We Want Mommy Not You Daddy (Cedar) novel Chapter 211

Chapter 211

I cut him off sharply. “Aiden, exactly what do you think you know?”

He bit his lower lip, suddenly looking every bit the child he was.

“About your secret. I found out.”

My blood ran cold. “And your siblings? Do they know too?”

“I haven’t told them yet,” he said, his gaze dropping to his lap.

That’s when I sensed it—a presence. Slowly, I raised my head toward

the second–floor landing.

Cedar stood by the railing, one hand gripping the polished wood, her

eyes fixed on us. The soft hallway light illuminated her frozen

expression–shock, confusion, and something else I couldn’t name.

A moment later, Oliver and Aria appeared in the hallway behind her,

still in their pajamas.

Oliver’s eyes–always too knowing for a six–year–old–met mine. He

blinked slowly and whispered something to Cedar that I couldn’t

hear.

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Chapter 211

It hit me then. This wasn’t a spontaneous conversation. My children

had orchestrated the entire scene, making sure Cedar would overhear

every word.

I’d been outmaneuvered by a trio of kindergartners.

Cedar’s POV

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. My fingers clutched the banister so

tightly my knuckles turned white as Ridley’s words echoed in my

head.

Who says I don’t love her?

Six words that stopped my world on its axis.

I felt heat rising to my face, aware of how exposed I was, standing

there on the landing. Ridley’s dark eyes found mine across the

distance, intense and unreadable as always. But something had

shifted, some invisible barrier had cracked, and I didn’t know what to

do with the vulnerability suddenly laid bare between us.

Oliver tugged at my sleeve, his voice a conspirator’s whisper.

“Mommy, we all love you. We just want you to stay with us forever.”

The realization hit me then–this had been planned. The children had

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Chapter 211

set this up, making sure I’d overhear Ridley’s confession.

I couldn’t deal with this now. I pulled away from Oliver’s small hand,

turned, and fled to my room, shutting the door with more force than I

intended. My back pressed against the wood, I slid down until I was

sitting on the carpet, heart hammering against my ribs.

Sleep was impossible that night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling,

replaying those six words over and over. Analyzing the tone, the

emphasis, the meaning behind them.

It wasn’t a direct confession. It was a question. A defensive one. But

the implication was clear, wasn’t it? He didn’t deny loving me. Which

meant… he did love me?

Or was I reading too much into it? Projecting my own feelings onto

an ambiguous statement?

By morning, dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my thoughts were no

clearer than they had been the night before, I couldn’t face Ridley

today–not when I didn’t even know what I wanted to say to him.

Sunday stretched before me like an eternity. The thought of awkward encounters in the kitchen or hallways made my stomach twist. I needed space to think, away from those knowing little eyes and Ridley’s intense gaze.

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