We Want Mommy Not You Daddy (Cedar) novel Chapter 125

Chapter 125

Cedar’s POV

I rushed to the bedside, pulling back the covers to place my finger

under his tiny nose. Only when I felt his warm breath did my heart

finally settle back in my chest.

“Mommy, what are you doing…?” Oliver’s voice was hoarse and raspy.

“Baby, your voice sounds so rough. Can we please go to the hospital?”

I bent down and kissed his forehead gently.

Oliver burrowed deeper into the blankets. “Mommy, if I’m not better

by noon, then we’ll go to the hospital, okay?” he said, his voice soft

and weak.

“…Alright, it’s a promise.” I kissed his forehead once more before reluctantly leaving the room, glancing back several times,

When Ridley saw me emerge alone, he twisted his lips into what

barely passed for a smile. “It seems your son doesn’t listen to you

after all.”

My mood was already sour, and all my usual restraint had evaporated.

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I shot back, “Your son certainly listens well, Mr. Sterling. He cowers

like a frightened bird whenever you’re around. You’ve certainly

mastered the art of paternal intimidation.”

Ridley’s face darkened instantly. This man, who commanded the

Sterling Design Group’s glass tower on the Chicago River, looked as

though a thundercloud had settled over him.

“I suggest you reconsider what you just said,” he stated coldly,

dropping his fork with a clatter against the bone china.

“I’ll say it again if you’d like,” I lifted my chin defiantly. “What’s there

to be afraid of? Aiden is only six years old, and you’re already forcing

him to handle company business, using your paternal authority. Have

you ever considered how a child that age feels about that

responsibility? And Aria–she’s your daughter, not Daisy Black’s.

When your child is sick, you should be caring for her yourself, not

leaving her with a woman who clearly has her own agenda.”

Ridley fixed me with an icy stare. “Haven’t I made it clear that I don’t

need your interference in how I raise my children?”

I wasn’t intimidated in the slightest. Through gritted teeth, I replied,

“Then I don’t need your interference in how I raise mine either.”

Our gazes locked in the space between us–his cold and cutting, mine

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stubborn and unyielding.

“Mommy, can I have some water?” Oliver’s weak voice called from the

bedroom.

I pressed my lips together. “Mr. Sterling, my son is sick today, and I

need to take care of him. Please see yourself out.”

I grabbed a glass of water and walked back into the bedroom, firmly

closing the door behind me.

I knew I’d overstepped. Ridley was genuinely concerned about Oliver’s health when he repeatedly suggested going to the hospital. And what had I done? Dragged Aiden and Aria into the conversation just to provoke him. A man like Ridley Sterling, accustomed to absolute authority, would never tolerate someone using his children

to criticize him.

I’d been completely out of line.

The front door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the frames

on my gallery wall.

My fingers froze momentarily. Ridley had left. I’d invited him for

dinner, and instead we’d had a massive argument that ended with me

driving him away.

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As I sat on the edge of Oliver’s bed, he suddenly popped up from

under the covers, his small hand reaching out to grab mine.

“Mommy, are you okay?” His eyes were wide with concern, searching

my face for signs of distress.

I forced a smile, touched by his worry. “I’m fine, sweetie. You should

rest.”

To my astonishment, as soon as the front door slammed, Oliver

transformed before my eyes. He jumped up from the bed with

surprising vigor, all traces of illness vanishing. He scurried to the

door and cautiously peeked through a narrow opening, looking both

ways like a tiny spy.

“The mean man is gone now!” he announced triumphantly, his voice

no longer weak or hoarse.

I stood there, momentarily speechless. Had he been… pretending?

Before I could question him, Oliver bounded past me with the energy

of a perfectly healthy child. “Wow, Mommy, you made so many

delicious dishes! I’m already drooling. Come on, let’s eat!” He

practically skipped toward the dining area.

“Weren’t you just sick?” I asked, suspicion creeping into my voice as I

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followed him.

“Hehe, I’m better now!” He hopped around the table with more energy

than he’d shown all day. “Sweating under blankets cures colds, you

know!”

I shook my head, unconvinced but too exhausted from the

confrontation with Ridley to press the issue. I followed him to the

table where our dinner waited.

Oliver had just settled into his chair, reaching eagerly for his fork,

when a sharp knocking sound cut through the apartment.

Knock! Knock!

My hand froze mid–air, fork suspended above the steaming food. Who

could be visiting at this hour?

The transformation in Oliver was immediate and dramatic. The color

drained from his face, his eyes widening with unmistakable fear.

“Mommy, is the bad man back?” he whispered, dropping his fork with

a clatter and bolting toward the bedroom.

“Hey, Oliver, why are you running away?” I called after him, puzzled

by his extreme reaction.

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“I don’t want to infect anyone with my cold!” his voice drifted back

from the hallway.

I frowned, catching the inconsistency immediately. “But I thought

your cold was better?”

Silence followed my question. I could almost picture him frozen in

the hallway, caught in his own contradiction.

The knocking at the door grew more insistent.

With mounting anxiety, I walked over and opened it. A middle–aged

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