Chapter 3

April Mayo POV:

Dexter cried himself to sleep in my arms, his little body wracked with shuddering sobs that tore through me like shrapnel. I held him close, whispering promises of a new life, of a grandfather who was already waiting for us, who loved us.

"But... does Daddy not love me anymore?" he hiccupped into my shoulder, his voice small and broken. "Are you the only one who loves me, Mommy?"

"No, sweet boy," I choked out, my own tears falling into his hair. "So many people love you. Grandpa George can' t wait to meet you. You' re going to be a prince."

"Can we go now?" he asked, pulling back to look at me, his eyes red and swollen. "Can we go see Grandpa?"

He hesitated, his little hand clutching the wooden wolf in his pocket. It was the last gift Emerson had given him. "But... I don' t want to leave Daddy."

My heart fractured. I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing myself to be the strong one. "I know, baby. But Daddy and his mommy... they don' t want us to stay here. They want you to call him 'Uncle Emerson' from now on. Can you do that?"

He stared at me, his expression blank with shock. Slowly, his hand released the wooden wolf. Tears welled up in his eyes again. "No," he whispered.

Then, a desperate plea. "Mommy, can we please wait? Just until my birthday? Maybe... maybe he' ll come. Just for a little while. Then we can go. I promise."

He was begging for one last memory, one final scrap of love from the man who had just publicly disowned him. How could I say no?

"Okay, sweet boy," I whispered, kissing his tear-stained cheek. "We' ll wait."

But Emerson didn' t come. Dexter' s birthday arrived, a cake with five candles sitting untouched on the table. The silence in our small house was deafening. I finally snapped, grabbing my phone and dialing his number, my hands shaking with rage.

"You promised him," I hissed when he answered. "He' s five years old, Emerson. He' s been sitting by the window all day waiting for you. How could you do this to him?"

The line was silent for a long moment. Then, a click. He had hung up on me.

Dexter looked down at the unlit candles, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "It' s okay, Mommy. He' s busy." He forced a small, wobbly smile. "Uncle Emerson is a very important man."

The word 'uncle' felt like a physical blow. My heart shattered into a million tiny pieces. I was about to call Emerson back, to scream and rage and demand he fix what he had broken, when a text message lit up my screen. It was from him.

Come to the estate. I have a surprise for Dexter.

I showed the phone to Dexter. A tiny spark of hope ignited in his eyes. "He remembered! Mommy, he remembered my birthday! Do you think he got me the big red truck?"

Another text came through. I have a whole party waiting for him. Hurry.

Dexter was ecstatic, pulling me toward the door, his earlier heartbreak forgotten. He chattered excitedly the whole way there, a stream of five-year-old hopes and dreams.

But the moment we stepped into the ballroom, I knew we' d been tricked. The room wasn' t filled with balloons and streamers. It was filled with roses, hundreds of them, and elegantly dressed guests sipping champagne. It wasn' t a child' s birthday party. It was an engagement party.

Dexter didn' t notice. He saw Emerson standing by a towering, multi-tiered cake and ran straight for him, his face alight with pure joy.

"Daddy!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the suddenly silent room. "Are you waiting for me to help you cut the cake?"

Emerson looked up, his eyes widening in genuine shock as he saw us. "April? Dexter? What are you doing here?" He was dressed in a tailored tuxedo, Chloe clinging to his arm in a glittering evening gown.

Guests started whispering, their eyes darting between Dexter and Emerson. "Is that... his son?" "I thought he didn' t have any children."

Emerson' s face hardened. He took a step back from Dexter, a cruel, dismissive gesture. "Who are you calling Daddy?" he asked, his voice cold and sharp. He pushed Dexter away, not hard, but enough to make my small son stumble and fall to the polished floor.

Dexter looked up at him, his eyes wide with fear and confusion.

I rushed forward, scooping him into my arms. "We' re leaving."

"Leaving so soon?" Chloe' s voice dripped with saccharine venom. She stepped in front of us, a triumphant smirk on her face. "But the party' s just getting started. I was so hoping you' d come." She held up her phone, showing me the texts she had sent from Emerson' s number. "I thought Dexter deserved a proper celebration for becoming an orphan."

She pressed herself against Emerson' s side. "Tell them, darling. Tell everyone this stray child has nothing to do with you."

Emerson looked at me, his eyes pleading for an understanding I no longer possessed. Then, he looked at Chloe, at the powerful, influential guests, at the empire he was so close to securing. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

That was his answer.

"My son is not a stray," I spat, my voice shaking with fury. "And his father is the greatest man in the world. A man you could never hope to be."

I turned to leave, but Chloe grabbed my arm. "How dare you!" she shrieked, and then her hand flew, the sharp sting of her slap echoing through the ballroom. "You lie and you insult this family! You and your bastard child!"

She turned to the crowd, her face a mask of righteous indignation. "She' s trying to ruin everything! Get her out of here!"

Connie' s relatives surged forward, their faces twisted with hate. They surrounded me, pushing and shoving. A fist connected with my stomach, knocking the wind out of me. I curled my body around Dexter, trying to shield him as blows rained down on my back and head.

Through the haze of pain, I looked at Emerson. He stood frozen, his face a canvas of horror and indecision. He did nothing.

And in that moment, I knew. The debt I felt I owed him for saving my life all those years ago? It was paid in full. With interest.

Suddenly, a small, desperate voice cut through the chaos. Dexter had wriggled free from my arms and thrown himself at Emerson' s feet, his tiny hands clutching the fabric of his trousers.

"Please," he sobbed, his voice raw with a pain no child should ever know. "Please, sir. Stop them. Don' t hurt my mommy."

Sir. Not Daddy. Sir.

The world stopped. The beating stopped. Emerson stared down at Dexter, his face ashen, his entire body trembling. "What... what did you call me?"

Dexter looked up, tears streaming down his face, but his gaze was steady, preternaturally adult. "We will leave now, sir. We won' t be a bother anymore."

He shakily got to his feet and helped me up. Hand in hand, a small, broken boy leading his battered mother, we walked out of that ballroom as every eye in the room watched.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Emerson. Go home, April. Take Dex. I' ll be there tonight. We' ll fix this.

Dexter glanced at the screen, his face impassive. He looked up at me. "Mommy," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "Does Grandpa George miss us?"

"More than anything," I whispered.

"Then let' s go now."

That night, I built a fire in the hearth. I burned everything. Every photograph, every letter, the little wooden wolf. As the last memory of our life here turned to ash, I took Dexter' s hand.

We walked out the door and never looked back.

---