rules he’d set for her, like the one repeated three times: no sleeping in his bedroom overnight.

Lyla found the stringent rules amusing. Cameron's insistence revealed a lack of trust, but she sensed his facade masked deeper insecurities. His repetition of rules felt almost like seeking reassurance.

Returning the notebook to her nightstand, Lyla glanced at the ornate clock on the wall, frowning before heading to the bathroom.

Uncertain why Cameron wanted to meet today, she hoped it wasn’t bad news. Last night, through her sleepy haze, she recalled him expressing satisfaction with her, hinting she might soon see Chaim Greene.

Meanwhile, Cameron stood in his seventy-ninth-floor office at Amazon Corp., gazing down at the city with a detached air. The world below seemed small, almost unreal.

“Mr. Carlson, your guest is here,” his intercom buzzed. He responded curtly, “Send him in.”

The visitor was a renowned cardiac specialist called in by Cameron for Chaim.

“Mr. Carlson, you're here?” The doctor seemed startled. He’d been informed of a critically ill patient needing his expertise, with all surgical arrangements made. A box of cash ensured his presence.

“Dr. Gold, it's been a while. Still amazed the authorities haven’t caught you?” Cameron turned, his gaze cold and mocking toward the seemingly respectable middle-aged man.

Who would guess this respected doctor had a reputation for demanding bribes and extorting patients' families?

“What do you want, Mr. Carlson?” Dr. Gold asked warily, their paths crossed only once before due to happenstance.

Cameron, barely more than ten years old, had carried a bleeding girl to the hospital. Driven by greed, Dr. Gold saw an opportunity to exploit the wealthy boy but underestimated the boy’s resolve, even at a young age.

“There’s something you can do for me, Dr. Gold. You owe me a life. Wake someone for me, and I might let you walk free,” Cameron suggested, his voice icy. Reclining in his chair, he took a drag on his cigarette, watching the doctor.

When Dr. Gold saw the child’s photo in the files, he was taken aback. That child, full of life at the awards ceremony, was unforgettable. Fate had revealed the child belonged to Lyla Greene.

“Lyla, you're heartless,” Cameron whispered, tears slipping down his face. Emotions he couldn’t grasp overwhelmed him. Even his assistant, Lennox, was left stunned.

“Mr. Carlson…” Lennox hesitated, trying to gather his thoughts.

“Is it settled?” Cameron asked, wiping his tears and tucking the papers into his jacket.

“Yes, the reporters have been redirected to another hospital. For safety, it’s best if you leave soon,” Lennox advised, shifting awkwardly.

“Keep watch here and handle things. Just don’t involve me. Let her cause all the chaos she wants, but keep it away from me,” Cameron instructed, ready to leave.

“Sir…” Lennox attempted to interject but faltered.

“If you have something to say, just spit it out!” Cameron prompted, sensing Lennox’s hesitation.

“It’s Mrs. Greene. She called about the property transfer since Mr. Holmes withdrew the charge. She wants the Amazon shares transferred immediately,” Lennox relayed, head lowered.

Cameron laughed dryly, “Tell her I’ll handle it.” Her relentless effort to see him ousted amused him, though it still hurt.

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