Cecile looked up at the gaping hole in the roof. The wind was blocked, and they had a bed, but the temperature was dropping rapidly. They had no blankets, no fire, and no food.

"We need supplies," Cecile said, brushing the dried mud off her leggings. "Let's go to town."

They walked back down the muddy path, heading toward the small commercial strip of Rust Creek.

Halfway down the trail, the path widened. Walking toward them was Abbey White.

Abbey wore a pristine, cream-colored trench coat and spotless designer boots. Two cameramen flanked her, capturing her every angle. When Abbey saw Cecile's dirt-streaked face and ruined shoes, a flash of pure disgust crossed her eyes.

But as the cameras swung toward them, Abbey's face instantly melted into an expression of profound, heartbreaking concern.

She quickened her pace and stopped right in front of them. She dropped to a crouch, bringing herself down to Damien's eye level.

"Oh, Damien," Abbey sighed, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion. She reached into her deep pocket and pulled out a bar of expensive, foil-wrapped Swiss chocolate. She held it out to him like one might offer a treat to a stray dog. "You must be starving. Here, sweetie."

Damien stared at the silver foil. His mind instantly replayed the sound of Abbey screaming at Brayan over the piano keys just an hour ago. His stomach twisted in revulsion.

When Damien didn't move, Abbey looked up at Cecile.

"Cecile, really," Abbey said, making sure her voice carried to the microphones. "Are you actually going to make him sleep in that mud pit? It's going to be freezing tonight."

She stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her coat. "I have a heated guest room in Villa 3. It has a plush rug and a real bed. Damien," she looked back down at the boy, her voice dripping with honey, "why don't you come with Auntie Abbey? I have warm food. Not like your mommy, who can't even boil an egg."

It was a vicious, calculated strike. She was trying to humiliate Cecile by proving that even her own son would choose a stranger over her.

In the live chat, Abbey's massive fanbase cheered.

Yes! Save him, Abbey!

Cecile is such a failure. The kid is definitely going to go with Abbey.

Cecile didn't say a word. She didn't defend herself. She simply looked down at Damien. She wanted to know if the last two hours had meant anything to him.

The silence stretched. The cameramen zoomed in on Damien's face.

Damien looked at the chocolate in Abbey's hand. He looked at Abbey's perfectly painted, fake smile. Then, he turned his head and looked up at Cecile. He saw the dirt on her cheek, the exhaustion in her eyes, and the steady, unyielding strength in her posture.

Damien reached out. His small fingers bypassed the chocolate entirely. He grabbed the hem of Cecile's dirty white t-shirt and gripped it tight. He stepped behind her leg, using her body as a shield.

"No thank you," Damien said. His voice was small, but it was crystal clear. "My mom is making me a bed."

The words hit the air like a physical shockwave.

Abbey's face froze. The angelic smile shattered, leaving her features rigid and grotesque. Her hand, still holding the chocolate, trembled in mid-air.

The cameraman to her right caught the exact moment her mask slipped. The live chat abruptly stopped scrolling.

A surge of heat rushed into Cecile's chest. Her son had chosen her. He had defended her.

Cecile reached down with her left hand and placed it over Damien's, squeezing his fingers gently. Then, she looked up at Abbey. A slow, mocking smirk spread across Cecile's lips. "Did you hear him, Mrs. White?" Cecile's voice was a low, dangerous purr. "Take your cheap pity and your chocolate, and go worry about your own son."

Abbey's face flushed a dark, ugly purple. She stood up so fast her heel caught on a rock. She stumbled, her arms flailing wildly for a second before she caught her balance. The pristine image was completely ruined.

Humiliated and furious, Abbey sneered, "Fine. Let's see what kind of magic trick you pull for dinner tonight."

She spun around and stormed off down the path, her cameramen struggling to keep up with her frantic pace.

Cecile watched her go. She crouched down and gently tapped Damien on the nose with her left index finger.

"Good job, little knight," she said softly.

Damien's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink. He wasn't used to praise. He quickly looked away, staring at the trees, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a tiny, undeniable smile.

Cecile stood up. The victory felt good, but the cold wind biting through her thin shirt was a harsh reminder of reality.

"Come on," Cecile said, her eyes fixed on the town below. "We need to find the woodshop."

The sun dipped below the tree line, plunging Rust Creek into a bitter, grey twilight. The wind howled through the empty streets, kicking up dust and dead leaves.

Cecile wrapped her grey sweatshirt tightly around Damien's shoulders, leaving herself shivering in the thin t-shirt. She navigated the unfamiliar streets, keeping her eyes peeled for any signs of industrial activity. After a few minutes of walking, she spotted a weathered wooden sign with a carving of a hand saw hanging at the end of a narrow dirt side street.

At the edge of town, a large, barn-like structure stood surrounded by stacks of raw timber. A faded wooden sign above the door read: Kowalski Woodworks. The deafening screech of a table saw echoed from inside.

Cecile pushed open the heavy wooden door. The rich, sharp scent of sawdust and pine sap hit her lungs.

A massive man with a thick grey beard and forearms like tree trunks stood over a workbench. This was Gus Kowalski.

Gus hit the kill switch on the saw. The blade whined to a halt. He turned around, wiping his hands on a filthy canvas apron. He took one look at Cecile, Damien, and the cameraman hovering behind them, and his face twisted into a scowl.

"Get out," Gus barked, his voice like grinding stones. "I don't do business with Hollywood phonies. This ain't a petting zoo for your reality show."

The cameraman zoomed in on Cecile's face, eager to capture her humiliation.

Cecile didn't flinch. She walked straight past Gus, ignoring his hostility, and stopped at his workbench. She stared down at the piece of wood he had just been cutting.

"Red oak," Cecile said, her voice calm and authoritative. "High density, but prone to splitting. Your blade angle is off by about three degrees. That's why the edge of your tenon joint is tearing out."

Gus's mouth snapped shut. The anger in his eyes was instantly replaced by profound shock. He stared at the woman in the dirty clothes as if she had just grown a second head.

He lunged forward, grabbing the piece of wood. He ran his calloused thumb over the cut. She was right. There was a microscopic tear-out on the edge.

"How the hell do you know that?" Gus demanded, his voice dropping an octave.

Cecile didn't answer. She turned and pointed out the window toward the yard. "And your ash wood out there? You stacked it without enough ventilation gaps. The bottom layers are already drawing moisture. They'll warp before winter."

Gus inhaled sharply. That was a detail only a seasoned veteran of the trade would catch. He threw the red oak onto the bench and crossed his arms, looking at Cecile with newfound, grudging respect.

"Who are you?" Gus asked. "And what do you want? I told production I ain't selling you finished furniture."

"I don't want your finished furniture," Cecile said, meeting his hard gaze without blinking. "I need to borrow your tools and access to your scrap pile."

Gus snorted. "Why should I let you touch my tools?"

Cecile tilted her head, listening to the hum of the machinery in the background. "Because your vintage lathe in the corner has a worn spindle bearing. It's vibrating too much, ruining your precision work. Let me use your tools, and I'll fix it for you."

Gus's jaw actually dropped. That lathe had been driving him insane for a month, and the local mechanic couldn't figure it out. She diagnosed it by sound?

He stared at her for a long, tense moment. The craftsman in him respected raw talent more than he hated Hollywood.

"Deal." Gus grunted.

The live chat exploded.

WHAT JUST HAPPENED?

Did she just out-woodwork a master carpenter?!

Cecile led Damien to a safe corner of the shop, away from the sawdust. She walked over to a pegboard, grabbed a pair of safety goggles and heavy canvas gloves, and slipped them on. The movements were fluid, automatic.

She walked over to the rattling lathe. She picked up a heavy wrench. With surgical precision, she began dismantling the housing.

Gus stood over her shoulder, watching her hands move. His eyes widened as she bypassed the obvious bolts and went straight for the hidden tension rods. Within ten minutes, she had the housing off, adjusted the bearing seating, and tightened the belt.

She hit the power button. The lathe hummed to life—a smooth, flawless purr. No vibration.

Gus slapped his thigh and let out a booming laugh. "Well, I'll be damned!" He clapped Cecile on the shoulder, nearly knocking her over. "The shop is yours, kid."

Cecile walked over to the scrap pile. Her eyes scanned the discarded cuts of wood. She picked up several thick blocks of dense hard maple. Her mind was already drawing the blueprints. As she turned back toward the bench, her eyes scanned the messy back shelves, past rusted cans of stain and varnish, finally landing on a dusty, half-empty tin labeled 'Industrial Fire-Retardant Sealant'. She quietly grabbed it and tucked it under her arm.

As she passed Damien, she noticed his small blue canvas backpack sitting beside him. The zipper was slightly open, revealing the corner of a thick, dark blue hardcover book. Damien saw her glance and quickly pushed the zipper closed, his cheeks flushing as if caught with a secret treasure. Cecile didn't ask. She simply smiled and ruffled his hair. She had seen the book before—a worn children's encyclopedia of space he had found in the Beverly Hills library months ago. He carried it everywhere now, though he rarely opened it in front of anyone.

The back door of the shop opened. Gus's wife, Marge, walked in carrying a tray. The smell of fresh-baked apple pie filled the room.

Marge saw Damien sitting quietly in the corner. She smiled warmly, cut a massive slice of pie, and handed it to him on a paper plate. Damien looked at Cecile. Cecile nodded. He took the plate, whispering a tiny "thank you."

The table saw roared to life. Cecile pushed the first block of maple into the blade. The real work had begun.