Chapter 1
Chapter one
Kynsleigh Landry
One Year Later
Ikissed my son’s chubby cheek before carefully removing him from the snug confines of the car seat.
He wiggled and squirmed, his eyes wide with curiosity like the world was brand new every time he blinked.
At just three months old, he was already tugging at every inch of my soul, pulling me into a whirlwind of love I never knew existed.
His name was Mysun. I couldn’t count how many times somebody had asked what my baby’s name was, and when I answered, “Mysun,” they stared at me like I was being smart.
I know he’s your son. I asked what his name is.
Then I’d have to explain that it was his actual name and break it down letter by letter for the slow ones.
I wanted something unique… something that belonged to him and wouldn’t have three other children turning around when I called for him at the playground. Besides, the name fit. He was my son, but he was also my sunshine.
The brightest part of my life, even during the days when everything else around me felt dark.
Once we entered the daycare, the familiar jingle of the bell over the door signaled our arrival.
“Good morning, Kynsleigh,” the owner, Ms. Marla, called out from behind her desk, her expression a mix of business and friendliness as she adjusted her glasses.
“Good morning, Ms. Marla,” I returned the greeting.
She flashed me a tight smile before looking down at my son. “And there’s my little handsome fella.”
At her words, he responded with those sweet, gummy smiles that had the power to melt even the heaviest of hearts.
Ms. Marla waved for one of the workers to take him to the back. I waited until he was out of sight before turning to leave.
“Have a good day, Ms. Marla. See you later.”
“Yes, dear. But before you go, can I have a word with you?” Her tone shifted just a pinch, but enough. “Kynsleigh…” she began, pressing her lips together in a way that suggested she wasn’t looking forward to what she had to say.
My heart sank.
“You know I work with you as much as I can, and I love me some Mysun. You know that.”
“I do,” I replied, my voice a bit shaky.
“But baby, I have bills too. This is a business. I can’t keep holding his spot without a payment,” she explained, her voice gentle but firm.
“I understand.” I nodded quickly, feeling the familiar lump rising in my throat. “I get paid on Monday. You’ll have it then. I promise.”
“Monday’s fine,” she said gently, her expression softening just a touch. “Just please don’t make me feel bad about doing my job.”
I could see the conflict in her eyes, caught between compassion and practicality.
“Thank you for working with me,” I murmured, forcing a smile that felt more like a mask than a real expression of gratitude.
As I walked back to my car, the weight pressing against my chest grew heavier with every step.
I hated leaving my baby at daycare so young, especially after hearing so many horror stories about neglect.
It didn’t matter that he would only be there for a few hours or that I knew the place had a good reputation.
The worry still followed me out the door.
But on the days I had to work, I didn’t have many other options.
Von—my best friend, roommate, and Mysun’s usual babysitter—worked the night shift. As much as he loved my son and never complained about watching him, I couldn’t keep expecting him to sacrifice his sleep when he already did so much for us.
Von kept the refrigerator stocked, the lights on, and made sure Mysun and I never went without.
He had never once thrown any of it in my face or made me feel like a burden, but the guilt still pinched at me.
I appreciated everything he did. I just didn’t want that appreciation to turn into me taking advantage of him—or becoming another responsibility he never signed up for.
The one thing that made leaving Mysun at that particular daycare slightly easier was the camera app they provided. It allowed me to check on him whenever I had a break.
And I did.
Far more often than I cared to admit.
Watching him through that little screen was sometimes the only thing that kept me sane until I could hold him again.
***
The air in the suite still reeked of liquor, lust, and lies.
Silver and black confetti covered the carpet, blending in with the over-the-top décor, while somebody’s crusty false eyelash clung stubbornly to the mirror.
Sitting on the dresser, like they got neglected mid-moan were a few sad, half-eaten oysters.
Meanwhile, four empty champagne bottles were slumped in the corner, looking worse than the guests who probably left them behind.
The room itself looked hungover, embarrassed, ready to swear off drinking for a week, and in dire need of an IV and some ibuprofen.
The same people who request champagne and speak in soft voices be the exact same ones hanging from chandeliers at two in the morning.
I exhaled in exasperation, the sound escaping my lips like a deflated balloon. “Ain’t no way they got this wild and still walked out of here looking rich, refreshed, and probably ready for brunch,” I muttered, shaking my head as I stepped over a pile of glitter and a broken heel.
I worked at a five-star hotel that catered to the city’s elite.
The guests were always dripped in diamonds and delusion.
There was even one particular valet staff who acted as if eye contact was reserved exclusively for people with Benzes, Beemers and trust funds.
He didn’t even offer a nod unless a person’s ride purred like a Porsche in heat or spoke fluent German engineering.
Most days, I didn’t mind the hustle. The pay was decent, the uniforms were top notch, and I got to wear my AirPods, blissfully lost in my music while minding my own business.
But cleaning up after other people’s chaos always made me wonder how the other half lived so freely, like broken glass, spilled secrets, and late-night drama weren’t their problem once they checked out.
My partner, Shayla, was usually my backup in that kind of madness, but it was Saturday, which meant she was likely sprawled on her couch somewhere, nursing a killer hangover and an attitude.
That girl would stay out late, come in to work later, then walk in like everybody else disrupted her sleep schedule.
I didn’t expect Shayla for another thirty minutes—if that—so I wasn’t about to sit around, twiddling my thumbs, waiting on her ass.
I grabbed a hefty trash bag and went to work.
The first things to go were luxury shopping bags, champagne corks, room-service containers, crystal glasses with lipstick stains, and a half-eaten fruit tray.
Near the bed sat a pair of black lace panties that somehow hadn’t made it out with their owner.
I stared at them for a moment before letting out a laugh.
“Damn. People can’t even take their dignity with them when they leave.”
Shaking my head, I scooped them up and tossed them into the bag with the rest of the night's poor decisions.
I paused mid-reach, noticing the discarded condom wrappers lying beneath the bed, still holding onto last drops of a lie that probably started with “I’m different.”
“Classy,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.
Working at the kind of hotel I did, I quickly learned one thing: Money buys a lot of things, but apparently shame isn't one of them.
As I continued my work, my mind drifted, wandering as it always did when my hands were busy, lost in thoughts of lives lived in the shadows of glitz and glamour.
Life wasn’t supposed to look like this, at least not for a girl like me anyway.
I never thought of myself as someone above hard work, but somewhere along the way, the future I imagined for myself got lost. One heartbreak, one bad decision, a year and one unexpected blessing later, there I was, caught in an endless cycle of room keys, housekeeping carts, working for people who probably spent more on a weekend getaway than I made in a month, making beds I’d never sleep in, wiping fingerprints off windows overlooking million-dollar views, and trying to remember which guests requested extra towels and which ones would inevitably leave their rooms in utter disarray.
Some guests left generous tips, others left headaches, but most left reminders that there were entire worlds I could see but never truly touch.
Life truly has a funny way of humbling people. Sometimes I think God takes the wheel and reroutes a person completely just to remind them that he’s still the one driving.
After finding out I was pregnant, I cried more than I’d ever admitted out loud.
I was scared, overwhelmed, even angry at myself.
There were moments when I questioned everything, moments when I wondered if I was ready, even moments when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be.
But over time, I started to understand something important.
Some detours are still destiny; they just take a little longer to reveal where they’re leading you.
Leaning heavily on the broom handle for support, I took a moment to survey the chaotic room, still littered with crumpled receipts and discarded bottles.
My focus landed on a glint of paper peeking out from beneath a lamp. Curiosity got the best of me, so I strolled over and carefully pulled out the paper.
My brows shot up.
It was a neatly folded note. The handwriting was rushed but legible:
Sorry for the mess. Hope this helps.
Tucked beside it was a crisp stack of bills. I counted the money quickly like I might’ve woken up at any second and realized I was dreaming.
Five hundred dollars.
It was always the flashy couples trying to live out a music video fantasy, or lonely rich men too scared to go home who tended to leave behind guilt in the form of tips, topped with a sprinkle of shame neatly packaged in little latex gift bags.
But hey… I wasn’t trippin’ too much. I was five hundred dollars richer.
I exhaled, blinking back emotion as I tossed a glance upward, sending a silent thank-you up to God.