The night before, at a charity gala at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Noah had vanished into the throng of people. I was frantic, my world splintering before my eyes.

Two hours later, a call came from an unknown number.

The voice on the other end was hoarse and greedy. "If you want your son back in one piece, get two hundred thousand dollars ready. No cops."

My palms broke out in a cold sweat. My voice trembled as I asked, "Where do I bring the money?"

The man gave me the address of an abandoned pier in the Back Bay. "Leave the money behind the red container at Pier 3. I see the money, the boy goes home. Simple. Be quick. You're late, and I can't guarantee what condition you'll find him in."

The line went dead before I could ask another question.

I forced myself to stay calm, chanting a mantra in my head as I sped toward Curtis's corporate headquarters. Two hundred thousand is pocket change for Curtis. Noah will be back soon. He has to be.

I bypassed the front desk and burst into Curtis's office without knocking.

The scene that greeted me made my heart plummet.

A little girl was perched on Curtis's lap, and he was gazing at her with a tenderness I had never, not once, seen him show anyone. Beside him, a woman watched them with a soft, knowing smile.

It was Chloe, the daughter of the Prescott family's former CFO, and her daughter, Maya. I recognized them from old family photos.

The moment I entered, the laughter died. The air froze, and I was the unwelcome intruder who had shattered their perfect moment.

Curtis looked up, his expression hardening. "Ava, have you no manners? Don't you know how to knock?"

I had no time for pleasantries. Fighting back tears, my voice came out choked. "Curtis, Noah's been taken. They want two hundred thousand dollars."

Curtis, however, seemed completely unbothered, casually stroking Maya's hair. "Missing? Don't panic. Prescott men are forged by hardship. It's how they grow strong."

I couldn't hold it back any longer. I screamed, "Curtis, he's just a child! He's only five years old!"

Unmoved, he pressed the intercom on his desk and coldly ordered, "Escort Mrs. Prescott out."

My heart twisted into a painful knot. Casting my dignity aside, I fell to my knees before him, the words tumbling out in a desperate, incoherent plea. "I'm begging you, Curtis. Two hundred thousand is nothing to you, but every minute we wait could be fatal for Noah. He's just a child; he doesn't deserve this. Please, just save him."

Chloe came over to help me up, her voice dripping with false sincerity. "Ava, don't worry. Curtis won't just abandon Noah. He is his flesh and blood, after all. You should go home and wait for news."

Curtis shot me a cold glare. "Look at Chloe—so composed. Why can't you be more like her instead of making a scene?"

The last of my hope fractured into a million pieces. Tears blurred my vision as I staggered to my feet, leaning weakly against the doorframe. Curtis could be cruel to me, but he had no right to punish our son for his own resentment.

He snorted contemptuously. "Alright. Stop being an eyesore. Go home and cool off."

I took a deep breath and turned away from that suffocating office.

As I walked down the hall, I heard laughter bubble up from the office again, as if our son's disappearance was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

I liquidated the stocks in my personal investment account and finally scraped the money together.

Thank God, Noah was back, and he was safe. If anything had happened to him, I would never have forgiven myself.

At the clinic, a psychologist conducted a thorough evaluation. The results showed that aside from mild dehydration, he was physically fine. The real damage was invisible: the psychologist diagnosed him with severe trauma from the ordeal, which had triggered acute anxiety and a stutter.

"What your son needs most right now is a profound sense of security and love," the psychologist said gently. "You should spend as much time with him as possible, create a warm and stable environment, and consider regular therapy sessions to give him the support he needs to process this."

I held Noah's small, cold hand and nodded firmly. "I understand. Thank you, doctor."

As we left the clinic, I saw Curtis's car parked at the curb. He was leaning against the door, watching us with an unreadable expression.

I lifted Noah into my arms and walked straight toward him.

"What did the doctor say?" Curtis asked, his tone still laced with impatience.

I replied calmly, "Physically, he's fine. But he's severely traumatized. The doctor diagnosed him with anxiety and a stutter and recommended long-term therapy."

Curtis scoffed. "Therapy? Don't be ridiculous. It's a waste of money."

I took a deep breath, trying to cage the rage in my heart. "Curtis, what Noah needs most right now is our care and support. If you're not willing to help with his treatment, then at the very least, don't stand in the way."

He sneered. "And who are you to tell me? Noah is my son. I'll decide what he needs."

I held Noah tighter and looked Curtis straight in the eye. "Oh, really? Then where were you? Why didn't you go save him? Why did you let him endure that terror alone? Was it all because he made Maya cry?"

Curtis's face tightened, his voice growing colder. "You don't understand anything. It was a lesson!"

I shook my head, my heart aching with sorrow. "No, Curtis. That wasn't a lesson; it was cruelty. What kind of father subjects his own child to that kind of horror just to make a point?"

He fell silent, the accusation landing for a brief moment, but his familiar, condescending mask quickly snapped back into place. "Enough. Stop making a scene in the street. Get in the car. We'll talk at home."

I got into the car, holding Noah protectively on my lap.

The silence in the car on the way home was so thick it felt hard to breathe.