Polly climbed the stairs to the second floor of the office, relieved not to run into any colleagues. She wasn’t in the mood for pitying looks or awkward questions. She hurried into her office and shut the door behind her.
“Polly, there you are!” exclaimed Helen, her co-worker. “Things have been mad here. They’ve retired old Mr. Thompson, and a new director’s taken his place—young but strict. He’s clearing out all the older staff. I’m next, I just know it. How’s Jack? Any better?”
Polly sank into her chair, glancing around the room. She could feel Helen watching her, waiting.
“Don’t be silly, Helen. If he sacks everyone, who’ll do the work? They’ll fire me first—I’m always off looking after Jack. He needs a bone marrow transplant. The operation costs a fortune, and I don’t have it. Charities have waiting lists too. But the doctors say we can’t delay. And we still need a donor. I’m not a match, and Mum’s too old…”
“Good Lord, why must that poor boy suffer so?” Helen said sincerely. “Have you tried finding Jack’s father?”
“And then what? Even if I tracked him down, I doubt he’d agree to be a donor. It’s not a small procedure. And he’d never believe Jack’s his…”
The door swung open, and Alison from HR stepped in. Both women turned, their expressions tightening with unease.
“I heard you were back. Polly, I hate to do this now, but there’s been an order…” she hesitated.
“Go on,” Polly said, thinking, *Here we go.*
Alison glanced at Helen as if seeking backup.
“What, has the new director decided to sack me too? No chance.” Polly shot up so fast she nearly knocked Alison over, storming past her and down the hallway. Alison called after her, but Polly was already gone.
Colleagues greeted her as she passed, but she barely noticed. *Over my dead body. He can’t do this…*
She reached the reception area and stopped. A glamorous young woman—straight off a magazine cover—sat at the secretary’s desk, her top button undone just so.
“Where’s Jane?” Polly demanded.
The woman flashed a perfect smile, but Polly didn’t wait for an answer. She strode to the director’s door and grabbed the handle.
“Wait! You can’t go in—there’s a meeting!” The secretary darted forward, but Polly had already pushed inside.
She froze in the doorway. The secretary shoved past her.
“It wasn’t my fault, Paul! She barged in—”
“That’s enough, Emily. You may go.” The director cut her off, and she vanished. He studied Polly. “I’m listening.”
She recognised him at once, though twelve years had passed since they’d last met. It stung that he didn’t recognise *her*. But maybe that was for the best.
“Take a seat.” He gestured to the chairs.
Polly stepped forward but didn’t sit.
“I’m Polly Andrews from marketing.” She used her full name, hoping it’d jog his memory. “On what grounds are you firing me? My son is ill—I have to take him to hospital. Mr. Thompson understood—he even helped financially. I worked from home—”
The director leaned back in his leather chair, watching her. She faltered under his gaze. *Mr. Thompson had a simple chair,* she thought bitterly.
“I was told your *daughter* was ill. I sympathise, but you’re never here. Others cover your workload—is that fair?” His tone was stern, like a teacher scolding a student.
“*Son*,” Polly corrected.
“Sorry?”
“I have a son. Not a daughter. He’s seriously ill. If you sack me, we’ll have nothing.” Her voice shook despite her best efforts.
“Do *you* have children? A mother? If they were sick, would you carry on as if nothing was wrong?” She met his gaze squarely.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asked, indifferent.
“Leukaemia. Know what that is?” Her voice cracked.
He frowned. “Have we met before? You seem familiar.”
She wasn’t ready for that. The silence stretched dangerously.
“I… we were at uni together. Remember New Year’s? I visited a friend in halls… You played guitar, and then…” She flushed, dropping her eyes.
“Polly?” *Finally.* She smirked inwardly. *He remembers.*
He switched to a warmer tone. “How can I help?”
“Don’t sack me. My son needs that transplant. I’m out of options.” She covered her face, hiding the tears.
“No husband, I take it?”
She lowered her hands, squaring her shoulders. They locked eyes. Then he stood, circled the desk, and approached her.
“Tell me. Is he my son?”
“No,” she said quickly. The last thing she needed was him thinking she’d lied to trap him.
“Where’s his father?”
“What does it matter? Can I go?” She turned toward the door.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he called after her.
“Well?” Helen asked when she returned.
“It’s fine,” Polly said wearily.
“Good. He’s not a monster—he’s got a mother too.”
Polly remembered that New Year’s Eve, walking through the snow, the fairy lights glowing in windows. He’d kissed her at her door. His lips tasted of chocolate. He’d played guitar beautifully, his voice warm. She’d seen him around campus but never imagined they’d spend the night together.
Rumour said his father was someone important. Paul had refused to study in his hometown, not wanting special treatment. Girls flocked to him, but none had won his heart.
The way he’d looked at her—she’d thought he loved her. Foolish girl, melting over a guitar and a kiss. Then he’d gone home for the holidays and never returned. She heard he’d transferred—some family trouble.
When she realised she was pregnant, she didn’t look for him. Too proud. Cried it out. Never considered ending it. Switched to remote study.
She never thought they’d meet again. And like *this*? Now he was her boss. *What now? Nothing,* she told herself. *He’s my son. Mine alone. I’ll do whatever it takes.*
At home, her mother hovered, suspicious. “He won’t sack you, then?”
“No. He promised to help.”
“Mum?” Jack called weakly from his room.
A knock at the door startled her—probably the neighbour.
“Polly! Someone for you.”
She opened it to find Paul.
“You?”
“I wanted to see you.” He glanced around the cramped flat, pausing at a photo on the shelf.
“My son. He was nine there.” She didn’t add *when he was still healthy.*
“Tea? Or some dinner?” her mother offered.
“I’d love a proper meal. Hotel food’s wearing thin.”
As he ate, Polly and her mother stared.
“Mum, who’s here?” Jack called.
Polly jumped up, but Paul followed.
She saw her son through Paul’s eyes—pale, hollow-eyed, too thin.
“You’re Paul?” Jack asked.
“Your mum’s boss.”
“You won’t sack her?”
“Who told you that?”
Jack bit his lip. “She said she’s always off because of me… that you could fire her.”
“No. I spoke to a London clinic. They’ll operate soon. You’ll be running about in no time.”
Jack studied him. “What about the money?”
“Sorted. Now, I need to talk to your mum.”
In the hall, Paul turned to her.
“He’s mine, isn’t he?” He nodded at the photo. “We’re identical. Here—take a swab for DNA. If it’s a match, I’ll be his donor. And I’ll cover the costs.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Do you want him well? Go on. I’ll wait.”
After he left, her mother wept. “He’s Jack’s father? Thank God.”
Jack looked up when Polly returned. “He’s my dad? I heard. He’ll be my donor?”
“You hear too much,” she muttered, tucking him in.
“Sick kids grow up fast,” he said solemnly.
Later, they drove to London, Jack asleep in the back. Paul listened as Polly confessed she’d waited for him at uni, heartbroken when he left.
He told her about his forced marriage—a business arrangement that ended childless. His father had disowned him, banishing him here.
The DNA matched. The operation succeeded.
When Jack was discharged, Paul sent a car. Then he visited with a professional camera.
“Now you can capture every happy moment,” he said.
That night, he pulled Polly aside.
“Too soon, maybe… but will you marry me?She looked into his eyes, nodded, and whispered, “Yes,” knowing their journey had only just begun.
