The Child of Light

January 26, 1978 – Somewhere in Ohio

The wind howled like a wounded beast through the desolate Ohio wilderness, clawing against the trees and rattling the car windows like skeletal fingers desperate to get in. Snow, thick as ash from a dying fire, blanketed the world in a cold, smothering embrace. Visibility had been reduced to mere inches, and the blizzard's icy breath rattled the car's frame with every furious gust.

Inside the black sedan, Hannah Beaumont gritted her teeth against the pain that clawed at her abdomen. Her breath came in shallow gasps, fogging up the inside of the windshield. Every contraction hit like a wave crashing against an immovable cliff—relentless, punishing, and inevitable.

Her hand clenched the door handle so tightly her knuckles turned stark white, her nails digging half-moons into the leather upholstery. Beside her, Phillips Grayson drove with grim determination etched onto his face, his hands clutching the steering wheel like a lifeline.

The past months had been unkind to Hannah. From the moment her pregnancy became public knowledge, the media had feasted on her personal life. At 43, the headlines were merciless: "Billionaire Titan Gone Wild", "Hannah Beaumont's Reckless Choices", and "Motherhood or Midlife Crisis?" splashed across tabloid covers. Whispers about the identity of the child's father followed her everywhere, with gossip columns weaving sordid tales of scandal and betrayal.

Her closest friends, Sherlyn and Frank, watched helplessly as the media circus spiraled. Their gentle inquiries about the father's identity were met with a firm wall of silence. Hannah shut down any conversation on the topic with a few carefully chosen, cutting words—clear signals she wouldn't entertain speculation or pity.

But the silence weighed heavily on Phillips. The guilt gnawed at him daily, a relentless reminder that while Hannah faced the fire alone, he remained shielded behind wealth, influence, and the illusion of distance. He wanted to protect her, to share the burden, but acknowledging the truth would risk everything—his family, his legacy, and empires they were both building.

In a feeble attempt to ease her struggles, Phillips began offering silent compensations: increased investments in her ventures, lucrative deals tailored to benefit her company. His advisors were horrified, questioning his objectivity, yet Hannah refused every offer, maintaining a professionalism that only deepened the gulf between them.

As her due date approached, Sherlyn and Frank adjusted her schedule to ensure she rested more, though Hannah's radiant glow seemed to mask the exhaustion and stress beneath. Phillips, too, adjusted his commitments, aligning projects with hers to stay close without raising suspicions. His advisors noticed his growing preoccupation with Hannah, whispering about his unusual kindness. Perhaps it was pity for a titan weathering a storm.

Now, trapped in the heart of the Great Blizzard of 1978, those concerns melted away.

"This is madness," Phillips muttered, glancing at her with rising panic flickering in his eyes. "You need a hospital—now."

"There's no getting through this," Hannah ground out through gritted teeth. Another contraction seized her body, her shoulders stiffening with the effort to keep from crying out. "Just—keep driving."

But even Phillips's determination couldn't fight the elements. A sudden, sharp snap echoed beneath the car's hood—a jarring sound that vibrated through the metal frame. The sedan gave a violent shudder before the engine coughed, spluttered, and died altogether, leaving them in frozen silence, save for the wind's merciless wailing.

Phillips pounded the steering wheel in frustration. "Great," he muttered. "We're stranded. In the middle of nowhere. During the worst blizzard in U.S. history."

Outside, the snow piled higher by the second, a suffocating white shroud swallowing the landscape whole. Then, over the roar of the wind, a faint sound emerged—soft, melodic, and utterly out of place.

Jingling bells.

Through the swirling curtain of snow, a figure appeared, emerging like a ghost from the storm's embrace. A man wrapped in thick furs, leading a reindeer-drawn cart, approached slowly, the bells on the reins chiming a quiet, rhythmic song.

"You need help?" the stranger called, his voice clear but gentle.

Phillips exchanged a quick glance with Hannah, who was visibly struggling to suppress the next wave of agony. She nodded weakly, her lips pale and trembling.

"Please!" Phillips shouted back. "She's in labour!"

Without hesitation, the stranger—a kind-eyed man named Christopher—helped them into the cart. The cold bit at their exposed skin, but soon they were ushered into a small wooden cabin nestled between the dense trees of the wilderness. The warm glow of oil lamps filled the room with a golden light, casting long shadows on the walls and bringing much-needed warmth to their frozen bodies.

A woman with silver-streaked hair and gentle hands, Noelle, rushed to Hannah's side without hesitation. "You're safe now," she said softly, guiding Hannah onto a makeshift bed covered in soft furs. "We'll help you through this."

Hours passed in a blur of pain, urgency, and whispered reassurances. The storm outside raged with the fury of nature's wrath, but inside, there was only the quiet focus of survival. Phillips never left Hannah's side, gripping her hand as if his strength alone could anchor her through the pain. His thumb traced small, comforting circles on the back of her hand, though guilt gnawed at him like a relentless tide.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this. He should have shielded her from the media frenzy, from the world's cruel speculation and whispered judgments. But now, as the storm grew fiercer, none of that mattered. There was only Hannah. And the child they had created together.

The hours blurred together, every contraction a battle, every breath a victory.

Then it happened—a final, piercing cry from Hannah, followed by silence so profound it seemed as though even the storm outside paused to listen.

The silence broke with a soft, clear wail. A new sound, fragile and filled with the promise of life.

Noelle gently lifted the newborn into her arms, her eyes wide with awe. The baby's skin shimmered faintly, as though touched by the light of the stars themselves. Her hair, soft as silk, seemed to catch the glow of the candles and reflect it tenfold, wrapping her in an ethereal golden radiance.

"She's beautiful," Noelle whispered reverently.

Hannah, her face slick with sweat and her body weak from the ordeal, reached out. "Let me see her."

With infinite care, Noelle placed the child in her mother's arms. The moment their skin touched, the room seemed to grow warmer, the shadows retreating as though in deference to this new presence.

A soft glow pulsed from the child's tiny body—gentle but unmistakable.

Phillips blinked, certain it was exhaustion playing tricks on his eyes. But no—it was real. The glow was faint, almost like a candle's flicker, yet it emanated from the child herself.

"What will you name her?" Noelle asked, her voice hushed with reverence.

Hannah's eyes, bright with unshed tears, met Phillips's gaze. The unspoken connection between them deepened in that moment. "Marianna," she whispered.

"Of the sea," Noelle murmured, cradling the name like a prayer. "It suits her—fluid, powerful, and filled with untold mysteries."

Phillips swallowed hard, turning away to hide the silent tears that streaked down his face. The weight of guilt, responsibility, and something deeper—love, perhaps—bore down on him.

"You'll protect her," he said quietly, voice tight with emotion.

"With everything I have," Hannah replied, her voice as steady as the ocean's tide.

An unspoken agreement passed between them—a silent promise stronger than any contract. They would shield her secret from the world, not just for her sake but for the future they could barely comprehend.

The storm outside began to fade, its fury spent, leaving behind a quiet world draped in white. The wind softened, replaced by the gentle hush of falling snow. But inside the small cabin, there was warmth, light, and a sense of something far greater than the sum of its parts.

This was no ordinary child.

This was the birth of something new—a force of light born in the darkest hour.

As the flames of the candles flickered and danced, Marianna's tiny hand curled around Hannah's finger, the glow of her skin pulsing in time with her heartbeat. A symbol of hope, a promise of change, and a secret that would bind Phillips and Hannah forever.

The child of Light had arrived.

And the world would never be the same again.