Chapter 3: Homecoming and Hints of Betrayal

Newborn babies basically sleep all the time. There’s a hush that falls over a nursery—soft nightlights glowing, lullabies humming from Bluetooth speakers, the gentle shuffle of nurses in bunny-print scrubs. I spent my first days drifting in and out, letting the world come to me in fragments.

On the day of my third-day homecoming, I was woken by a bitter taste flooding my mouth. It was a traditional celebration—part Southern superstition, part high-society spectacle. The Jennings mansion had never been so lively, but right now, all I tasted was something foul.

Ptooey—what is this stuff? So fishy and hard to swallow.

My face scrunched up, and I spat it right back at the bottle, my tiny nose wrinkling. I must’ve looked like a baby with attitude, but it couldn’t be helped.

The nurse holding me trembled in fear. “The little girl, she—she won’t drink her bottle. Maybe there’s medicine in it.”

Her hands shook, and I could hear the fear in her voice. Around here, messing up with the CEO’s kid was enough to end a career.

I opened my eyes, but the world was a pixelated blur. Shadows danced on the nursery ceiling, the shapes of mobiles and plush animals warping in my blurry vision. I reached out, trying to make sense of it all.

A figure in a sharp navy suit took me, voice cold: “Fire her—no, send her out. Bring in the next nurse.”

His words cut through the air like ice. The nurse’s shoes squeaked against the polished floor as she hurried out, head bowed, already pulling off her nametag. No one argued with Marcus Jennings when he used that tone.

Ah, ah, ah. Maybe because of our blood bond, at first glance I knew this was my father who loved his child more than life itself. There was a connection between us—an invisible thread that tugged at my heart. I couldn’t see him clearly, but I felt his presence, larger than life.

I blew bubbles, my tiny hand reaching for his beard, wanting to see his face clearly, to check if my fortune-telling skills still worked. I wanted to read him—to see what fate had written in the lines of his face. But all I managed was a fistful of air and a hiccup.

But I was too small, and my eyesight was weak. Everything blurred, just out of reach. I made a frustrated noise, determined to remember this moment anyway.

Marcus Jennings, feeling the liveliness of his child, immediately softened. The edge in his voice faded. He leaned in, his eyes brightening, a rare smile tugging at his lips.

He was about to issue a press release on the spot to name me his successor. He actually pulled out his phone, thumb hovering over his PR manager’s number, a grin spreading across his face as if he’d just found the answer to every problem.

Chief of Staff Wilson hurriedly tried to dissuade him. “Sir, you mustn’t!” Wilson’s voice was tense, a man used to crises but not this kind of emotional storm. He looked like he’d aged a decade overnight.

“Why not?” Jennings gently wiped the drool from my mouth. “The company I built, of course I’ll leave it to my child. Should I adopt one of those daydreaming nephews instead?”

He arched a brow, challenging anyone to disagree. His pride in me was palpable, even if I was just a bundle of drool and soft baby hair.

“Her bloodline is special. Back home, there’s a saying: newborns can’t suppress great fortune. I’m just afraid… it’ll bring harm to her.”

Wilson’s words carried an edge of old-world superstition, but in this house, old beliefs died hard. The staff all nodded, murmuring in agreement, as if that might keep misfortune at bay.

I tilted my head, curious about the speaker. The voices all ran together, but I sensed the concern in the air—a strange mix of love and fear.

Eh, still can’t see clearly. All I could make out were vague shapes and colors. I let out a frustrated coo, hoping someone would understand.

“Forget it.” The CEO, who never believed in such things, finally put away the announcement. “When my kid grows up safe and sound, I’ll pave the way for her.”

His decision was final, but gentler now—like a promise sealed with a kiss on the forehead.

At the time, I didn’t know my old man had made such a world-shaking decision. Years later, people would talk about the day Marcus Jennings changed—about how a little girl taught him to hope again.

There hadn’t been a happy event in the mansion for years. Even though I was just a little girl, the third-day homecoming was held with great fanfare. The house was filled with balloons and the smell of fresh-baked cookies. Neighbors brought casseroles, and a banner reading ‘Welcome Home, Abby!’ hung over the grand staircase.

It was the kind of event the neighbors gossiped about for weeks, the house lit up from the inside, the lawn lined with cars. Even the air felt brighter, as if the universe itself had decided to give the Jennings family another shot.

Guests tossed silver dollars and crisp bills into the bassinet. Listening to the clinking sound, I couldn’t help but drool. The sound was irresistible—like a cash register at Christmas. The bills fluttered down, mixing with the mountain of toys and pink ribbons.

So much money. I didn’t know what to do with it yet, but even at this age, I felt a greedy little thrill. In another life, maybe I’d been a Wall Street shark.

Affected by my baby body, my temperament became childish. When I got bored, I started spitting up milk endlessly. My main hobby: testing the staff’s nerves. Nothing like a little projectile spit-up to keep everyone humble.

Marcus Jennings spun around in anxiety. He barked orders, fussed over me, ran a hand through his hair for the twentieth time that morning. You’d think he’d never seen a baby before.

“Is the baby uncomfortable?” He hovered, all bravado gone, his tie askew, looking more like a first-time dad than a CEO.

Grandma Carol, experienced as she was, put a gold locket on me and reminded, “Marcus, maybe the little one misses her mom. Why not take her to see Lillian?”

She pressed the locket into my palm, whispering a prayer under her breath. Her eyes were warm, shining with pride and relief.

Her gaze was kind, her face beaming as she looked at me as if I were the greatest treasure in the world. It felt like sunlight after a storm. Her touch was steady, grounding me in a world that still felt too big.

The old lady, in her later years, just wanted to dote on her grandchildren. She had donated countless offerings at church, praying for an heir for Marcus. The church bells had rung for me, Grandma made sure of that. Even the pastor stopped by to offer a blessing, his hands gentle as he traced the sign of the cross above my head.

Now her wish was fulfilled; she couldn’t be happier. She hummed hymns under her breath, eyes misty with gratitude. She was already planning my future, mapping out every birthday and holiday in her mind.