My Husband Wants An Heir So I Found His Father A Son Chapter 2

The moment the words left my mouth, Cecilia shrieked like a scalded cat.

“You’re insane! You’re lying!”

She shoved me away with a force that made me stagger. She pointed a violently shaking finger at the boy by the door.

“Who is this gutter trash?! Caroline, you’ve finally lost it! What kind of sick, low-life stunt are you pulling to avoid a divorce!”

The boy, Jesse Cole, hadn't spoken a word.

He merely regarded the hysterical woman with a cold, even stare, as if watching a meaningless theatrical performance.

He reached into his jeans pocket and slowly pulled out a photograph.

The photo was yellowed and curled at the edges, obviously cherished. It showed a young, vibrant Theodore Wells holding a bundled baby, standing next to a smiling, quiet woman.

The baby’s features were strikingly similar to Jesse's now.

The photo was a bucket of ice water dumped directly onto Cecilia’s fire.

Her shriek died in her throat. She stared at the photo, her lips trembling, utterly speechless.

Harriet finally recovered from his shock.

But his first instinct wasn't to question the man who raised him. It was to turn the full force of his terror onto me.

He lunged toward me, his eyes bloodshot, his face contorted with fury.

“Caroline! Are you out of your mind?! You hired an actor to pull this pathetic soap opera? For God’s sake, what is your limit?!”

His rage was the frightened bluster of a man who knew he was losing control. He wasn't stupid; he was simply terrified. Terrified that this sudden "little brother" would cut into his inheritance.

I gave him a bored, flat look.

“Whether he’s an actor or not, Harry, can be solved with a simple DNA test. Just call your father back.”

My eyes narrowed, carrying an all-knowing contempt.

“Why so agitated? Are you afraid of another claimant to the estate, or are you afraid of your mother’s blood pressure?”

The question was a direct hit to his jugular.

Harriet’s face went instantly pale. All the accusations clogged in his throat. He looked like a dog whose leash had been snapped, retreating a couple of steps in utter defeat.

Summer, in the corner, was clearly terrified by the sharp, unexpected turn of events. She’d come expecting to be the star, the triumphant victor. Instead, she found herself neck-deep in a messy, high-stakes power struggle far beyond her understanding.

She instinctively shrank behind Harriet, seeking protection, only to realize the man himself was rapidly drowning. Her face showed a genuine panic and perhaps, a flicker of regret.

After her brief moment of stunned silence, Cecilia completely broke.

She began throwing things.

The crystal bowl on the coffee table, the antique vase on the credenza—anything she could grab was hurled to the floor.

The sounds of shattering glass and porcelain were punctuated by her frenzied screaming.

She called me a poisonous snake, a murderer trying to destroy her family. She screamed that Jesse was bastard trash, a demon sent to ruin them.

The only person she dared not curse was the man in the photograph, her husband, Theodore Wells.

I leaned back into the sofa, pouring myself a glass of water, watching the theatrical destruction unfold with detached calm.

Seeing Cecilia’s face swell with apoplectic rage, I offered a “kind” reminder.

“Mom, be careful not to—oh, wait.”

I paused and gestured toward the whimpering Summer in the corner.

“It’s her whose blood pressure you should worry about, right?”

That sentence was like oil on a raging fire. Cecilia lost all control, lunging at me, only to be caught and held fast by Harriet.

“Mom! Calm down! Mom!”

Harriet was a mess, trying to restrain his collapsing mother while simultaneously glancing at me, hoping I would "be the bigger person."

I simply shot him an icy glare, and he froze, unable to move a muscle closer.

The living room was a disaster. Screaming, crying, cursing—an absurd opera of domestic chaos.

Jesse and I were the only still points in the storm. He stood like a statue of judgment, his mere presence a searing indictment of this hypocritical household.

I took out my phone and, with a subtle click, snapped a photo of the wreckage.

The picture captured my hysterical mother-in-law, my cowardly husband, and the terrified mistress, all against a backdrop of shattered glass.

How fitting, I thought, the words a low murmur to myself. A perfect photo of a gilded cage falling apart.