My Mother Made Me Raise My Sister's Child Chapter 1

At three in the morning, my sister boarded her flight.

The baby was shoved into my arms, still smelling faintly of copper and fresh birth.

Mom dragged me by the arm, sobbing, "Just raise him as yours. You can't let your sister's life be ruined."

I opened my mouth to scream at her.

Then my phone buzzed with a text from my sister.

"The father is Alfredo Davenport. Don't look for him. He is too dangerous to cross."

I unlocked my phone and searched his name.

Davenport Holdings. A multi-billion-dollar empire.

I shut off my phone and pulled the tiny bundle closer.

Dangerous?

We would see about that.

The next morning, I stood in Alfredo Davenport's penthouse office, holding the baby.

He spared me a cold glance. "Who are you?"

I placed the baby directly on his mahogany desk.

"Special delivery. Sign here."

* * *

The phone rang just as I finally closed my eyes.

After working forty-eight hours of overtime, my eyelids felt like lead. I fumbled in the dark for my phone and squinted at the screen. It was Mom.

A call at three in the morning made my stomach drop. I picked up.

Her hysterical sobbing flooded the receiver before I could even say hello.

"Get to the hospital right now! Your sister... she had the baby!"

My sleep-deprived brain refused to process the words. "A baby? What baby?"

Mom's voice hitched, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "Fiona had a baby! Hurry! Mercy Hospital, maternity ward!"

Fiona had a baby.

My sister, Fiona, was twenty-eight. She was single, had no partner, at least as far as I knew.

I threw a coat over my shoulders and bolted out the door. By the time my cab pulled up to the hospital, the clinical white lights of the maternity ward were blinding.

Mom was huddled at the far end of the corridor, clutching a tiny bundle wrapped in a cheap hospital blanket. The infant was minuscule and wrinkled.

Fiona was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is she?" I demanded.

Mom didn't answer. She just wept.

I scanned the quiet hallway. The delivery room doors were shut, and the nearby recovery rooms were completely empty.

"Mom, where is Fiona?"

Mom raised her head, her eyes swollen to the size of walnuts. "She left."

"What do you mean, she left? Where did she go?"

"She boarded her flight." Mom shoved the baby into my arms. "She bought a ticket to London. The flight departed at one-thirty. The moment the baby was out, she walked out of the hospital."

I looked down at the newborn in my arms. The clamp on his umbilical cord was still fresh, and he carried that distinct, metallic smell of birth mixed with formula.

The baby's eyes were squeezed shut, his tiny mouth twitching open and close.

My head spun.

"Call her," I said, my voice trembling.

"I tried. The number is disconnected."

I pulled out my own phone and opened my chat history with Fiona. Her profile picture was still there, but when I tapped into it, a red exclamation point appeared next to my message. You are no longer connected with this user.

I dialed her number.

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

Standing in that sterile hallway with a hours-old infant in my arms, I listened to that automated recording repeat three times.

Mom grabbed my sleeve, her grip tight and desperate. "Just raise him as yours, Gemma. You cannot let your sister's life be ruined over this."

"She dumps a newborn on me to save her own life, but what about mine?"

"You are different. You are still young, you haven't..."

"I'm twenty-four, Mom. I can barely afford my own rent."

Mom ignored my words, her tears flowing freely. "Fiona said we cannot let anyone find out about this. The father... he is too dangerous to cross."

Before I could reply, my phone vibrated.

It was a text from an unknown number.

It read: "The father is Alfredo Davenport. Don't look for him. He is too dangerous to cross."

I tried calling the number back immediately, but it was already disconnected.

I stared at the name Alfredo Davenport. I opened my browser and typed it into the search bar.

Davenport Holdings. Real estate, venture capital, healthcare. A conglomerate worth hundreds of billions. Alfredo Davenport, the current CEO, thirty years old.

The man in the official photos wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His jawline was razor-sharp, his gaze detached and piercing.

I closed my phone.

The baby in my arms whimpered, a tiny fist escaping the blanket to clutch at my collar.

I looked down at him.

Dangerous?

We would see.

I held him tighter.

The next morning, I called in sick to work.

I walked to the corner store and bought a small tin of formula, a pack of newborn diapers, and a single bottle.

Back in my cramped apartment, I fed the baby and changed his diaper. Once full, he drifted off to sleep, quieter than I expected a newborn to be.

I searched through the belongings Fiona had left behind at the hospital. The nurse had handed me a manila folder before I checked the baby out.

Inside was the hospital birth record. The mother's name was listed as Fiona. The father's line was blank.

There was also a handwritten note.

The handwriting was unmistakably Fiona's, sharp and hurried.

"Gemma, I'm sorry. I can't keep this baby, and I can't face Alfredo. You have always been tougher than me, so I know he'll be safe with you. I've already talked to Mom. Don't hate me."

I folded the note and shoved it back into the folder.

Don't hate her.

She had booked her flight a month in advance, deactivated her phone, deleted her social media, and fled the delivery room within an hour of giving birth.

That wasn't a desperate mistake.

That was a calculated escape.

I scooped up the baby and walked out the door to hail a cab.

"Take me to Davenport Holdings headquarters."