?<strong>Chapter 848:</strong>


    The boy plummeted from the tenth story, brushing against a tree that slightly softened his descent before hitting the grass—lifeless.


    It was a young life that Dulce, despite her valiant efforts, could not rescue. Disregarding her own bruises, she rose, stumbled, and with tears clouding her vision, moved toward the shrubbery.


    The crowd formed a circle around the scene.


    “Oh my God! How could a child just fall like that?”


    “Quick, see if he’s breathing!”


    “Don’t touch him! You might make it worse!”


    “Someone call an ambnce, now!”


    Dulce seized the arm of one of the speakers, her words deliberate and spaced. “Call the police.”


    In a frenzy, Crowell descended the stairs, agony etched across his face, d only in his slippers. Upon seeing his son amidst the foliage, he tore at his hair in despair.


    “Ahhh!” Crowell screamed, lost his footing, and copsed beside his son.


    The boy’s face was smeared with blood from his injuries.


    Struggling to maintain hisposure, Crowell crawled over the grass to cradle his son’s still form, looking to the heavens and beating his legs in anguish. “Ah!” While some offered words offort and others directed the chaos, only Dulce remained observant of Crowell, engulfed in his sorrowful disy.


    It wasn’t as it seemed.


    She had witnessed the truth herself.


    Crowell had deliberately dropped his son.


    Fiona paused at her office to phone Crowell and inquire about their son. Earlier that day, she had intended to leave him with the nanny. But Crowell had arrived, eager to spend time with their son.


    Their son was the bond that still united them, despite their divorce. She was reluctant to interact with Crowell further, yet he remained the father of her child. After some hesitation, Fiona consented, swayed by Crowell’s sincere demeanor.


    Having finished her tasks, she attempted to check if her son had eaten, but her calls went unanswered. Distracted throughout the afternoon, she decided to leave early to fetch her son.


    She drove her usual route, effortlessly and with confidence.


    At a stoplight, her phone rang. It was Crowell.


    “Crowell, where’s our son? I’m on my way to pick him up. Has he eaten yet?”


    “What did you give him to eat?” Fiona inquired. “Our son is gone.”


    Fiona was perplexed. “What did you just say?”


    “Our son is dead.”


    Her son was dead.


    Crowell’s voice wasden with gravity, but to Fiona, it sounded almost flippant. “What game are you ying? Don’t you dare try to take our son away from me! What kind of father speaks of his child that way? Crowell, I’m losing my patience. Give me my son back now!”


    Crowell didn’t respond, but the heart-wrenching sobs of his parents echoed in the background.


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