The Ex Who Stole My Delivery Room - Chapter 11: Chapter 11
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My jaw dropped as Ethan's words lingered between us. Three years old, and my kid was already playing psychologist - sizing people up, testing their morals, picking out potential father material like he was browsing a catalog.
Looking at him, pride swelled in my chest alongside something sharper - guilt. How had I missed how damn perceptive my son was? And why couldn't I give him the stable home he deserved?
The memory of Harris hit like a gut punch. Love had made me stupid, blind to every warning sign. Now my baby was paying for my mistakes.
But this was my do-over. My chance to finally get it right for Ethan.
Then there was Russo. Ethan's little experiment had me wondering - who was this guy really? Why humor a toddler's game? What was his angle?
"Ethan," I finally broke the silence, "let's head home, okay?"
As we drove, my mind wouldn't quit. I needed answers.
That night, after tucking Ethan in, I fell down a Russo-shaped internet rabbit hole. My screen flooded with images of him closing mega-deals in Dubai, schmoozing with presidents, hosting galas. Not just wealthy - the wealthiest. Continental-level rich. Every magazine called him "America's Most Eligible Bachelor."
A quiet laugh escaped me. "Sorry kiddo," I whispered, "Uncle Russo's playing in a whole different league."
Next morning, Ethan asked point-blank about Russo. When I gently shut that down, he gave me the silent treatment for three straight days - until I caved to his demand: a dating profile.
Soon my phone blew up with cringey openers:
"Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you've got FINE written all over you"
"Let's play Titanic - you'll be the iceberg and I'll go down screaming"
"I've got a Darth Vader costume with your name on it"
I ignored them all - until Ethan hijacked my phone and scheduled a date himself. Little traitor even called in my beautician friend Jenna for a full glam intervention.
"Mommy, you look like a princess!" Ethan cheered as Jenna put the finishing touches on my makeover.
Standing outside the swanky restaurant later, I smiled at his good luck text. Then I walked in - and froze.
Harris. With Cindy and Layla. Of course.
Cindy's eyes raked over me as she strutted over. "Darcy," she sneered, "you know they don't take food stamps here, right?"
Looking at him, pride swelled in my chest alongside something sharper - guilt. How had I missed how damn perceptive my son was? And why couldn't I give him the stable home he deserved?
The memory of Harris hit like a gut punch. Love had made me stupid, blind to every warning sign. Now my baby was paying for my mistakes.
But this was my do-over. My chance to finally get it right for Ethan.
Then there was Russo. Ethan's little experiment had me wondering - who was this guy really? Why humor a toddler's game? What was his angle?
"Ethan," I finally broke the silence, "let's head home, okay?"
As we drove, my mind wouldn't quit. I needed answers.
That night, after tucking Ethan in, I fell down a Russo-shaped internet rabbit hole. My screen flooded with images of him closing mega-deals in Dubai, schmoozing with presidents, hosting galas. Not just wealthy - the wealthiest. Continental-level rich. Every magazine called him "America's Most Eligible Bachelor."
A quiet laugh escaped me. "Sorry kiddo," I whispered, "Uncle Russo's playing in a whole different league."
Next morning, Ethan asked point-blank about Russo. When I gently shut that down, he gave me the silent treatment for three straight days - until I caved to his demand: a dating profile.
Soon my phone blew up with cringey openers:
"Are you a parking ticket? 'Cause you've got FINE written all over you"
"Let's play Titanic - you'll be the iceberg and I'll go down screaming"
"I've got a Darth Vader costume with your name on it"
I ignored them all - until Ethan hijacked my phone and scheduled a date himself. Little traitor even called in my beautician friend Jenna for a full glam intervention.
"Mommy, you look like a princess!" Ethan cheered as Jenna put the finishing touches on my makeover.
Standing outside the swanky restaurant later, I smiled at his good luck text. Then I walked in - and froze.
Harris. With Cindy and Layla. Of course.
Cindy's eyes raked over me as she strutted over. "Darcy," she sneered, "you know they don't take food stamps here, right?"
End of The Ex Who Stole My Delivery Room Chapter 11. Continue reading Chapter 12 or return to The Ex Who Stole My Delivery Room book page.