?Chapter 689:


    The warning was clear—if Ernest couldn’tmit, he shouldn’t take the boy in.


    Another rejection would break the child in ways that couldn’t be undone. But Ernest had met her gaze with firm resolve.


    “Rest assured,” he had said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “From this day forward, he is my son.”


    He provided the boy with the finestforts—everything money could offer. Personal caregivers, a home thatcked nothing.


    And yet, despite it all, the child had run back to the orphanage.


    Now, as the car rolled to a stop, Ernest’s sharp eyes scanned the surroundings.


    The director stood waiting outside.


    “It’s good to see you, Mr. Flynn,” she greeted, her expression unreadable.


    “You too.”


    Ernest gave a curt nod, his demeanor steady. But as his eyes searched for the child and found only absence, his jaw tightened.


    “Where is he?” His voice, usuallyposed, held an unfamiliar edge of concern.


    “Is he alright?”


    The director offered a reassuring nod.


    “He’s inside, eating.”


    Inside the modest room, the three-year-old sat on a wooden step stool, his small frame hunched over a te of cookies.


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    He was still so young, yet the road back to the orphanage had been long and difficult. Running away from Maple Bay, searching for a ce that felt safe—it was too much for a child his age.


    His clothes were rumpled and stained with dust, his little face smudged with dirt.


    He was exhausted. Starving. With each bite, he devoured the cookies as if he hadn’t eaten in days.


    Ernest’s chest tightened at the sight. His throat felt dry, and for the first time in a long while, emotion stung his eyes.


    He instinctively softened his steps, moving closer as if afraid that one wrong move might scare the boy away.


    “Locke,” he whispered.


    The child’s tiny cheeks were puffed up with food. The moment he heard his name, his little body jolted, eyes wide with rm as he looked up at the towering figure before him.


    “Locke…”


    Ernest raised a hand, meaning to ruffle the boy’s hair, to offer a gentle touch—something to reassure him.


    But Locke’s reaction was immediate. He leapt from the stool, his small legs carrying him straight to the director, where he clung to her tightly, hiding behind her like a frightened kitten.


    Ernest’s hand fell to his side, empty.


    The director chuckled awkwardly, stroking Locke’s back in a soothing motion.


    “What’s wrong, sweetheart? It’s Mr. Flynn. He adopted you, remember? You’re part of his family now.”


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