Willy gasped at the feeling of awful jealously. He seemed to be physically wounded. He had never felt this feeling in so long—why was he feeling it now? Was he jealous of Charlie, who gained Wilbur's affection as Willy never had? Or was it Wilbur, who Charlie was so fast to trust? Willy felt dizzy, leaning against the wall of his factory.

"Willy? Have you fainted?"

Willy opened one eye. "Dad, you're breathing minty freshness in my eyes and it hurts a bit."

There was a crunch of gravel as Wilbur stepped back.

"Is he still wearing the costume?" Willy asked weakly.

"No, he's put on a pretty pink dress instead."

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you. Has he taken it off?"

"It's dazzling, isn't it? The boy's got talent."

"He didn't make it. The first costume nearly killed him."

"It's not the costume." Wilbur looked approvingly at Charlie. "It's him that makes it dazzling."

"See? I wish I could just say that! But I can't. Or I won't. Or both."

"You love him, don't you?" Wilbur said softly.

"I-I think so."

"You think? Willy, I know you. I've seen how much you admire that child."

Willy gave him a cold look. "What do I know about fatherly affection?"

He walked off and took Charlie by the shoulder. "Come on, we can go sample the competition." And they walked away, Willy ignoring the deep hurt that was slowly forming in Wilbur's eyes.

It had been a cruel thing to do. But Wilbur had broken Willy's heart, so long ago, and he wasn't going to get his hands on Charlie's.

...

"Let's go see Mrs. Terry. She's been giving out sweets since I was younger than you." Willy whisked Charlie along the street, Wilbur trailing moodily behind them. The door to Mrs. Terry's house opened before Charlie even knocked, and Mrs. Terry herself peeked out, old and wrinkled yet still cheery as always.

"Goodness, how you've grown, Willy!" she exclaimed, removing her glasses in order to avoid being blinded by Charlie's costume. "Look at the sweet little ghost! Is this your son, Willy?"

Wilbur inhaled sharply, clearly waiting to see what Willy would do.

"Mrs. Terry, this is Charlie, my heir and protege," Willy said, swiftly jerking his hand off Charlie's shoulder. "And not related to me at all."

Behind him, Wilbur exhaled slowly.

"Pleased to meet you, dear." Mrs. Terry gave Charlie a generous amount of candy and he smiled up at her as he hopped down the porch steps. Once they walked away, however, he said in a slightly hurt voice, "Mister Wonka, why did you tell Mrs. Terry I was your heir? I mean, I am, but I thought we were kind of...more than partners in business."

No. NO. You know you'll only hurt him eventually. Willy took a deep breath.

"We aren't family. We made an arrangement, that's all."

As he said the words, he felt his heart, so badly repaired all those years ago, splinter and fall.

Charlie sobbed, stepping away from Willy. He covered his mouth, looking horrified, then shoved Willy hard, before turning and running away.

"Charlie! Charlie!" Willy dashed after him, weaving around children in costume and keeping his eyes on the ghost. He saw Charlie tear the costume away, shouted his name again, ignoring Wilbur's cries.

Then, it happened.

Charlie's foot slipped off the sidewalk and he fell, his arm flying out in a graceful arc as the car smashed into him.

Willy shrieked, shoving Wilbur out of the way as he tried to hold him back. He ran to Charlie and picked him up—he was completely still. People were beginning to gather—Willy slashed at them, hissed like an animal, trying to drive them back. As sirens began to ring all around him, he let his head drop to Charlie's motionless form and he cried.