The billionaire ex-wife: we have a child

“Mummy!”

“Mummy!”

“Mummy!”

A Little hands shook me as a small voice filled the quiet of the room.

“Wake up! Wake up! It’s my first day of school!”

My eyes flew open at his words.I blinked several times, rubbing the sleep from my eyes before glancing down at the little boy grinning at me. Mason stood at the side of the bed, his lips curved into a mischievous smile, as if he already knew how to tug me out of dreamland.

I couldn’t help but smile back. “Come here, Mas,” I said softly, calling him by the nickname I’d given him the day he was born.

He immediately scrambled to climb onto the bed, his small legs kicking with determination. He always tried, even though he never quite managed it on his own. That stubborn grit in him, the same grit that made him refuse help until the last second reminded me so painfully of his father.

Swallowing down the lump rising in my throat, I leaned forward, caught his little arms, and pulled him up into my lap.

“Are you ready for your first day of school, sweetheart?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

His brown eyes were so bright, so eager to meet mine. “Yes, Mommy. I’m ready. I’m a big boy now! I can’t wait to go to school.”

I hugged him closer, my chest aching. Mason was a mirror image of Ethan. The same sharp jawline, the same stormy eyes that seemed to pierce through you even at four years old. The day he was born had been the happiest of my life and also the saddest. Because as I held him for the first time, I knew he would always carry a piece of Ethan with him. A man who had once loved me and then tossed me aside like I was nothing.

I didn’t realize I was crying until Mason’s small hand brushed against my cheek.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?” he asked, his little voice full of concern.

I forced a smile. “It’s nothing, baby. Mommy’s just going to miss you.”

His little arms wrapped tightly around my neck. “Don’t cry, Mommy. I’ll be back soon. I’m gonna miss you too.”

That did it. My tears spilled over, but I kissed his soft cheek and tried to laugh through them. “Alright, my big boy. Let’s get you ready for school.”

“Yay!” he squealed, clapping his hands.

An hour later, we stood outside his classroom. The school buzzed with noise, parents saying goodbye, children either crying or running in excitement. Mason, thankfully, was one of the excited ones.

“Be good to your teacher, okay?” I said, crouching to his level.

He nodded quickly, his eyes already darting to the other kids.

“I love you, honey,” I whispered, hugging him tightly one last time.

“I love you too, Mommy,” he said with a grin, pressing a sloppy kiss to my cheek before wiggling out of my arms.

“Off you go,” I whispered, my throat tightening.

He ran straight into the classroom without looking back, plopping down in a tiny chair next to a little girl with brown pigtails. Within seconds, he was chatting away like they were lifelong friends.

I lingered by the doorway for a moment, watching him settle in. My heart swelled with pride, but it also ached. He was growing too fast.

Finally, with a shaky chuckle, I turned away, walked out of the school building, and headed for my car.

The drive home was quiet, almost too quiet. When I unlocked my front door and stepped inside, I froze.

Standing in my living room, calm as ever, was a woman I hadn’t seen in years.

“Mother?” I gasped.

Vivian Bennett stood there, as elegant and composed as she always tried to appear. Not a hair out of place, her back straight, her face wearing that same unreadable expression that used to send chills down my spine when I was a child.

I hadn’t seen her in five years. And yet, here she was.

My stomach twisted. Most people feel warmth when they look at their mothers. I felt nothing but coldness. Resentment. Hatred. Because Vivian wasn’t the kind of mother who kissed away scraped knees or whispered encouragement during hard days. No, she had been the kind who cut me down, used me, tried to sell me off to the highest bidder when I was barely old enough to understand what was happening.

My father had tried to protect me in his own way, but he was too blinded by his obsession with her to see who she truly was.

“What do you want, Vivian?” I snapped, refusing to call her mother. “And how the hell did you even get into my house?”

For once, I expected her to sneer, to roll her eyes, to remind me of my place. But instead she cried.

Right there, in my living room, the woman I had never once seen shed a tear broke down.

I stood frozen. Vivian Bennett did not cry. She was ice, stone, fire, but never tears. Watching them spill down her perfectly powdered face felt unreal.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “Why are you crying?”

Her chest heaved as she looked at me. “I’m sorry.”

The words knocked the breath from me. I stumbled back a step. “Sorry?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry… for everything.”

A humorless laugh bubbled out of me. “I need a drink,” I muttered, shaking my head. “A strong one.”

I left her standing there and went into the kitchen. If she followed me, I swore I would shove her out the door with the sharpest knife I could find. Thankfully, she stayed rooted in place.

I opened the cupboard, grabbed the bottle of whiskey I’d been saving for nights when memories of Ethan crushed me, and poured a shot into a glass. I downed it in one gulp, the burn spreading through me, steadying me.

With the bottle and glass in hand, I walked back into the living room. Vivian hadn’t moved. Mascara streaked her cheeks, her expensive makeup smeared until she looked less like the pristine woman I’d always known and more like a broken doll.

“What are you really doing here?” I asked, my tone low, controlled. “And how did you even find me?”

She inhaled deeply, trying to compose herself. “Your father and I… we’ve been searching for you ever since the day you disappeared.”

I let out a short, sharp laugh. “Dad always knew where I was. I made him swear not to tell you.”

Her eyes widened in shock. Clearly, she hadn’t expected that truth.

I tilted my head, waiting. “Go on.”

“I want you to forgive me,” she whispered.

I stared at her. “Me? Forgive you?” The words exploded out of me. My chest rose and fell, fury I hadn’t felt in years clawing its way back to the surface.

“Yes,” she said desperately. “Please, Aria. Give me a chance. I’ve changed. I even… I even started seeing a psychiatrist.”

That floored me. Vivian hated doctors, therapists and anyone who dared suggest she wasn’t perfect. And now she was sitting here, telling me she went willingly to one?

For a long moment, silence hung between us. The ticking of the clock on the wall was the only sound in the room.

Finally, I set the bottle down, my hand trembling slightly. “You have one chance,” I said, my voice hard. “One. Chance. Only.”

We didn’t hug. We didn’t cry together. We didn’t bridge the years of distance with warmth or love. I gave her a chance, nothing more. And for now, that would have to be enough.