Loving The Temperamental Adonis
Chapter 308 - 46

Chapter 308: Chapter 46

Two years later.

Rayne’s car halted in front of the huge, three-story building five star restaurant that had the sign of her family name on it. The sun was just about setting casting its orangish hue against the magnificent building she’d taken pride in for the last two years.

She’d had something to take care of at the Wallace second branch in Mirage Mesa, which was still under construction, and now she wanted to see Ethan, her son, before his nanny put him to bed for a nap after his daily outing at the park.

He would be two years old in a month, full of energy and cheerfulness, and he loved adventures. Last week, on a beautiful afternoon, Rayne had taken him to a larger park they visited on weekends, and she’d gotten some wonderful photographs of him sailing his boat in the big fountain with sunlit trees in the background.

Four times that day, people had stopped to remark on how beautiful he was, which was a normal occurrence for any outing with Ethan.

He was the image of his father, with Liam Thompson’s thick black hair and dark-lashed, dark huge orbs; he even had his slow smile and effortless charm.

He was also showing signs of having inherited Liam’s magnetism with females. With one of his quick, flashing grins, Ethan could conquer the hearts of women—from old ladies to teenagers to an adorable two-year-old girl in their apartment building.

The only genetic contribution from her that Rayne could see was that Ethan’s hair was slightly curly, although not as curly as hers.

He was tall for his age, surprisingly well-coordinated, and growing up so fast that, at times, Rayne wished she could reach out and stop the clock from ticking away the minutes and days of his childhood.

He was extremely bright, and—not surprisingly—he was also starting to pick up and repeat words and phrases from the several languages he heard being spoken by the workers at the restaurant and the customers.

His most recently acquired phrase—a colorful Italian curse—had Rayne thinking he needed to stay upstairs with his nanny, in a room she’d expanded and renovated so she could keep him near her all the time at the restaurant.

She parked her car in the driveway and got out. Picking up her purse, Rayne locked the car and elegantly walked up to the restaurant entrance.

The restaurant had a stylish exterior with large glass windows that showcased the elegant interior.

The entrance was framed by tall, dark wooden doors with gold handles, and the name of the restaurant was displayed in elegant, cursive lettering above.

Outside, there were a few tables with comfortable chairs, surrounded by neatly trimmed plants. Soft, warm lights illuminated the entrance, giving the place a welcoming and sophisticated look that always made Rayne feel at home.

However, as she reached for the handle, she realized something was amiss; the restaurant seemed unusually quiet with nobody around, not even the doormen or the valet.

Puzzled, Rayne pushed the heavy front door, walked inside, and saw—absolutely no one.

The dining rooms were set up for dinner; everything looked perfect, except no one was there—not the waiters, not a single customer, security guard, or attendant.

Puzzled and vaguely uneasy, Rayne quickened her pace toward the first kitchen downstairs, rushed through the swinging doors, and stopped short as a smiling army of loyal employees burst into cheers and applause.

At the front of the crowd, her son’s nanny was holding Ethan, and he was clapping and grinning as well.

Next to Ethan were two waiters holding a sign that read, "Congratulations Miss Wallace for winning the award of Restaurateur of the Year!"

Rayne confusedly walked forward, scooped Ethan out of his nanny’s arms, and looked around at the sea of smiling faces. "What’s going on?" she asked.

The restaurant manager grinned at his assistant and then at the rest of the staff. "She hasn’t seen it yet," he said, and everyone burst out laughing.

"Seen what?" Rayne said.

Without a word, the manager retrieved an iPad from a staff member behind him and lifted it up so Rayne could see what was on it.

Rayne’s eyes widened as she saw her name at the top of the list of restaurant owners in the country. She read through the congratulatory messages and the award given to her for being the best in the country.

She’d not expected to get all this attention over the past two years, but everything had seemed to be working in her favor.

She read through the article that had several pictures used in prior stories about the Wallace restaurants, including one of Rayne with the governor and one of her meeting with the country’s top chef, with Ethan beside her on his high chair.

The caption below that one read, "Rayne Wallace runs her restaurant while son Ethan looks on and learns from his high chair."

Rayne scanned the article, then she looked around at her staff and told them exactly who she felt deserved the credit for her award. "I can’t thank all of you enough for this," she said simply.

The manager glanced at his watch, then at everyone else. "We’re opening in two minutes," he warned them, and patted Rayne’s shoulder as he walked out. "You’re the best," he said.

Rayne gave Ethan a hug. "Did you hear that, Ethan? Mr. Shin says we’re the best."

In response, Ethan planted a kiss on her cheek and said, "Nanny and I go to the playground, Mommy." Rayne let him slide to the floor, and he took his nanny’s hand, the middle-aged woman who’d positively doted on him since the day he was born.

"No flirting with Elizabeth," Rayne teased, looking from the little boy to his devoted nanny.

---

Far away in downtown Zen, inside a middle-class apartment building with rundown windows and doors, a man was seen sitting alone in a dark room with a burning cigarette between his fingers and a magazine in his other hand. He held it to his face, reading it as his expression slowly turned dark.

Slowly and angrily, his fingers tightened around the magazine about Rayne’s least successful story until it crumbled, and he flung it onto the table next to him.

His sister was like a pain in the neck, and he couldn’t get rid of her because she was his flesh and blood. She was his sister, but whenever he tried to reach out to her, she blocked him out like some kind of stranger.

She was always on the front of magazines, and everyone was talking about her success and how intelligent her son was.

According to the article before this one, the mayor and the president were her customers. For weeks after the article appeared, Jason had been trying to get to her, but he couldn’t get hold of her personal number or even step foot into the restaurant that was rightfully his as the heir of the Wallace family.

Today’s article raved about her, as all the other stories had done, but today’s article also included a nice big photograph of Thompson’s little bastard and her in the kitchen at Wallace.

It was the second time he’d seen that picture, the second time he’d had to look at it. The little son of a bitch looked so much like his father that it was uncanny, and that infuriated him even more. He hated Liam Thompson, and this little bastard having his face made him want to vent his anger on him.

As Jason was raging over his loss, the door to his apartment opened. He didn’t move an inch from his sitting position as he knew who had come in.

"What’s up, Jason? Thanks for making time for me today," said Milo Thompson.

Tossing his cigarette down in the ashtray, Jason reached out and shook Milo’s hand.

At sixteen, Milo Thompson was a good-looking kid, a little stocky, as his father had been, but not as pleasant to be around.

The psychiatrists and the court had both agreed—with a little help from the excellent defense lawyers his mother had arranged—that his ADHD medication had caused Milo’s psychotic break the day he shot his father.

That didn’t require a big stretch of the imagination, since there’d been mounting evidence that the medication could cause psychotic episodes in some people. A year of confinement in a psychiatric hospital, plus ongoing therapy during his three-year probation period, had supposedly helped him resolve conflicts and learn impulse control.

"How’s your new girlfriend?" Jason asked, trying to remember what Milo had said her name was during his last visit to his apartment when they’d first met in person after years of talking on the internet.

"Jessi’s fine."

"Where did you meet her?"

"In group therapy. You probably know her parents—the Emons?"

Jason didn’t know them, and he didn’t care about them, so he shook his head and ended the small talk.

"You said you wanted to meet me urgently. What’s it about?" Jason asked, but he already had a good idea why Milo was there. After his release, Milo’s share in the Thompson’s wealth had been held in trust until he was thirty-three, with the stipulation that he forfeited it if he was convicted of any felony in the meantime.

However, almost a quarter and a half of the Thompson’s share was in Liam’s name, and Liam had already given the quarter away to charity to build an orphanage for homeless children.

"I want you to help me find a way to get back my wealth before I turn old. Liam is going to start building a fucking charity house with my money, and I want to stop him before it’s too late. My father is dead, and there is no one to stop him from using my money. I should be living in wealth with my own car. Instead, I’m supposed to wait around until I’m thirty-three to get a little bit of what I should have had, and I’m not going to fucking do it. I get off probation in another year and a half, and I want my money, and I want my own life!"

"Milo, we’ve already had this conversation. As I told you, there’s nothing I can help with on that. Take a good look at me. Do I seem like a man who can help you fight Liam for your wealth?"

Milo looked him over from head to toe. Jason was wearing faded jeans and a plain blue t-shirt. His hair was long and unkempt, and his skin looked so tanned he’d lost his charm. Looking at him, Milo scoffed. "You sure look fucked up by life, buddy."

Jason glared at the boy. If he wasn’t his pawn, he would have thrown the little psychopath from the top of his balcony for his sharp tongue.

"I can’t help you with this. Go wait until you’re thirty-three before you get your wealth," Jason said, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

Milo lost it. "You don’t understand! I hate that son of a bitch, Liam. I hate him so much I can’t stand it."

"Believe me, I know how you feel," Jason remarked grimly.

Milo looked contemptuous of that possibility, so Jason reached out and shoved the magazine in front of him. "Do you see that picture? That is my sister. Liam Thompson got her pregnant. See that kid—that’s his kid."

Milo studied the boy in the photograph, and then he said in a chilling voice, "So, this makes him what, my cousin? Which means I’d have to share my wealth with this little fucker?!"