Chapter 2 - The Emergency Contact
The line went dead silent except for the crackle of static. Cassian Mercer stood in the freezing courtyard, the icy morning wind whipping his wool coat against his knees. The smell of cold brick, damp pavement, and extinguished candle wax hung heavy in the air.
"Mr. Mercer?" the voice repeated through the phone. It was sharp, official, and laced with suppressed exhaustion. "This is Sarah Vance from the Massachusetts Department of Children and Families. Are you still there?"
"I'm here," Cassian said, his voice dropping into the deep, authoritative tone that usually settled billion-dollar boardroom disputes. "What do you mean, emergency contact? Where is Junie? Where is her mother?"
"Juniper Hart was brought into our emergency shelter two hours ago," Sarah Vance replied calmly. "She was picked up during a city sanitation sweep in the Copley Square area at four in the morning. Her mother, Elara Hart, was taken into police custody for trespassing and resisting relocation."
Cassian felt a sudden, cold knot tighten in his chest. A city sweep. He had sat in city council meetings where those sweeps were discussed in sanitized terms like 'urban revitalization' and 'public safety initiatives.' He had nodded along, treating numbers on spreadsheets as abstract policy. Now, all he could picture was the little girl with mismatched boots and a teddy bear missing one button eye, her small pink cupcake crushed beneath the boots of city workers clearing out a service alley.
"Where is she?" Cassian demanded, stepping out of the courtyard toward his idling town car.
"Sir, family court regulations prevent us from releasing information to non-relatives," the social worker said. "The only reason I called this number is because the child had a handwritten card folded inside her coat pocket. It had your full legal name, your personal cell phone number, and the words Emergency Contact written on the back in ink."
Cassian froze with his hand on the door handle of his car.
He hadn't given Elara his personal phone number. He hadn't given her his full legal name. He had introduced himself simply as Cassian.
How did she know who I was?
"Mr. Mercer?"
"I’m ten minutes away," Cassian snapped. "Do not move that child anywhere until I arrive."
He slammed the car door shut and looked at his driver, Marcus, a former military veteran who had served as Cassian’s private head of security for a decade. "The city CPS receiving facility on Tremont Street. Drive."
Marcus didn't ask questions. The heavy luxury sedan surged forward into the morning commuter traffic, tires spinning slightly against the fresh dusting of December snow.
When Cassian strode through the bulletproof glass doors of the Department of Children and Families, the stark fluorescent lights hit him like a physical blow. The waiting room smelled of industrial floor cleaner, cheap coffee, and stale panic. Sitting on a hard plastic chair near the corner, dwarfed by her oversized coat, was Junie. She was clutching her one-eyed bear to her chest, her small legs swinging rhythmically, barely reaching past the edge of the seat.
A tired-looking social worker stood nearby, holding a clipboard.
As soon as the glass door clicked shut, Junie looked up. Her eyes widened, bright and unblinking.
"You came," she said quietly.
Cassian walked past the security guard, ignoring the guard's outstretched hand for ID. He dropped down on one knee in front of the little girl, entirely unconcerned with the wet snow melting onto the wool of his expensive trousers.
"I told you I'd come," Cassian said, his voice softer than he had ever heard it sound. "Are you alright, Junie?"
She nodded, though her chin trembled. "The police officers made loud noises. They took Mommy's bag. Mommy told me to be brave and hold my teddy bear tight. She put the paper in my pocket when they weren't looking."
"Mr. Mercer?" Sarah Vance stepped forward, holding her clipboard like a shield. "I need to see identification, and I need to understand what your relationship is to this family. Mrs. Hart claims you are a personal friend, but when our database ran your name, it brought up Mercer International Holdings."
Cassian stood up, pulling a leather wallet from his breast pocket and presenting his ID. "I am Cassian Mercer. And right now, I am the only person standing between this child and a broken legal system. Where is Elara Hart?"
"She is currently held at the 4th Precinct," Sarah Vance said tightly. "She refused to leave the private property when instructed by the sanitation crew. When they attempted to confiscate her belongings, there was a physical altercation. She's being charged with criminal trespass and obstruction."
"She was protecting her daughter on her birthday," Cassian said, his eyes hardening into flint. He pulled out his phone, dialed his personal attorney, Arthur Vance—a legendary corporate litigator who commanded two thousand dollars an hour—and put him on speakerphone before Sarah could object.
"Arthur," Cassian said crisply. "I need you at the 4th Precinct within fifteen minutes. Post bail for a woman named Elara Hart. Clear all charges. If the precinct pushes back, contact the District Attorney directly and tell him I will personally pull my foundation's funding for the city's winter shelter initiative if she isn't released by noon."
Sarah Vance stared at him, her mouth slightly open. "Mr. Mercer, you cannot simply buy someone out of a police record—"
"I am not buying her out," Cassian said, turning his gaze back to the social worker. "I am making sure she receives competent representation against an unjust arrest. Now, what does it take to ensure Junie stays with her mother today?"
"A safe, stable residence," Sarah said, recovering her professional composure. "Elara Hart has no permanent address, no documented income, and no verified family in the state. By state law, if she is released, the child cannot be returned to her until a housing evaluation is completed."
Junie pulled at Cassian’s sleeve. Her small fingers held tight to the fabric of his coat. "Where is Mommy going to sleep?" she asked softly.
May you like
Cassian looked down at the purple crayon drawing still sitting folded in his inner coat pocket—the picture of a table, a cupcake, and three people beneath a yellow moon.
"She’s going to sleep somewhere warm, Junie," Cassian said, looking back at the social worker. "And so are you."
