Chapter 0005

Lauren's POV

I adjusted the strap of my messenger bag, my fingers brushing against the edge of the neatly packed files inside.

Everything was in its place, but a flicker of unease stirred in me.

As I stepped into the hospital lobby, the sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic filled the air—familiar, yet always slightly overwhelming considering this had been my world for years now.

Having left my old life, name, and titles behind, Lauren the Luna waitress no longer existed. In her place was Ava, a world-renowned doctor whose reputation had taken me far from the shadows of my past.

It was that very reputation, that carefully built attention, which had brought me back here under strange and tightly controlled circumstances: a confidential request to consult on a VIP case.

The details were frustratingly vague. All I knew for certain was that the patient, a boy named Owen, needed my expertise, and the hospital had insisted I come in person. That insistence alone was enough to pique my curiosity.

The mortality rate among werewolf children had always been a grim reality. Not every child survived long enough to meet or coexist with their wolf.

Liam and I had poured everything into changing that, founding a pediatric medical center dedicated to giving these children a fighting chance.

Over time, the center had become the leading authority in pediatric care, and my name had gained weight in the field. I didn’t wear that pride openly, though—it only made the scrutiny sharper.

As I approached the reception desk, I smiled warmly at the nurse, but the doctors hovering nearby weren’t as kind. Their whispers weren’t even subtle.

“Do they just let any random person attend VIP consultations now?” one of them sneered.

“A young, pretty doctor?” another scoffed. “How much skill could she possibly have?”

“Don’t be so harsh,” a third chimed in, smirking. “Catching the favor of the Alpha King’s youngest son is a talent in itself.”

I bit my lip, keeping my expression neutral.

This wasn’t new. I’d spent my career proving myself to people who underestimated me, often before I’d even introduced myself.

“Still,” one of them chuckled, “the little troublemaker inside won’t go easy on her just because she’s pretty.”

Troublemaker? That didn’t sit right with me.

Children weren’t born troublemakers; they acted out for a reason. Maybe what this child needed wasn’t more judgment or coldness but someone who actually cared enough to listen.

My grip tightened on the strap of my bag, but I forced myself to smile, introducing myself.

I kept my head high as I followed the group into the VIP ward. The faint buzz of fluorescent lights hummed over the faint shuffle of our shoes on the tile floor.

When we entered the room, the "troublemaker" became immediately clear.

A boy—no older than five or six—sat in the middle of the room, a laptop balanced on his small knees. His dark hair was a mess of untamed tufts, sticking out rebelliously as if they'd fought off every comb that dared approach.

Dressed in a miniature version of a sharp, casual suit, he looked oddly sophisticated for his age, though the glint in his deep, dark eyes hinted at a spark of mischief—or perhaps defiance.

He glanced up briefly, his cold gaze slicing through the room, before giving a stiff nod and returning his attention to his screen.

The doctors exchanged awkward glances, clearly unsure how to handle him. One doctor lleaned closer, his curiosity outweighing his caution.

“What are you working on, boy?” He uttered, craning his neck to see the screen.

Owen didn’t give him the chance to find out. With a sharp snap, he shut the laptop and reached for something under the chair—a toy gun.

The next moment was chaos.

Red paint splattered across the doctors face in one swift shot, dripping down his jaw and staining his pristine white coat.

The other doctors barely had time to react before Owen swiveled his aim, a cold, mischievous glint flashing in his otherwise impassive eyes. Yellow, blue, green—paint exploded in bursts of colors from the gun, leaving them all looking like a failed art project.

Covered in paint and thoroughly humiliated, the group scrambled out of the room, muttering curses under their breath as bodyguards ushered them away.

I had to bite back a laugh. It wasn’t professional, but the sight of these self-important doctors reduced to walking rainbows was almost too much.

Once the chaos cleared, the remaining doctors turned to me, their expressions ranging from uneasy to downright desperate.

“Dr. Ava,” One doctor spoke up, his voice shrill, “you’re the expert. Surely, you can handle this.”

The others nodded eagerly, relief flooding their faces as they pushed the responsibility onto me.

I adjusted my bag and stepped forward, ignoring their mocking and pitying looks.

This wasn’t my first time dealing with skeptics or tantrums. I didn’t need their approval to do my job, and I certainly didn’t need their permission to prove myself.

Besides, this kid seemed more than entertaining.

Owen didn’t acknowledge me at first. He leaned back in his wooden chair, arms folded tightly across his chest, his small frame somehow managing to exude an air of authority far beyond his years.

His dark eyes swept over me, cool and assessing, like I was the subject of an intense evaluation rather than someone there to help him.

His expression was blank, but the sharpness in his gaze told a different story—a mind that was sharp, calculating, and already a step ahead, as if he were quietly turning over a thousand possibilities behind those unblinking eyes.

I crouched down to his level, moving slowly and deliberately so I wouldn’t startle him. My voice was soft and warm, the kind you’d use to coax a wary kitten.

“Hi, Owen. My name’s Dr. Ava. It’s nice to meet you.”

I let the words hang in the air for a moment before leaning in slightly, my tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And by the way… nice aim back there. You managed to hit every single vial. Impressive.”

He didn’t respond, but his brow did furrow. And he didn’t spray me with paint, either—a small victory.

As I studied him, an unexpected wave of familiarity washed over me, catching me completely off guard.

There was something about the way he carried himself—those rosy cheeks peeking out from under his unruly dark hair, like a secret he wasn’t ready to share.

It tugged at something deep inside me. For a fleeting moment, Abigail’s bright, smiling face flashed through my mind, and I couldn’t help but smile softly.

He reminded me of her—in a way that was entirely opposite, yet just as striking.

The thought tugged at my heart, pulling at something deep and raw, and I had to take a steadying breath to keep my voice even.

“Owen,” I said softly. “I’m here to help you. Can I sit with you for a bit?”

He didn’t respond right away, but slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. His dark eyes locked onto mine, piercing in their intensity. It wasn’t just the look of a child sizing up an adult; it was something sharper, deeper, like he was trying to unravel me, to figure out who I really was.

I held his gaze, unmoving, waiting.

Seconds stretched into what felt like hours. Then, to my utter shock, his lips parted, and he spoke.

“Mommy?”

The single word was so soft I almost wondered if I’d imagined it. But no, it was real—and it hit me like a tidal wave.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. My breath caught.

Mommy.