Part 1My Godfather's Son

My best friend and I saved a billionaire’s son. His father asked us what we wanted as a reward.

My friend held up one finger.

The billionaire said, “Done. A million dollars for you.”

Her jaw dropped. I knew she was thinking of a single dollar for a lollipop.

Then, his gaze fell on me.

I slowly raised one finger and shook my head. Before he could process that, I dropped to the ground and hugged his leg.

“Dad!”

He gently declined.

So I pivoted, let go of the father, and wrapped my arms around the son I’d just saved.

“Husband!”

At the time, I was seven years old.

The billionaire’s son was eight.

* * *

At seven years old, you’re basically a public nuisance. A feral little creature running on instinct and sugar.

That was me, anyway. I’d just led my best friend, Chloe, through a gap I’d painstakingly widened in the chain-link fence behind St. Jude’s Home for Children. Our mission: the creek deep in the woods, where rumor had it the crawdads were massive.

We didn’t find any crawdads. Instead, tucked away in a thicket of ferns, we found a boy. Maybe eight years old, passed out cold.

He was wearing a little blazer, the kind of thing you see in magazines, fancier than anything the boys at the home owned. Now, though, it was smeared with mud and blood. Chloe and I put our shoulders into it, grunting and straining, but we couldn’t move him an inch.

“Maya, is he… is he dead?” Chloe’s voice was a high-pitched wobble, tears already welling up.

My name is Maya. The director at St. Jude’s, Mrs. Gable, gave it to me. She said it meant I was destined for great things. I hoped “great things” meant “lots of money.”

I knelt down, mimicking a scene from one of the cheesy dramas our housekeeper, Maria, was always watching. I put my fingers under his nose.

“Still breathing,” I announced.

I stood, scanned our surroundings, and yanked a handful of broad-leafed weeds from the ground. I found a flat rock and smashed them into a green, pulpy mess, then slapped the whole concoction onto the gash on his forehead.

“Master healer,” I said with a deadpan expression, meeting Chloe’s wide, worshipping eyes.

I had no idea what those weeds were or what they did. All I knew was that in the shows, whenever the hero fell off a cliff, this is how they saved themselves.

“You stay here with him. I’ll go get help.”

I gave Chloe her orders, then tugged at my own faded t-shirt. I wished I had a flowing cape. If I had a cape, I’d look exactly like a superheroine, sprinting off to save the day.

My superhero moment was unceremoniously crushed by Mrs. Gable’s hand connecting with the back of my head. I spent the whole way back to the woods sniffling, tears tracking paths through the dirt on my cheeks as I led the way.

By the time we got there, Chloe, that little glutton, was long gone—probably lured away by the thought of dinner. The boy was still lying there alone, the poultice I’d made for him dried into a sad, flaky cracker on his forehead.

Mrs. Gable hadn’t actually believed me. The color drained from her face when she saw him. She fumbled for her phone, calling 911, her voice trembling.

The world dissolved into a dizzying symphony of sirens. The boy was lifted onto a stretcher and carried away. I was hauled to the local police station to give a statement.

I’m loyal. I didn’t rat Chloe out. But she had no such qualms. The second she saw Mrs. Gable, she burst into tears and pointed a trembling finger at me. She told them how I’d dragged her through the fence, how it was my idea to hunt for crawdads, how I’d mashed up weird plants and put them on the boy. It had nothing to do with her.

I lunged for her, my fingers curled into claws, but Mrs. Gable caught me by the scruff of my neck.

When we got back to St. Jude’s, I found the gap in the fence sealed with a fresh patch of concrete. My adventures were now confined to the dusty yard. I was so mad at Chloe that I gave her the silent treatment for a whole week. She was too scared to even come near me.

Then, one afternoon, a car with a tiny, gleaming silver angel on the hood pulled up to our gate. A Rolls-Royce.

A man stepped out. The fabric of his suit shimmered, looking so expensive it probably cost more than our entire building. He radiated an aura of power, exactly like the billionaires in Maria’s dramas who were always saying things like, “Here’s a hundred million. Get out of my sight.”

Trailing behind him was the boy. He looked nothing like the snot-nosed kids I usually fought with in the yard. His clothes were immaculate, his teeth were perfectly white and straight, and there wasn’t a single runny nose in sight. It was him. The boy from the woods.

I was lazily swinging, hanging upside down, when Mrs. Gable marched them right over to me.

“Maya, get down from there this instant!”

Her voice was tight. I could see the impulse to grab me flicker in her eyes, but with important guests present, she reined it in. I saw my opening. No discipline today? My courage swelled. I scrambled upright on the wobbly swing seat, struck a flamingo-like pose on one leg, and, for dramatic effect, let go with one hand.

That was the last straw. My death-defying act finally broke her. Distinguished guests or not, she yanked me down and gave me the scolding of a lifetime right there in the yard.

I was still sniffling, hiccupping with tears, when she finally positioned me in front of them.

“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Gable said, her cheeks flushed. “She’s… spirited.”

The rich man just chuckled. “Don’t apologize. If it weren’t for her being so spirited, my son, Liam, might not have been found. A little wildness is a good thing.”

Mrs. Gable managed a tight smile. “Well, your son is very lucky. Those woods are treacherous; even locals avoid them. Maya here…” Her hand twitched again as she pulled me closer, visibly fighting the urge to give me another shake.

“Which is why we are so grateful,” the man continued. “In addition to the five-hundred-thousand-dollar donation we’re making to the home, we’d like to offer the children a personal reward. Something just for them.”

Chloe must have heard the commotion because she suddenly appeared at my side. The man learned that she had been there too, and he smiled kindly at her. “Is there anything you’d like, sweetie?”

She shyly held up one finger.

The man sighed in relief. “Of course. One million dollars is yours.”

Chloe’s jaw dropped. Her little brain was probably trying to calculate how many lollipops a million dollars could buy. A million dollars didn’t mean much to me either, but I knew it was a hell of a lot more than the single dollar she’d been about to ask for.

Finally, the man’s gaze fell on me.

I slowly raised one finger, then gave it a little wag, shaking my head.

His brow furrowed slightly. As he was trying to calculate what my finger-wagging math might mean, I dropped to the ground, wrapped my arms around his leg, and shouted with all the force my little lungs could muster.

“Dad!”

The sound was sharp and clear, vibrating through the still afternoon air.

The man froze, staring down at me. For the first time, the perfectly managed expression of a corporate titan cracked, revealing pure, unadulterated shock. Mrs. Gable squeezed the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes as if praying for strength. Behind his father, the boy—Liam—let out a quiet snort of laughter.

The man recovered, offering a strained smile as he gently tried to pry me off. “I’m sorry, little one, but how about… how about five million dollars instead?”

I slowly unwrapped my arms. Just as he breathed a sigh of relief, I launched myself sideways and latched onto his son.

“Husband!”

The world went silent.

I was seven. Liam Sterling, the rich man’s son, was eight.

His mouth hung open, revealing those perfect teeth. A deep blush crept up his neck, flooding his handsome face. He instinctively tried to back away, but I held on tight. I was strong and wiry, and he lost his balance, tumbling backward onto the grass with me still attached.

The next thing I knew, I was being lifted into the air by my collar.

This time, Mrs. Gable truly lost it. As she disciplined me, she ranted, “I told you to stop watching those ridiculous shows with Maria! You’re seven years old! What is wrong with you? Maria?! Where is Maria!”

Maria did not appear.

The ordeal only ended when the rich boy himself, Liam, tugged on his father’s sleeve and mumbled something.

I was finally released.

“Ma’am, perhaps there’s another solution,” Mr. Sterling said after a long pause. “This girl… I’d like to take her in. I’ll raise her, see to her education, all the way through college. What do you think?”

I don’t know what he and Mrs. Gable discussed after that. My backside was stinging so badly that the words just floated over my head. All I know is that Mrs. Gable insisted she “couldn’t show favoritism,” and so, when the Rolls-Royce with the little silver angel pulled away, both Chloe and I were in the back seat.