We Want Mommy Not You Daddy (Cedar) novel Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Aiden’s POV

Cedar lifted me onto the chair at her dining table. Her apartment was small but surprisingly warm–nothing like our Sterling mansion with its echoing hallways and perfect, untouched surfaces. Here, everything felt lived in.

“Of course you can stay for dinner,” she said, handing me a fork with a gentle smile. “Though I can’t promise it’ll be as good as what your family’s chef

makes.

I took a bite and shook my head. ‘Actually, it’s better. It tastes like… home. I like it.”

From across the table, I noticed Oliver watching us with a scrunched–up face. He looked… upset? I’d studied enough psychology books from Father’s library to recognize jealousy. The thought was fascinating–he was worried about sharing her with me.

“Oliver, what are you thinking about? Look, I made your favorite mac and cheese,” Cedar said, spooning a generous portion onto his plate.

The transformation was immediate. Oliver’s face brightened like someone had flipped a switch. “Thanks, Mom! This is the best mac and cheese ever! I’ve never had any this good!”

Cedar shook her head with a smile. “It’s not nearly as impressive as those dishes you ordered. That was restaurant quality.”

The affection in her eyes as she looked at Oliver made something twist inside my chest. Father had never looked at me that way–with pure, uncomplicated love. Father’s approval always came with conditions: perfect grades, perfect behavior, perfect everything.

Dinner finished in an awkward vibe. By eight o’clock, Oliver was fidgeting in his chair.

“It’s my bedtime,” he announced, giving me a pointed look. “Aren’t you going home soon?”

I met his gaze steadily. “Are you that eager to get rid of me?”

“This is my house, Oliver shot back, hands on his hips. “I can’t sleep with strangers around!”

‘Oliver!” Cedar frowned as she returned from washing dishes. “Is that how we treat guests? That’s not acceptable behavior.”

“Sorry, Mom,” he mumbled immediately, his defiance collapsing.

Cedar dried her hands on a dishtowel. “You need to apologize to Aiden, not to me.”

Oliver lifted his head, lips pressed tightly together, clearly struggling with the idea of apologizing.

“It’s okay, Ms. Wright,” I said quietly. “Oliver’s right–I’m a stranger in his home, I understand. Henderson is waiting for me downstairs. I should go home

now.

‘I’ll walk you to the door,” she offered, untying her apron.

At the doorway, I hesitated. My heart was pounding strangely, I’d never asked for anything like this before, but something about this apartment, about her,

made me want to return.

‘Ms. Wright, I said, feeling my face grow warm. “Could I… visit again sometime?”

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3:59 pm DM

Chapter 37

‘Of course you can, Aiden,‘ she replied without hesitation.

I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. Thank you. Good night, Ms. Wright.”

The black Audi was waiting as promised when I exited the old brick building. Henderson held the door open with his usual efficiency.

“Young Mr. Sterling, there were several meetings at Sterling Design Group this evening that required your input. I’ve rescheduled them as you instructed.”

I stared out the window at the passing streets of Wicker Park, so different from the manicured perfection of the Gold Coast. Henderson, why would Oliver prefer staying in this old apartment building rather than coming home with us?”

Henderson considered the question carefully as he navigated through traffic. “Mr. Sterling can be… demanding. And young Oliver frequently tests

boundaries. Perhaps he’s avoiding consequences.”

I traced patterns on the leather seat, unconvinced. There was something deeper here, something I couldn’t quite grasp yet. Oliver seemed genuinely attached to Ms. Wright–not playing some elaborate game to avoid Father.

The car pulled through the gates of our lakefront estate. Three stories of glass and limestone gleamed against the night sky, architectural spotlights

illuminating the award–winning design my grandfather had commissioned decades ago.

“Young Master Aiden,” Parker, our house manager, greeted me at the entrance.

I nodded in acknowledgment, then paused. “Parker, isn’t the Chicago Design Foundation hosting their annual charity auction tomorrow evening?”

“Yes, sir.”

*If there are any suitable jewelry pieces available–something elegant, nothing flashy–purchase them. I’d like to give someone a gift.”

Parker didn’t question why a six–year–old was requesting expensive jewelry. He simply nodded. “I’ll handle it personally, sir.”

As I walked up the grand staircase to my wing of the house, I heard the familiar clicking of stiletto heels against marble. I tensed immediately, recognizing

the sound.

Aiden, sweetheart! There you are!”

Daisy Black–Aria’s ballet instructor–emerged from the east drawing room, her red lips curved into what I suppose she thought was a motherly smile.

I’ve been waiting to see you,” she cooed, bending down to my level. Her perfume–something expensive with notes of jasmine–clouded around me. How.

was your day, darling?”

I stepped back slightly. Fine, thank you, Ms. Black,”

“Please, call me Daisy.” She reached out to straighten my already straight collar. “I was just waiting for your father to discuss something about Aria. He seems to be running late tonight.”

The way she glanced toward the entrance told me everything I needed to know.

*Father is in meetings until late,” I replied, maintaining the polite but distant tone he had taught me to use with people who wanted something from us. “There’s a project proposal that requires his personal attention.”

Her smile faltered slightly. “Oh, I see. I had hoped to discuss Aria’s upcoming showcase with him.”

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Chapter 37

I doubted Aria’s showcase was the primary agenda. Ms. Black had been orchestrating these ‘accidental‘ encounters with increasing frequency over the past three months. Henderson had mentioned that she’d asked detailed questions about Father’s schedule twice last week.

‘I’ll let him know you stopped by,” I said with practiced courtesy. “Parker can show you out. Good night, Ms. Black.”

I turned and continued up the stairs before she could respond, hearing her frustrated sigh behind me. Father had explicitly instructed us to be polite to Daisy-“She’s the most acclaimed children’s ballet instructor in the Midwest–but he hadn’t said we had to entertain her obvious ambitions.

In my room, I sat at my desk and opened my sketchbook, but instead of drawing, I found myself thinking about the differences between Daisy’s calculated warmth and Daisy’s genuine kindness. One felt like a performance; the other felt like… home.

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