The CEO's Rejected Wife And Secret Heir novel Chapter 42

Chapter 42: Chapter 42: His Desperation

Damien POV

I woke to the sound of laughter—high-pitched, delighted, completely unfamiliar in my penthouse. For a moment, I lay still, disoriented, before memory crashed back.

Aria. Noah. The kiss that had nearly destroyed my sanity before my son’s voice interrupted.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 7:43 AM. I’d barely slept three hours, my body still wound tight with frustrated desire and the lingering taste of Aria on my lips.

The laughter came again, followed by Aria’s voice. "Noah, baby, we need to be quiet. Damien might still be sleeping."

"But Mama, I’m hungry!" Noah’s voice carried down the hallway. "Can we make pancakes? You said this kitchen was really big."

I was out of bed and pulling on clothes before I could think better of it. Sweatpants and a t-shirt—casual, non-threatening. The kind of father who made breakfast with his family.

Except we weren’t a family. Not really. We were three people playing house while a psychopath planned our destruction.

I found them in the kitchen. Aria had pulled her long hair into a messy bun, still wearing that damn t-shirt from last night that showed too much leg and made my hands itch to touch her again. Noah sat on the marble counter in his dinosaur pajamas, swinging his legs and chattering about something.

They both looked up when I entered. Noah’s face lit up immediately.

"Damien!" He bounced excitedly. "Mama says you might have pancake stuff. Do you? Do you have chocolate chips?"

The hope in his voice did something to my chest. "I think the housekeeper keeps the kitchen stocked," I said, moving toward them. "Let’s check."

Aria’s eyes met mine over Noah’s head. The air between us crackled with unspoken tension—everything we’d done last night, everything we’d almost done. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she looked away quickly.

"We don’t want to impose," she said, her voice carefully neutral. "I can order something delivered."

"Don’t be ridiculous." I opened the refrigerator, genuinely unsure what I’d find. my housekeeper, did the shopping, and I rarely ate at home. "You’re staying here. The least I can do is feed you."

"Staying here?" Aria’s tone sharpened. "We’re not staying here, Damien. Last night was temporary. As soon as Marcus is dealt with"

"Mama, look!" Noah interrupted, pointing at the contents of the fridge. "He has eggs! And milk! We can totally make pancakes!"

I pulled out the ingredients, setting them on the counter. "Have you ever made pancakes, Noah?"

His eyes went wide. "Mama doesn’t let me help much. She says I make too much mess."

"Because you dump the entire bag of flour," Aria said, but her voice was fond. "Remember London? We had flour on the ceiling."

"That was one time!" Noah protested, grinning.

I watched them together—the easy affection, the shared memories I wasn’t part of. Three years of inside jokes and experiences that didn’t include me. The loss of it hit me.

"Well, I don’t mind mess," I heard myself say. "Want to help me?"

"Really?" Noah looked at his mother for permission.

Aria hesitated, her eyes searching mine. What was she looking for? Proof I’d hurt him? Evidence I’d fail at this too?

"Please, Mama?" Noah clasped his hands together. "I’ll be really careful. I promise."

She sighed, but I saw the softness in her expression. "Okay. But listen to Damien, and no dumping entire bags of anything."

"Yes!" Noah pumped his fist in the air.

For the next thirty minutes, I discovered that making pancakes with a three-year-old was chaos. Noah wanted to crack the eggs himself—which resulted in shell fragments I had to fish out. He insisted on stirring, which sent flour puffing into the air. He wanted to pour the batter on the griddle, which I allowed under my careful supervision, his small hands wrapped under mine on the ladle.

"Look, Mama!" he called out each time. "I’m making pancakes!"

Aria sat at the kitchen island, watching us with an unreadable expression. Several times I caught her staring, something complicated flickering across her face before she looked away.

"These are going to be the best pancakes ever," Noah declared, watching the batter bubble on the griddle. "Because I made them with Damien."

The casual way he said my name, the pride in his voice—it destroyed me and rebuilt me simultaneously.

"They’re definitely going to be the best," I agreed, flipping one over to reveal a slightly misshapen but reasonably golden pancake. "See? Perfect."

"It looks like a dinosaur!" Noah exclaimed. "Can we make them all dinosaur-shaped?"

"We can try." I let him help me pour the next one, guiding his hands to create something vaguely resembling a stegosaurus.

When we finally sat down to eat—Noah between us at the dining table—he chattered non-stop about everything and nothing. His favorite color (blue, like his eyes). His favorite toy (a stuffed lion named Roary). His friend from daycare who could already write his whole name.

I absorbed every detail like a man dying of thirst. This was my son. My child. And I’d missed so much.

"Damien makes good pancakes," Noah announced, his mouth full. "Almost as good as Mama’s."

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