Chapter 4

Chase's roar cut through the quiet night, harsh and jarring.

Startled guests stepped out of their rooms, craning their necks to see what was happening.

Monica came rushing out too, shrieking, "I know, right? That stuff could've killed him! You're way too extreme just to get Chase's attention!"

I looked at Chase's face, twisted with what he called "fatherly love," and could only find it ironic.

"Open your eyes and look. Does my son show a single sign of an allergic reaction?"

I picked him up and rubbed soothing circles on Rowan's back. He'd clearly been startled, his little mouth still pouting, but his breathing was steady, his eyes clear—no trace of discomfort anywhere.

Chase froze. The anger on his face melted into confusion and panic, and he started muttering to himself.

"Everyone in the Reed family is allergic to peanuts—a few peanuts, and we can barely breathe. My father, my grandfather, all of them. How could he not—"

Monica jumped in, reassuring him with total confidence. "Even a beast doesn't devour its own cub. Maybe he just didn't drink enough of it—not a big enough dose to matter."

"My son has never once been allergic to peanuts." I cut off her speculation, my voice flat and final. "There's not a single drop of Reed blood in him. You two don't get a say in this."

Chase gritted his teeth and shook his head, stubborn as ever. "No. I don't believe it."

"Mommy," my son said, tilting his face up, his voice small, "can I have some more? It's sweet. I want more."

I stroked his hair gently. "Baby, it's too late to go buy more now. We'll have some tomorrow."

"He can't have it!" Chase's tone turned sharp. "I need to work hard and save up for the next leg of the trip. Why can't you ever just behave?"

I let out a cold laugh. "You want your freedom, and you wouldn't let me manage your life—but you think you get to manage mine? Don't I get any freedom of my own?"

All in the name of the freedom he'd claimed for himself, he'd abandoned his wife and child without a second thought. I'd already parted ways with him completely, and he still refused to see it.

The commotion finally brought the manager running, two burly staff members trailing behind him.

"Chase, Monica—out. Now."

Chase tried to argue, but the staff had already closed in, one on each side, hauling him off.

"Ivy! He can't have any more! Do you hear me!" he shouted over his shoulder as they dragged him away, still refusing to back down.

Monica stamped her foot, shot me one last venomous glare, and hurried after him.

The world went quiet at last.

Early the next morning, I took my son out to meet up with Nathan. To my surprise, Chase was posted outside the guesthouse gate like some kind of sentry, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes—he clearly hadn't slept.

He stepped in front of me, his voice urgent, almost obsessive. "I need to know for certain if my son's okay. We should get him to the hospital right now for a full checkup."

I gave him a cold glance. "Not necessary. Move."

That's when my guides arrived. One of them pulled a bottle of peanut milk from his backpack and twisted off the cap.

"Little man, you didn't get to finish your peanut milk last night, did you? Here you go."

My son's eyes lit up, and he grabbed it eagerly. Before Chase could stop him, he was already gulping it down, several big swallows at once. He drained nearly half the bottle in one go, then set it down, looking thoroughly satisfied, licking his lips with contentment. Not a single sign of trouble.

"That's not possible... how is that possible!"

The color drained out of Chase's face entirely, his eyes shaking in their sockets. He lost all reason and grabbed my son's arm, frantically checking his arms and neck over and over, searching for even the faintest hint of an allergic reaction.

"No allergy... my son, how can he not be allergic..." Chase's voice trembled, his eyes bloodshot, his hands shaking violently. "How can you not be my son..."

"Give him back to me!" I snapped, trying to pull my son away from him.

Right then, a voice rang out behind me—steady, powerful, edged with a cold that brooked no argument.

"Let go. Who said you could touch my wife and son?"