CHAPTER 3

Cassandra’s POV

Ava’s words hit me so hard, and I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

“Ava,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm despite the growing frustration, “you can’t stay up all night. I’m just trying to help you.”

“Help? You don’t help. You just boss me around all the time. I don’t need you to tell me what to do every second!”

“I’m your mother, Ava. I have to make sure you’re okay.”

She crossed her arms, her voice became cold. “I don’t want to talk with you.”

With that, she turned and slammed the door shut in my face, cutting off any chance of response.

With a sigh, I walked to the kitchen to prepare dinner, my hands moving automatically.

But the silence of the house seemed to stretch, a stark reminder of the distance between us.

Later that night, I kept calling my husband, but he didn’t answer. I was used to it by now—late nights at the office, missed dinners.

Yet, no matter how often it happened, a small part of me still held on to hope, foolishly waiting for him to acknowledge me, to make an effort to show he cared.

When I was in the bedroom, brushing my hair, I heard the door open.

Marcus had finally come home.

The moment he stepped inside, the scent hit me—an expensive, heady perfume, one that I didn’t own.

I froze.

It wasn’t the usual faint trace of a business meeting, the lingering scent of coffee or cigars from his associates. No. This was different.

His tie was loosened, the top buttons of his shirt undone, as he set his briefcase down with practiced ease.

I turned to face him slowly, my grip tightening around the hairbrush. “You’re late.”

He barely glanced at me, his voice distant, distracted. “Had some drinks with clients. Socializing.”

There was no apology, no attempt to explain himself—just an offhand remark.

I inhaled sharply, trying to keep my voice steady. “Marcus.”

He didn’t look up as he loosened his cuffs, as if he hadn’t even heard me. “Hmm?”

“The other night,” I pushed on, my words thick with tension. “Who was the woman who answered your phone?”

He finally stopped, but only for a moment, his eyes never meeting mine as he fiddled with his cufflinks. “A coworker.”

The cold simplicity of his answer stung more than I expected. I swallowed, trying to suppress the bitterness creeping up.

“Are you—” My voice wavered, but I steadied it. “Are you trying to start over with Violet?”

He frowned. “Cassandra,” he sighed, not bothering to look at me. “Stop. Just focus on you and Ava, and let me handle my business.”

His words were flat, dismissive, like I had asked something trivial. I felt the air grow heavier between us, thick with unspoken resentment.

He didn’t care. He wasn’t even trying to pretend anymore. But I don’t want that to happen — I still have our daughter, and the home to protect.

The following day, Marcus’s words were still echoing in my mind. I tried to shake the feeling off as I drove to Ava’s kindergarten.

But as soon as I stepped inside, I was greeted with bad news that sent me into panic. 

“Mrs. Cole!” It was Miss Lane, one of the staff members in the school. “Are you here to pick up Ava?” 

I frowned. “Yes, of course. Is she inside?”

A flicker of confusion crossed her face before she cleared her throat. “Ava was already picked up.”

My breath hitched. “What?”

“A woman named Violet signed her out about half an hour ago. I’m so sorry, but didn’t Mr. Cole tell you? We called him to ask his permission because we could not reach you. He agreed.”

I took a step back, my head spinning. But eventually, I forced a weak smile.

“Oh, uh, right… I forgot that he’d mentioned it to me,” I made up, not wanting to seem like anything was wrong. 

“Okay,” Miss Lane answered with a smile. Then her eyes widened and she added, “Oh, by the way, Ava’s medical report just came in.”

“Medical report?”

“Yes. It’s routine, just a standard health check, but we wanted to let you know that her iron levels are a little low. She has mild anemia, so you may want to monitor her diet and check in with her pediatrician.”

She handed an envelope to me with my daughter’s name, and I accepted it gratefully. “Okay… thank you.”

As I walked away, I tore open the envelope and quickly scanned the document. My eyes darted over the text—until they landed on a detail that made my breath catch.

A child born from parents with type O and type A blood could not have type B. It was biologically impossible.

Marcus had type A. I was type O.

And Ava? Ava was B.

I wished I hadn’t been there when the guests were talking about Violet and her supposedly genius blood type AB.

Then I wouldn’t have known she was likely Ava’s biological mother.