THE LOST HEIRESS RETURNS AFTER DIVORCE
Chapter 126: Are You Going To Be My New Mommy?

Chapter 126: Are You Going To Be My New Mommy?

Heather stood by, her arms crossed over her chest, watching Adams lead the little boy into the house. Her heart was boiling, but her face stayed neutral — at least on the surface.

Her pulse, however, was far from calm.

She barely heard Adams repeat himself: "Master Caius instructed we bring young Master Asher here, until things settle... with his mother."

Heather’s lips pressed into a thin line.

Lauren’s child. Here in this house.

A flicker of disbelief passed through her. Not because Caius brought the boy here — Caius had always had a complicated way of handling things — but because he didn’t bother to tell her first.

No heads-up. No conversation. Not even a goodbye before disappearing off to God-knows-where.

Her gaze shifted to the boy.

Asher.

Neat little shoes, black as polished stone. His grey cardigan perfectly buttoned. Hair combed so well not a strand dared misbehave. His eyes, though — those cold, assessing eyes — that’s what made her wary.

There was something unsettling about a child holding themselves that still and guarded. Like he already knew too much.

She couldn’t ignore the resemblance either.

The sharp features, the pale complexion, the hint of superiority in the way he stood — unmistakably Lauren’s blood. And Lauren? She didn’t exactly come from a line of nurturing souls.

Heartlessness trickled down that family tree like a bad inheritance. First her mother, then Lauren herself.

So what did that make this boy?

Heather exhaled slowly, steadying herself. She couldn’t afford to let her emotions show now. Not in front of a child — even this one.

But still... the disappointment lingered. Caius should have told her. Warned her. At least given her a chance to brace for this mess.

Instead, he vanished across the Atlantic, and dropped his ex-lover’s son like some forgotten suitcase on her doorstep.

And now she was supposed to... what? Play caretaker? Fill in the gaps Lauren left behind?

It wasn’t her responsibility. Asher had grandparents, didn’t he? Lauren’s parents were still alive — the woman never missed a chance to boast about their wealth. And what about the boy’s father? Surely this wasn’t an immaculate conception.

Okay, she knew he was in prison, but still.

That didn’t give Caius the right to step in and act like the self-appointed savior. Heather bit down on the frustration burning her throat.

"Are you going to be my new mommy?" the boy’s voice broke the tension, soft but sharp enough to slice right through her thoughts.

Heather blinked.

She hadn’t expected that question.

Her eyes softened for a brief second as she studied his face. He really was a cute child — delicate features, a hesitant tilt of the head.

But Heather had learned the hard way: it’s always the cute ones that break your heart or burn your house down.

"No," she said, her tone gentle but certain.

The boy’s face fell, his head drooping as he looked down at the floor. "Oh..." His voice faltered. "Will my mommy be back soon?"

Heather hesitated. The bitter truth hung heavy in the air.

She thought of the headlines. The breaking news. Lauren Hale, arrested for drugging, abusing, and indirectly killing a minor.

The boy’s autopsy was all over the tabloids: overdose, hard drugs, traces of recent sexual assault. All allegedly, of course — but the public didn’t wait for court dates.

Lauren wouldn’t be walking free anytime soon.

Or ever.

Still, Heather wasn’t going to crush a six-year-old with the truth — not today.

"It’s good to be optimistic," she replied with a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Adams stepped in smoothly, leading Asher upstairs to a guest room. Heather watched them disappear down the hall, her stomach twisting as the boy’s footsteps echoed faintly behind them.

She ran a hand over her face.

Caius... what the hell were you thinking?

...

Alex sat cross-legged on the grass, a small easel propped in front of him, the fresh smell of paint lingering in the air.

His grandmother had given him the art set as a welcome present when they arrived. His fingers were smudged with blues and reds, his face scrunched in concentration.

On the canvas, he painted his family.

He gave his father a ridiculously large head, a quiet joke only he understood. His mother’s hair flowed down to her shoulders, her eyes bright and warm. And himself, tiny, smiling, tucked between them — the way families were supposed to be.

The maid nearby closed the storybook she’d been reading, glancing at him with a smile.

"Young master, should I bring you some fruit?" she asked softly.

Alex looked up, considering. "What kind of fruit?"

She chuckled. "No being picky. Your mom said those certain fruits will help you heal faster."

Alex sighed, his hand drifting to the bandage around his head.

He hated this part.

The constant worry in his mother’s eyes. The way she hovered every time he touched his head, as if one wrong move would shatter him.

But he had no one to blame but himself.

He was the one who convinced the doctor to play along. To pretend his condition was worse than it was. To keep his parents together. It was the only thing that worked.

The doctor had understood too well — his parents had fallen apart when he was young. He didn’t know what a full family felt like.

Alex didn’t want that for himself.

So, he lied.

A little lie to protect something big.

But now, the side effects of that lie — the endless caution, the overbearing concern — followed him everywhere.

His thoughts broke when the garden gate creaked.

Alex turned, curiosity tugging at his chest. A boy, about his age, entered with a different maid. His clothes were perfect — polished shoes, pressed cardigan, not a wrinkle out of place.

His face was unreadable, eyes sharp and scanning the space like he already owned it.

"This is young Master Asher," the maid announced before leaving.

Alex frowned.

Young master? But he was the young master. Why was this new kid carrying the same title?

Confusion mixed with suspicion. Could this boy be his father’s...?

No. His mother hadn’t had another baby — that much he knew.

Still, the other boy had his maid’s attention.

Alex stood, straightening his small shoulders, determined to handle this the way his father did during business meetings — calm, confident, with a handshake.

"Hi, I’m Alex," he offered, extending his hand. "What’s your name?"

The boy didn’t shake it.

He just stared at Alex’s hand like it was beneath him, his gaze steady and cold. Was this boy claiming dominance? Isn’t he supposed to be older? Why was this boy acting like the bigger person?

The maid beside Asher spoke up. "Go on, young master Asher. Young master Alex is just being polite."

Asher’s lip curled slightly, his voice was too loud for someone so small. "Who are you to tell me what to do?"

The words stunned both Alex and the maid.

"Excuse me?" The maid’s brows lifted, her voice cracked with disbelief.

Asher shrugged, clearly unbothered. "You heard me. You’re just a maid. I’m a young master. My father owns you. So don’t try to control me. Or I’ll tell him, and he’ll send you back to the slums where you belong."

The maid’s mouth parted in shock, but words failed her.

Alex stared at the boy, unsettled. How could someone so small carry so much venom in their voice? His heart raced as Asher walked past him, toward the painting.

Asher stopped in front of the easel. "Who drew this?"

Alex moved protectively in front of it. "I did. It’s my family."

Asher’s eyes darkened as he studied the image. This boy was challenging him; first with the handshake, a prove of dominance and superiority, and now, drawing a painting of his complete family.

Trying to show him he has a mother and father, while he has nothing but a father no where to be found, and a mother in prison.

In one swift motion, he grabbed a brush and smeared over Alex’s painted figure — then Heather’s — erasing them with harsh strokes of red and black.

"Stop that!" Alex jumped in front of the easel, his small body shielding the painting. His hands shook as he tried to block Asher’s destruction.

But Asher still tried to reach around him, the brush leaving streaks of color on Alex’s shirt.

"That’s enough, Asher!" the maid snapped, stepping between them, her voice was firm now. "Leave young master Alex’s painting alone."

Asher dropped the brush at his feet, unbothered, his cold eyes lingering on Alex for a moment before he turned his gaze towards the maid.