All Chapters of The CEO's Stepdaughter: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Cole SutcliffeLeaving the house without Niccola feels wrong in a way I don’t have language for.I stand in the entryway with my coat half on, keys in my hand, staring at Aiden like I’m memorizing him in case the universe decides to take something else from me. He’s awake in my mother’s arms, dark eyes blinking slowly, unaware that his parents have just survived the unthinkable.“I won’t be long,” I murmur, more to myself than to anyone else.Steph hovers close, arms folded tight across her chest, eyes red but steady. Sawyer stands beside her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder, grounding them both. My father watches silently, jaw set, while my mother sways gently with Aiden, as if movement itself is prayer.“You go,” my mother says softly. “We’ve got him.”I nod, throat tight. “Don’t let anyone in. Not press. Not Monica. No one.”Sawyer me

Niccola FairchildThe soup tastes like salt and something vaguely familiar, and that feels like an accomplishment. I eat slowly, carefully, like my body might reject the idea of nourishment if I rush it. The tea, on the other hand, tastes like the best thing I have ever tried in my life. I don’t know if it’s because I am dehydrated or because it really is a good tea, but it feels like one of those teas that could heal the world, one cup at a time. Cole sits nearby, pretending not to watch every spoonful like it’s a miracle unfolding in real time. The nurse had smiled when she set the tray down, told me it was good I felt ready to eat. Ready feels generous. But I was hungry in a way that went deeper than my stomach, and this, this is a beginning.By the time I finish, my arms feel heavy, and my eyelids ache. Exhaustion wraps around me, thick and insistent, the kind that settles into your bones aft

Niccola FairchildThe doorbell rings once. I jump anyway. My body reacts before my mind can catch up, heart racing, muscles tensing, breath stalling halfway in. I’m already scanning the room, already cataloguing exits, already calculating what I would do if the sound means something else. Cole is beside me instantly.“It’s okay,” he says softly, one hand settling at the small of my back. “It’s Dr. Lewis. Remember?”I nod, even though my pulse hasn’t slowed. I do remember. I agreed to this. I just didn’t realize how hard it would be to let someone cross the threshold of our house again.Cole opens the door. She doesn’t rush in. That’s the first thing I notice. Dr. Lewis stands on the porch like she’s waiting for permission, posture relaxed, hands visible, voice calm. She’s in her forties, maybe, dressed simply, no clipboard in sight. When she smiles, it’s small and unassuming, like she’s not trying to convince anyone of anything.“Hi, Niccola,” she

Niccola FairchildThe bedroom feels smaller at night.Not claustrophobic, just close. Like the walls have leaned in to listen. The curtains are drawn, the lights low, Aiden asleep in his bassinet beside the bed, his tiny breaths soft and steady. That sound anchors me. I keep glancing at him, counting the rise and fall of his chest without realizing I’m doing it.Steph sits cross-legged at the foot of the bed, twisting the edge of a blanket between her fingers. She hasn’t joked since she came in. That’s how I know something’s wrong.“You don’t have to stay,” I tell her softly, even though the idea of being alone makes my chest tighten. “You’ve barely slept.” She shakes her head immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.” Silence settles between us, not awkward, just heavy. The kind that comes when there are too many words stacked behind the ribs and no obvious place to start.“I keep replaying it,” Steph says finally, staring at the floor. “That day. Lun

Cole SutcliffeI don’t tell Niccola where I’m going. She’s in the living room when I leave, Aiden asleep against her chest, Steph on the floor nearby sorting tiny socks that don’t need sorting, my mother hovering with tea like warmth itself can ward off everything else. Niccola looks up when I grab my coat, her eyes searching my face with that quiet intensity she has now, like she’s always bracing for something she can’t quite name.“Meeting,” I say gently.She nods, trusting me in a way that hurts. “Be careful.”“I will,” I promise, and mean it in the way that matters most: legally, deliberately, without crossing the line that would put me on the other side of a door. Sawyer waits by the car. Anne stands a few feet away, phone to her ear, posture composed. Neither of them says anything when I approach. They don’t ask if I’m ready. Ready is irrelevant.The drive is quiet. The city thins into concrete and wire and angles that don’t invite softness.