-Hunter’s Pov-
I watch the ridiculous scene unfolding in front of me, arms crossed, patience wearing thin.
The kid–Caesar–is sprawled out on the floor like a protestor staging a hunger strike. Celine kneels beside him, her hands shaky as she tries to lift him. He kicks, wriggles free, flops t on his back again.
I sigh. Loudly.
“Caesar, get up.” My voice is sharp, edged with the frustration I don’t have time for.
Nothing. No movement. Just two big blue eyes ring up at me. Familiar blue eyes.
38
Celine is still fumbling, still failing. I don’t know why I hired her. I don’t know why I hired any of them. This whole house is a circus, and I seem to be the only one who didn’t get the memo.
Mrs. Bartley, the head maid, marches over like she’s about to solve the problem of the century. “I’m sorry, sir. This won’t happen again,” she says, throwing Celine a look that’s sharp enough to cut.
I scoff. “This <b>is </b>what I get for hiring her?”
Celine’s head snaps up. And then, suddenly, she’s on her knees in front of me.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hunter,” she whispers.
Her voice is small. Fragile. There’s something about it that makes my chest feel too tight like my ribs are pressing in on something they shouldn’t.
And then-
“Food! I want food!”
The demand pierces the room, loud, unexpected.
I blink. Celine pales. Mrs. Bartley gasps. <fne58d> Find the newest release on find(?)ovel</fne58d>
This kid.
I drag a hand down my face and exhale through my teeth. “Mrs. Bartley, have the chef prepare breakfast<b>.</b><b>” </b>
She hesitates, surprised. So is Celine. So am I.
<b>Caesar</b><b>, </b>though? He just stares <b>at </b>me like I’m the one being ridiculous. <b>“</b><b>Get </b>up,” I tell him, arms still crossed. “If you want breakfast<b>, </b>stand up.”
There’s a pause. A tiny flicker of hesitation. Then, finally, he pushes himself up.
I study him. That <b>defiant </b>re. That stubborn set of his jaw. That weird, nagging sense of déjà vu.
<b>I </b>shove the thought <b>away </b>and leave the room.
Breakfast is a disaster.
9:08 pm <b>GGGG</b>.
Caesar refuses to sit anywhere except next to me. He pulls on my sleeve and yanks on my chair. “Sit here!”
Celine tries to pry him away, but he clings to the chair like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.
I don’t do kids. I don’t do clingy.
But I sit. I don’t know why. Maybe because I’m too tired to argue.
He eats. He stares. I ignore him.
But something about the way he looks at me makes my stomach twist.
Later that night, I was in my study. I don’t know why I open the photo album.
I just do. I flip through the pages. Pictures of a past I don’t think about. Pictures of a boy I don’t remember being.
Then- I freeze.
Blonde hair. Blue eyes. The same stubborn expression. A boy who looks exactly like Caesar.
I flip the picture over. The words on the back hit me like a freight train.
“My Hunter, three years old.”
I grip the photo. My hands feel numb.
What the hell does this mean?
-CELINE’S POV-
r of Hunter’s study, hands shaking, heart racing.
<b>disaster</b>.
clung to him as he belonged there. Like he belonged to *him.* And Hunter… he let him. He didn’t push him
at alone is enough to make my stomach twist.
What if he starts asking questions? What if he starts putting things together?
I risk a nce at him.
<b>He’s </b>staring at something<b>–</b>a photo. His fingers move over it<b>, </b>slow, deliberate. His <b>face </b><b>is </b>unreadable, but I know what unreadable means when ites to him. It means something <b>is </b>shifting. Clicking. Realigning in a way that could shatter everything.
Then, his jaw tightens. His fingers curl around the edges of the photo. And then-
He drops it. Roughly. Like the weight of it is too much.
A chill spreads through me, slow and suffocating.
If he hadn’t suspected anything before…
He does now.
+38
9:08 pm <b>GGGG </b>
And that? That terrifies me more than anything.
<b>3/3 </b>