Chapter 156

Ridley's POV

Cedar has been living in the Sterling mansion for about two weeks now, and I've mastered the art of avoiding her. This past week, our conversations have been minimal and strictly about the children. What I didn't anticipate was how excruciating this self-imposed distance would be. My feelings for her run deeper than I dared admit, and I'm terrified that one moment of weakness—one lingering look or casual touch—might shatter my resolve.

God, how I want to hold her, to tell her everything. To confess that behind my cold exterior beats a heart that's completely hers. But what's the point? I'm a man with a death sentence hanging over my head. The latest test results sit in my desk drawer like a time bomb. The treatments aren't working as well as my doctors had hoped.

No, I can't tell Cedar about my condition. That would be the height of selfishness. Why burden her with grief for a future that will never exist? If I keep her at arm's length, she can move on after I'm gone. She deserves happiness, even if I won't be around to witness it.

Saturday evening arrived with Chicago's skyline illuminated against the darkening sky. As I drove through the wrought-iron gates of the Sterling estate, the mansion's warm golden lights welcomed me home.

The marble foyer echoed with my footsteps as I entered. In the living room, only Aiden sat in one of the leather armchairs, a leather-bound book open in his small hands. From upstairs floated Cedar's melodic voice—she must be reading Oliver and Aria their bedtime story.

"Aiden," I said softly, loosening my tie. "Missing story time?"

My oldest son looked up, his eyes—so much like mine—serious beyond his six years. "I was waiting for you, Dad."

I settled into the chair opposite him, curious. "What's on your mind?"

Aiden closed his book with deliberate care, his expression unnervingly adult-like. He cleared his throat in that way he does when preparing for something important.

"I wanted to talk to you about Mom," he said carefully.

I stiffened, caught off guard. Our serious talks were usually about his education or occasionally my work—never about Cedar.

"Go ahead," I said, keeping my voice neutral while studying him intently.

"You asked Mom to move in to help with Aria," he began, his small fingers tracing the book's spine. "But now that Aria's doing better—the doctor said she's almost like any other slightly introverted child now—does Mom still need to stay here?"

My jaw tightened. "You don't want her here?"

"That's not it at all." Aiden's voice was earnest. "I love having Mom here. But she works at Nest Design all day, then comes home to take care of us at night. We're monopolizing her entire life."

He looked up at me, his gaze disarmingly direct. "She's turning twenty-six soon, Dad. She should be dating, having her own life. I thought maybe you liked her... that you might want to marry her. But now I'm not so sure."

His words hung in the air between us.

"If you don't love her," he continued softly, "then maybe we should let her go back to her own life."

"Who says I don't love her?" The words escaped before I could stop them, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

The moment they left my lips, I regretted them. I pressed my mouth into a tight line, but it was too late.

Aiden's eyes widened, a spark of triumph in them. "Dad? Did you just say you love Mom?"

I remained silent. My upbringing had instilled in me an inability to lie outright, especially to my children. But confirmation was another matter entirely.

"If you love her, why won't you marry her?" Aiden pressed, leaning forward. "I know what you're worried about, but Mom wouldn't care about—"

I cut him off sharply. "Aiden, exactly what do you think you know?"

He bit his lower lip, suddenly looking every bit the child he was. "About your secret. I found out."

My blood ran cold. "And your siblings? Do they know too?"

"I haven't told them yet," he said, his gaze dropping to his lap.

That's when I sensed it—a presence. Slowly, I raised my head toward the second-floor landing.

Cedar stood by the railing, one hand gripping the polished wood, her eyes fixed on us. The soft hallway light illuminated her frozen expression—shock, confusion, and something else I couldn't name.

A moment later, Oliver and Aria appeared in the hallway behind her, still in their pajamas.

Oliver's eyes—always too knowing for a six-year-old—met mine. He blinked slowly and whispered something to Cedar that I couldn't hear.

It hit me then. This wasn't a spontaneous conversation. My children had orchestrated the entire scene, making sure Cedar would overhear every word.

I'd been outmaneuvered by a trio of kindergartners.

Cedar's POV

I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. My fingers clutched the banister so tightly my knuckles turned white as Ridley's words echoed in my head.

Who says I don't love her?

Six words that stopped my world on its axis.

I felt heat rising to my face, aware of how exposed I was, standing there on the landing. Ridley's dark eyes found mine across the distance, intense and unreadable as always. But something had shifted, some invisible barrier had cracked, and I didn't know what to do with the vulnerability suddenly laid bare between us.

Oliver tugged at my sleeve, his voice a conspirator's whisper. "Mommy, we all love you. We just want you to stay with us forever."

The realization hit me then—this had been planned. The children had set this up, making sure I'd overhear Ridley's confession.

I couldn't deal with this now. I pulled away from Oliver's small hand, turned, and fled to my room, shutting the door with more force than I intended. My back pressed against the wood, I slid down until I was sitting on the carpet, heart hammering against my ribs.

Sleep was impossible that night. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying those six words over and over. Analyzing the tone, the emphasis, the meaning behind them.

It wasn't a direct confession. It was a question. A defensive one. But the implication was clear, wasn't it? He didn't deny loving me. Which meant... he did love me?

Or was I reading too much into it? Projecting my own feelings onto an ambiguous statement?

By morning, dark circles shadowed my eyes, and my thoughts were no clearer than they had been the night before. I couldn't face Ridley today—not when I didn't even know what I wanted to say to him.

Sunday stretched before me like an eternity. The thought of awkward encounters in the kitchen or hallways made my stomach twist. I needed space to think, away from those knowing little eyes and Ridley's intense gaze.

So I did what any mature adult would do: I ran away. I mumbled something about checking on my apartment plants and was in my car before anyone could question me further.

As I drove toward my apartment in North Tower, guilt nagged at me. I was being a coward, and I knew it. But sometimes retreat is necessary before you can advance again.

I just needed time to figure out what this meant—for me, for Ridley, for the children who had so clearly decided we belonged together.

And maybe, just maybe, to find the courage to ask Ridley what exactly he'd meant by those six words that had turned my world upside down.