Chapter 6 Handsome Father

MAY'S POV

"I'm his father," the handsome man said with a voice as cold and commanding as the business suits he probably wore to breakfast. I looked up from where I lied with Saint by my side, my palm still resting gently over his tiny hand. His face was pale, but his eyes were stubborn. Brave. Fierce. Just like earlier when I rescued him from the unfortunate hostage situation.

Now, he reached for his notepad, scribbling furiously before flipping it toward me. "Good auntie, I'm not going with him. He's such a heartless man." My jaw clenched. I felt it then-the tug.

That irrational, maternal tug that had no business gripping my heart for a boy I'd only just met. But damn it, he needed someone. And I knew that kind of loneliness. I'd lived it. I still lived it. I looked up at the man who claimed to be his father. He was tall. Too tall. Clean-shaven with the kind of bone structure that could bankrupt a modeling agency.

Broad shoulders, tailored slacks, a watch that probably cost more than my entire education. But that didn't mean he could walk in here and bark commands like he owned the world. "So what if you're his father?" I shot back before I could stop myself. Gasps fluttered through the room like birds startled mid-flight. The nurses exchanged wide-eyed glances. The doctor stepped back like he suddenly remembered a patient in the next ward.

Clearly, nobody ever dared to speak to this man like that. But I wasn't backing down. Not with Saint hiding behind my arm like I was his shield. Not when this... this arrogant Greek god in designer loafers looked at his son like he was an inconvenience. "It doesn't give you the right to bully him like this," I continued, standing and folding my arms tight across my chest. Saint beamed.

The little rascal was actually smiling-smiling!-like I'd just handed him a front-row ticket to his favorite show. The man's brow twitched. "What?" His voice dropped an octave. His forehead pulsed with a thick, throbbing vein that warned me I might've poked a lion. Good. "Had you been a good father," I said, taking a step closer, "this poor baby wouldn't be lost!" "Baby?" he echoed like I'd slapped him with the word. "Yes, baby." My voice sharpened. "He's a child.

A small one. He should be supervised 24/7, not wandering streets like an abandoned cat." I saw his jaw tighten, but there was something else-guilt. Just a flicker. A twitch near the corner of his mouth. He exhaled, heavily. "Hold up. This boy isn't just some child," he muttered. "He did this on purpose. He planned this." I blinked, confused. What kind of father says that? "Because I refused to let him go on a class trip," he continued, half to himself, shaking his head. "This is payback. That's all this is." What in the emotionally constipated hell-? He looked back at me. "Do you even know who I am?" he asked, slowly, like he was preparing to deliver a thunderbolt.

I met his eyes, heart racing. God help me, why was he still so damn fine? Those eyes could've set entire cities ablaze. Dark, intense, like he carried storms inside them. And that jaw? Sculpted. Dangerous. I gave myself a mental slap. Focus, May. Focus. "Who are you?" I snapped, lifting my chin. "Is your face printed on the dollar bills or something?" The doctor all but sprinted from the room. Nurses ducked out like rats abandoning a ship. It was just me, Saint, and the ticking tension. He chuckled. Chuckled!

Like I'd just told the funniest joke he'd heard all year. Then he said, "You'll regret that. Trust me." I crossed my arms tighter. "Do you know who I am?" He raised an eyebrow. "I'm May Hemlings. The first daughter of the Hemlings family. Ever heard of us?" I stood taller, praying my knees wouldn't buckle. I hadn't used that name in a while. Not since my mother ignored me like an inconvenience. But damn it, it still held weight.

Somewhere. Maybe. "Now. Who are you?" I asked again, trying not to gulp. The man stepped forward, smirk tugging his lips. "I'm John Bells," he said, each syllable loaded with smug satisfaction. "CEO of Bells Corporation. Ring a bell?" I froze. No. That John Bells? The cold-hearted billionaire who ruled the business world with a Rolex-wrapped fist? The same man whose name haunted headlines and boardrooms like a ghost of ambition? I swallowed a mouthful of panic and prayed my legs didn't fold. "Wow," I managed, letting out a sharp breath. "Just... wow." Mother was right, I thought bitterly.

Your big mouth will land you in trouble one day, May. And today was that day. Saint tugged on my sleeve and scribbled something again. "Auntie, don't worry. You're safe as long as we're together." He cuddled up to my side like a little lion cub. My heart melted. "Awww, Thank you," I whispered, wrapping my arm around him. But John? Oh, he wasn't finished. "I know your type," he said, his eyes narrowing. "You're doing all this for money. So tell me-how much?"

He pulled out a sleek black checkbook like it was a magic wand. "Five hundred thousand? A million? Five?" I stared at him. Then I laughed. Loud. Rude. Hysterical. "You think I did all this for money?" I wheezed between gasps. "You really think I give a damn about your zeroes?" He looked confused. Annoyed. Embarrassed, maybe. "I'm the eldest Miss of the Hemlings family," I said, head high. "I could live the rest of my life in silk pajamas and never worry about a single bill. I don't need your dirty check." It was a lie.

A big, bold, juicy lie. But I wasn't about to break Saint's heart or let John Bells win. John still didn't believe me. He didn't believe any woman would turn down a million dollars. Saint grabbed his notepad again. "Dad, stop doing this. Or I'll leave with Auntie." John froze. His face twisted-half guilt, half fury. Then, without a word, he wrote the damn check anyway and held it out to me. I stared at it.

Crisp, white, printed numbers that could change my life in a second. And then I tore it in half. Right in front of him. Ripped that check like it was soaked in poison and threw the shredded pieces all over him.

"You're insane," I said quietly. "I didn't do this for money. And I don't care about you or your cheque." He stared at the shredded paper on the floor. Then at me. Then, without a word, he turned and stormed out. Saint followed behind, but not before waving at me.