Chapter 15: What If?

Isabella’s POV

“Mama… who’s my daddy?”

I blinked. The cartoon on the TV kept playing in the background, but my mind blanked out completely. The bowl of cereal in my hand trembled slightly, milk rippling with the sudden jolt in my heart. I turned slowly to look at Peter—my Peter—his small fingers clutched around a half-eaten cookie, his eyes innocent… curious… completely unaware of the depth of the bomb he’d just dropped.

I managed a breath. “Why do you ask, baby?”

He tilted his head. “Kayla said her daddy calls her and buys her cake. I want cake too.”

I laughed softly, trying to sound unaffected, ruffling his curly hair as he grinned up at me. “I’ll buy you cake. Double chocolate. You don’t need a daddy for that.”

He beamed, satisfied, and ran off to chase after his toys. But I stayed still. Frozen in place, the spoon still in my hand. My mind was no longer in the living room—it had taken a deep dive into memories I’d locked away long ago. Memories of mascara-streaked tears, cold champagne gone warm in my palm, and a wedding dress I never got to wear down the aisle.

One night. That’s all it was supposed to be.

One desperate, painful, soul-searching night.

Annabelle.

That was who I became that night. Not Isabella. Not the woman who gave her heart to Daniel and got trampled by betrayal. That night, I was Annabelle—reckless, unhinged, shattered. And I needed to feel alive again. Even if it was just for a moment. Even if it meant giving my body to a man whose name I never asked, whose number I never saved.

He let me into his car like a gentleman. Held the door, asked if I was okay. I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.

The ride was quiet. My heart thundered too loudly for conversation. I was scared—God, I was terrified—but I needed to get out of my head. I needed to forget the betrayal, the shame, the pity in people’s eyes.

His mansion was huge. Immaculate. Cold. Everything in white and grey. I remember thinking he was either a serial killer or a secret CIA agent. Who lives in a house with no color? No sign of a woman’s touch?

But he made me hot chocolate. Listened as I rambled, eyes never leaving mine. He didn’t try to fix me. Didn’t pretend to understand. He just listened.

Then we fucked. Hard. Fast. Desperate. He fingered me like he was reading my soul through my wetness. Ate me out like it was his last meal on earth. Claimed me like I was something sacred.

And for a while, I believed it. I moaned until my voice broke. Cried into the sheets as he whispered things I didn’t want to remember. And then, as dawn crept in, he held me.

It was the first time in months I felt safe.

And when I woke up… he was gone.

In his place was a black box with a grey bow. Inside? Stacks of crisp dollar notes.

I remember the burn in my chest. The disbelief. The shame. As if everything that happened between us was a transaction. A fucking deal.

I left that house wearing an oversized Louis Vuitton shirt and pants that didn’t fit. My wedding dress lay crumpled on the floor, a symbol of everything I had lost.

I never told a soul.

Then weeks later, the nausea started. The fatigue. The cravings. I didn’t need a test to tell me—I knew.

Peter was the result of that one night.

And now…

Now, there was John.

John McQueen.

CEO. Billionaire. Infuriatingly calm.

He’d walked into my life all buttoned-up charm and dry wit. At first, he annoyed me. Too smooth. Too polished. Too unreadable.

But the more time I spent with him, the more I noticed the similarities.

The way he smirked when he was amused. The little crease that formed near his temple when he was deep in thought. Even the way he said “interesting” when I challenged him.

It all felt familiar.

Like him.

But it couldn’t be. There was no way.

John was too put-together. Too in control. The man from that night was… raw. Unfiltered. Hidden behind shadows and soft words.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling. My heart jumped every time he brushed past me, every time he offered a small smile or said something that triggered a flashback. I began looking at Peter—really looking.

His sharp nose.

His messy brown hair.

His serious eyes when he focused.

No. This was delusional. A game my heart was playing because it longed for closure.

And yet…

There was one moment that made me pause.

At the last board meeting, John rolled up his sleeve, reaching for a bottle of water. I caught sight of a small scar on his forearm.

Jagged. Faint. But real.

The man from that night had the same scar. I remember tracing it with my finger while he kissed my neck.

I froze.

He noticed.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just… zoned out.”

I couldn’t ask. How could I? “Hey, did we fuck years ago and accidentally create a child together?” That’s not exactly HR-approved small talk.

And what if I was wrong?

What if I was projecting?

Still, my heart wouldn’t settle.

That night was never supposed to matter.

But it gave me Peter.

And maybe, just maybe… it gave me John, too.

I stood up, walked toward Peter’s room, and paused at the door. He was humming to himself, trying to fix a tower of blocks.

“Hey baby,” I said softly.

He looked up. “Yes, Mama?”

I smiled. “How about that cake now?”

He jumped up excitedly. “Yay! Can it be red velvet?”

“Of course.”

I watched him for a moment, the innocence in his smile, the joy in his eyes.

And I made a decision.

If John really was the man from that night, if he really was Peter’s father…

Then one day, somehow, I would find out.

Not for me.

But for my son.

Because every child deserves the truth.

Even if it destroys the lie I’ve built to protect us.

Even if it wrecks me all over again.

But not today, I'm not ready involve anyone else in my life.