The Abandoned Child - Part 1

17 Years Ago

In a remote village by a mountain side.

Hundreds of miles away from the bustling capital city of Ayodale…

A rundown village called, in a village called Mogu, translates—Ink Valley,

at the foot of a mountain called—Shijing.

The rain lashed down in relentless sheets,

a merciless curtain drowning the rural road.

Thick black clouds smothered the moon,

casting an inky darkness over the muddy path.

The wind howled with a mournful wail, rattling the soul of the night.

A lone car crept along—a sleek, imported sedan, its polished black exterior gleaming absurdly out of place.

Its engine hummed faintly against nature’s fury in this desolate stretch.

Inside, Clara Chen clutched a bundle in her lap, her fingers trembling against the damp blanket.

The soft fabric clung to her skin, wrapped around her newborn son.

Her pearl brooch glinted faintly on her soaked coat, a cruel reminder of her father’s voice.

Lose the child, or lose everything—your future, your name, your place in this city, his words echoed.

This is my only way out, she thought, biting her lip until blood stung her mouth, her mind flashing to her year in shadows, hiding from university eyes.

My dad’s political empire, my dreams with Dorian—gone if this child stays, a stain on the Chen legacy, she thought.

Her brown eyes, clouded with exhaustion and unshed tears, darted to the baby.

His tiny chest rose and fell with innocent breaths, oblivious to the storm defining his fate.

Dorian Wei gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white as bone.

His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached with strain.

The wipers thrashed against the windshield, their frantic motion barely piercing the deluge.

The world beyond blurred into shadow and water.

At twenty-two, he was a shadow of the charismatic rebel who’d swept Clara off her feet.

His gray eyes flickered to her, heavy with dread and his father’s judgment.

I’m damning us both, he thought, Vincent’s, his father's, words burning through him.

Father’s wrath will destroy us if this gets out.

“Clara, this is madness,” he said, his voice low and rough, nearly lost in the storm’s roar.

“An orphanage would’ve been safer, a cleaner break—we could’ve arranged it discreetly.”

“Safer?” Clara snapped, her voice sharp but brittle, like glass on the verge of shattering.

Her dark hair plastered to her pale face in wet strands.

“And risk my father’s wrath turning Ayodale against us?” she continued.

“Reporters would tear us apart, Dorian—the Chen name, my dad’s campaign, your family’s empire—all gone in a scandal.”

I wanted glamour, power, not this—a disgrace that haunts me, she thought.

Her chest tightened with a mix of rage and despair. What am I even doing?

Dorian’s hands tightened further, the leather groaning under his grip.

His mind raced with the consequences of their choice.

“You didn’t abort when I begged you—why carry him if you hate him so much?” he asked.

His voice cracked with frustration.

Clara’s lips parted, but no words came.

Her gaze dropped to the baby, his peaceful face twisting something raw inside her.

Why didn’t I? she thought, her heart aching with maternal instinct.

Because I’m not a monster… or am I becoming one?

“The least I can do is give him a chance,” she whispered, more to herself than Dorian.

Her voice trembled with a fragile hope.

"He has his life, and I have mine—fate decides now, not us."

The car slowed as a dilapidated hut emerged through the rain.

Its sagging roof was a dark silhouette against the storm.

A weak lamp flickered in the window, casting a frail, golden glow from within the lonely structure.

Dorian’s breath hitched, his chest constricting with panic.

“Here? This hovel doesn’t even have electricity—Clara, please, reconsider,” he pleaded.

His voice broke with desperation.

“This is it,” she said, her tone cold but her fingers twitching on the baby's blanket. The cute thing was holding onto her little finger… the only thread of hope and trust for him.

It’s all I can leave you, little one, she thought, tucking blanket tighter around the child.

Her hands shook with a mother’s final touch.

Dorian pulled the parking brake, the engine’s rumble fading into the storm.

He stepped into the rain, his expensive coat soaked instantly.

The fabric clung to his frame as he retrieved a small stroller from the trunk.

Its wheels sank into the mud with a squelch.

Clara followed, clutching an umbrella that buckled under the wind’s force.

It did little against the downpour, her boots splashing through puddles.

Her hands shook as she placed the baby in the stroller, his tiny form nestled in the blanket.

The chaos around them contrasted with his calm.

“How can he sleep so soundly?” she murmured, a tear mingling with the rain on her cheek.

Her voice thickened with emotion.

“Isn’t that better?” Dorian said, holding the umbrella over her.

His voice trembled with guilt.

“Clara, let’s take him to a remote orphanage—I’ll handle it anonymously, keep it buried.”

“No!” Clara’s eyes flashed with defiance, her nails digging into her palms.

The pain grounded her until they bled.

“They’d trace us—my father’s enemies, your father’s rivals—they’d never forget our faces,” she insisted. "The wretched parents who abandoned their child in the night."

She adjusted the stroller’s hood, shielding the baby from the rain.

Safe… for now, she thought, her heart breaking with each second.

Dorian’s knees buckled slightly, his heart beating once every ten seconds, he felt dizzy.

The weight of their sin pressed down on him.

This is a sin we’ll carry forever, he thought, his gaze darting to the dark, empty road.

“Clara, I can’t live with this—” he started, his voice cracking.

“Enough,” she said, stepping back from the stroller.

Her boots sank deeper into the mud, her resolve hardening.

She stared at the baby one last time, her lips quivering and eyes glistening with tears.

“Don’t blame me, little one—blame your fate.”

“I pray we never meet again,” she whispered, turning away.

Her silhouette was swallowed by the rain as she walked back to the car.

Dorian lingered, his hand hovering over the stroller, trembling with the urge to take it back.

It dropped with a defeated sigh.

I’m sorry, he thought, the words choking him as he followed her.

The rain swallowed their vehicle as it vanished into the night, leaving the stroller alone.

The baby’s faint cries pierced the storm, drawing a frail figure from the hut.

The poor village woman shuffled forward, her heart aching as she scooped up the abandoned child.