Chapter 2

Chelsey Blackwell POV:

Kevan stared at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and fury. He opened his mouth to retaliate, but the raw, unhinged look in my eyes must have given him pause. He simply scooped Aspen into his arms, turned on his heel, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening. The party decorations looked garish and mocking now.

"Mommy," Bonnie whispered, his voice trembling. "Are you okay?"

I knelt and pulled him into a tight hug, burying my face in his soft hair. "I' m fine, sweetie. Let' s have some cake."

We sat at the table, the giant chocolate cake between us looking obscene in its cheerfulness. Bonnie picked at his slice, his earlier excitement completely gone.

"Mommy," he said quietly, not looking at me. "Does... does Daddy not like me?"

The question was a direct hit to my heart. I forced a bright smile. "Of course he likes you, honey. He loves you very much. He' s just... very busy and stressed out from work."

The lie felt like acid on my tongue.

Bonnie pushed a piece of cake around his plate. "He never hugs me like he hugged that other boy."

He didn' t need to say more. I knew exactly what he meant. Kevan' s affection was a currency he only spent on others. For his own son, his pockets were always empty.

What kind of father despises his own child? A man who sees that child as the living embodiment of his own failure. A man who blames an innocent five-year-old for his own loveless marriage.

Tears I didn' t know I was holding back began to stream down my face. I cried for my son, for his wounded heart. I cried for myself, for the seven years I had wasted trying to earn the love of a stone statue.

A tiny hand touched my cheek, wiping away a tear. "Don' t cry, Mommy. It' s my birthday. You should be happy."

My son, my sweet, sensitive boy, was comforting me on his own ruined birthday. The thought sent a fresh wave of grief through me.

Just as I managed to pull myself together, the front door opened again. It was Kevan, alone this time. His face was a thundercloud.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice clipped.

"About what?" I shot back, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "About my salary? Or about my upcoming performance review as your housekeeper?"

He ignored my jab, his jaw tight. "About Aspen. His name is Aspen Hood. He' s Angelique' s son."

Angelique. The name hit me like a physical blow. His one true love. The woman he' d never gotten over. So the little boy was hers. It all made a sick, twisted kind of sense now.

"Aspen' s father passed away a few years ago," Kevan continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "Angelique has been raising him alone. He' s... had some psychological issues since his father' s death. He saw a picture of me and for some reason, he started calling me 'Daddy.' His therapist said it would be good for his recovery to let him... play the part for a while."

He was explaining, justifying. But all I could hear was the unspoken truth: I am doing this for Angelique. I am playing father to her son because I still love her.

I held up a hand, cutting him off. "Kevan, what day is it today?"

He frowned, confused by the change of subject. "It' s October 28th. What does that have to do with anything?"

"It' s Bonnie' s fifth birthday," I said, my voice shaking with rage. "Do you even know what his favorite color is? Do you know he' s allergic to peanuts? Do you know he' s afraid of the dark and needs a nightlight? Do you know anything about your own son at all?"

I was screaming now, a torrent of seven years of repressed anger and pain pouring out of me. "You haven' t been to a single parent-teacher conference! You missed his first steps! You weren' t there when he had a fever of 104 and I had to rush him to the emergency room alone! Where were you, Kevan? Were you playing daddy to someone else' s child then, too?"

It was the first time in our entire marriage that I had raised my voice to him. The first time I had ever lost my temper.

He looked genuinely stunned, as if a piece of furniture had suddenly started shouting at him.

He cleared his throat, his gaze flicking to Bonnie, who was watching us with wide, terrified eyes. "Bonnie, I... I' m sorry. Daddy' s sorry."

"It' s okay, Daddy," Bonnie mumbled, his voice barely a whisper. "Please don' t fight with Mommy."

My heart shattered into a million pieces.

I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain control. "Fine. Let' s just... let' s finish the cake."

We sat in a tense, miserable silence. Just as I was about to suggest we open presents, a small figure appeared in the doorway. It was Aspen.

"Daddy Kevan," he whined, clutching his stomach. "My tummy hurts."

Instantly, Kevan was on his feet, his face etched with concern. "What' s wrong? Do you feel sick?" He knelt, pressing a hand to Aspen' s forehead.

Aspen leaned into him, but his eyes met mine over Kevan' s shoulder. There was a glint of triumph in them, a malicious little smirk that sent a chill down my spine. He wasn' t sick. This was a game.

He was a perfect miniature of his mother, Angelique-beautiful, manipulative, and an expert at getting what she wanted.

I had to fight back. I couldn't let them win.

"Kevan," I said, my voice steady. "Stay. It' s your son' s birthday. Stay and open his presents with him."

He barely glanced at me, his attention fully on Aspen. He scooped the boy into his arms. "I can' t. He' s not feeling well. I have to take him home." His voice was laced with an icy fury, as if I were the most unreasonable person in the world for asking him to be a father to his own child for five minutes.

"Please," I begged, my pride crumbling.

He turned, his face a mask of cold dismissal. "Get out of my way, Chelsey."

He pushed past me without a second glance. I stood there, frozen, as the front door closed, plunging the room back into silence.

My son' s birthday. Our seventh anniversary. And I had just begged my husband to stay, only to be shoved aside for another woman' s child.

The bitter taste of despair filled my mouth. I was a fool. A complete and utter fool.

I turned back to the table and forced a smile for my son. "Well, more presents for us, right sweetie?" I said, my voice cracking on the last word.