Chapter 9

Mason

Monday was a complete disaster.

Coming home late in the evening, I totally expected her to have dropped the bitter act. Instead, the sink was pristinely clean, the dining table empty, without my usual meal waiting. She'd even split the fridge into two, with the side marked with my name containing nothing but a half bottle of mineral water.

"What happened to the fridge?" I asked, genuinely perplexed.

She looked up from her book in confusion, like I'd spoken a totally different language. "What do you mean?" she'd retorted, her eyebrows raised in mock oblivion.

"Why is it split, and why is there nothing in my section?" I clarified.

"Because everything there belongs to me, obviously." She scoffed. "We're going 50/50, remember? Everything in that fridge was bought by me. You can check again to confirm if you're not convinced. Since we're both independent, I'm sure you're more than capable of buying your own groceries and making your own meals."

"How can you...?" I started, but she cut me off instantly.

"And oh," she slid in smoothly, "we'll split for the kids as usual. Don't worry about running the shopping, though. I've got that covered." She smirked, raking her eyes over me. "Not that you'll know what they eat either way. Just make sure you don't forget tomorrow is Tuesday. It's your shift. I'd advise you to set an alarm."

I stood there frozen, trying to make sense of all the jumbled words. I think the hunger only made it worse. I hadn't had a proper meal in four days. Finally deciding ignoring her was the best option right now, I walked into my study, finally convinced she was totally crazy.

And the best way to deal with someone crazy was to beat them at their own game. Set an alarm? Me? I'd dealt with tougher people. As if she could bear to leave the kids alone. Knowing the ultimate weakness of every business partner is the way to ensure a perfect win.

I knew Catherine Blake all too well.

---

Catherine Blake is a monster.

I couldn't believe the kids were not ready by 7:15 AM when I woke up.

The quietness of the house was the first sign.

The chaos of the day should have woken me way before then.

Instead, I'd been met with an empty room and her coat gone.

"Catherine?" I called out, opening the door wider.

Nothing. She was already gone.

I marched down to the twins' bedroom, pushing the door open hard enough to rattle the frame. Mara was sitting on the rug, lazily putting a shoe on the wrong foot, while Ethan was still in his pajamas, half-asleep under the covers.

"Why aren't you two ready?" I demanded, my hands going to my hips. "School starts in forty-five minutes!"

Ethan rubbed his eyes, blinking up at me. "Mom usually wakes us up at six."

"Well, your mother isn't here," I snapped, grabbing Ethan by the arm and pulling him out of bed. "Move. Into the bathroom. Both of you."

I dragged them into their adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower, steam immediately rising into the air. I reached for the shelf above the sink, looking for their soap.

Rows of bottles sat there—skincare, hair oils, lotions—but I couldn't even pinpoint which one was theirs.

"Where is your body wash?" I asked, grabbing a pink bottle and turning it around.

"Mom puts it in the blue dispenser," Mara muttered, pointing at an empty plastic bottle sitting on the edge of the tub.

"Great. Fantastic." I grabbed my own bottle of charcoal sandalwood body wash from my master bathroom, poured a generous handful, and started scrubbing Ethan's back.

"Daddy, it stings!" Mara cried out a minute later, rubbing her eyes with soapy hands. "It smells like your car!"

"Stop squirming, Mara! It's just soap!"

By the time I wrestled them out of the tub and dried them off, twenty minutes had vanished. Getting them dressed was another battle entirely. I'd shoved Ethan into his polo shirt, trying to make his head fit through the neckline to no avail. It took me five minutes to finally realize I'd forced his head through the armhole.

"Dad," Ethan choked out, his voice muffled by the fabric. "I can't breathe."

"Hold still!" I yanked the shirt off, tearing a thread near the collar, and threw it over his head properly.

Mara stood by the door, staring at her feet. "Where's my lunchbox?"

I paused, a pair of socks hanging from my hand. "Your what?"

"Our lunchboxes," Mara repeated, her small brow furrowing. "Mom packs sandwiches and apple slices. And my juice box."

My stomach dropped. Lunch. I was supposed to make lunch.

"We don't have time," I said, shoving her feet into her sneakers without checking whether the laces were tied. "I'll... I'll have my secretary DoorDash something to your school. Let's go!"

We bolted out the front door and piled into the sedan. I threw the car into reverse, the tires screeching against the driveway as I sped out of the estate.

Traffic was a nightmare. Every red light felt like a personal insult. Beside me, the twins were dead silent, staring out the windows like two tiny hostages.

When I finally pulled up to the elementary school gates, the bell had already rung fifteen minutes earlier. The drop-off line was completely empty except for a lone teacher standing near the glass entrance, clipboard in hand.

I threw the door open, practically dragging Ethan and Mara by their wrists as I hurried up the steps.

"Mr. Blake?" the teacher asked, her eyes widening in genuine surprise as she looked between me and the kids. "I... I don't think I've ever seen you at drop-off before."

"I'm their father," I gritted out, trying to catch my breath. "There was a... domestic hiccup this morning."

The teacher's eyes drifted downward.

I looked down too. My tie was crooked. My crisp white shirt had a dark, wet smudge across the stomach from Mara's wet hair, and my leather dress shoes were unbuckled. Then I looked at the twins. Ethan's shirt was backwards, and Mara was wearing two completely different socks.

"Right," the teacher said slowly, her tone dripping with subtle, razor-sharp judgment. "A hiccup. Well, Ethan and Mara are usually here by 7:45 AM, freshly dressed and prepped. But... I suppose we can get them settled."

She reached out her hands to the kids, but before they walked inside, Mara looked up at me.

"Daddy," she whispered. "My teeth feel fuzzy."

I froze.

The teacher raised an eyebrow, adjusting her clipboard. "Have a good day at work, Mr. Blake."

The glass doors slid shut behind them. I stood there on the concrete, the cold morning air hitting my damp shirt. I walked back to my car, opened the door, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed my forehead directly against the leather steering wheel.

A sharp, violent thud echoed through the quiet cabin.

"Fuck!" I roared into the empty car, hitting the wheel with my fist.

I hadn't brushed their teeth. I had washed them with sandalwood body wash, shoved them into mismatched clothes, failed to feed them, missed their morning routine, and handed them over to a schoolteacher who looked at me like I was an abusive deadbeat.

I glanced at the dashboard clock.

9:48 AM.

Nearly three hours wiped out. Destroyed. By two children and a morning routine Catherine had handled every single day for six years without a word.

My phone on the passenger seat began to buzz violently. Miller's name flashed across the screen.

I swiped the icon, pressing the phone to my ear. "What?"

"Mr. Blake!" Miller's panicked voice came through the speaker. "The 10:00 AM board meeting with the European investors is locked in. The delegates are already arriving in the main conference room. Are you en route?"

I closed my eyes, feeling a migraine building right behind my temples. "Cancel it."

A dead silence fell over the line.

"Sir?" Miller stammered. "Cancel... the Eurozone acquisition review? They flew in from Frankfurt this morning—"

"I said cancel it, Miller!" I shouted, my voice cracking slightly. "Reschedule it for tomorrow! Move every appointment on my calendar past 1:00 PM!"

"Is there an emergency, Mr. Blake? Should I call legal?"

"Just clear the damn schedule!"

I ended the call and threw the phone onto the seat.

Turning the key in the ignition, I drove back home in a dark, suffocating rage. When I unlocked the front door and stepped into the foyer, the quiet house offered no relief.

The living room was an absolute war zone. Towels were dumped on the hallway floor. The master bathroom was flooded with soapy water. The kitchen counter was covered in spilled toothpaste and open shoe boxes.

And it wasn't even noon.

My phone pinged on the counter. A text message.

Catherine: Hope your morning shift went smoothly, Mason. Don't forget—you're responsible for picking them up at 3:00 PM sharp. The school fines $50 for every ten minutes you're late.

I stared at the screen, my hand shaking so hard the glass cracked slightly under my grip.

This wasn't just fairness.

This was revenge.