Chapter 681 Maggie, This is Your Daddy 1
The car was thick with the scent of fresh tobacco.
Avery rolled the window all the way down, letting the night air strip the smoke from the cabin. His hands rested on the wheel, fingers brushing the leather as though steadying himself. Then, without another thought, he pressed the accelerator and headed for Isadora's villa.
The night wind cut across his face, sharpening his focus and hardening his expression.
A drive that should have taken forty minutes took him twenty-five. He arrived five minutes before Isadora.
He killed the engine in the shadows and waited.
Spring nights were quiet.
Somewhere far off, fireworks bloomed and faded, their colors too distant to feel alive. They reminded him of what he and Isadora had always been — sparks that never quite caught fire.
They had never even said the word love.
And yet, they had a child.
Maggie. He was sure it was the little girl he had seen in the parking lot — round face, short hair brushing her jaw, too thin but striking all the same. Her features leaned toward the Montague bloodline. Prettier than Isadora. Prettier than Serafina.
A car approached from behind. Isadora.
The white Bentley rolled over the frost, the sound soft and crisp. The villa's gate opened. In the dark, Maggie's voice rang out, sweet and clear. "Mommy."
The porch light blinked on. The nanny from Vesper City stepped out, holding Maggie, smiling toward the Bentley.
Isadora stopped the car, opened the passenger door, and called Maggie over. The girl lit up. Even for the short walk from the gate, she wanted to ride in her mother's car.
The nanny shut the door for them.
A tall figure stepped out of the shadows, opened the rear door, and slid inside.
The nanny froze, pointing at him, her voice trembling, "Who are you? How did you—"
Avery leaned back, his gaze steady, his face impossibly composed. The nanny's words faltered.
God.
She had never seen a man like this — not in the streets, not on television. Every line of his face looked carved, his skin flawless. And the more she looked, the more he resembled Maggie. Could he be…?
The nanny shut the door without another word.
Silence filled the car. Isadora's heartbeat thudded in her ears. Maggie turned in her seat, studying Avery's face, then glanced at her mother, confusion shining in her jewel-bright eyes.
Isadora knew. He had found out. There was no point hiding it anymore. She spoke gently. "Maggie, this is your daddy."
"Daddy."
The word was soft, uncertain.
In Maggie's world, the word father barely existed. In Vesper City, she lived with the nanny in a well-kept apartment.
Neighbors had never seen a man in the house. Some whispered she must have been born out of an affair.
Now, suddenly, she had a father.
Before she could process it, Avery reached for her, lifting her into his lap. He studied her face. No DNA test was needed. The Montague features were unmistakable.
Maggie sat stiffly at first, shy but curious. His gaze was warm, protective, and she didn't fear him. She even dared to reach up and touch his face.
In her head, she thought, 'Daddy is so handsome. His eyes are deep, his nose perfect, and he smells so nice.'
Then she buried herself in his arms, as if she had already chosen sides.
In the front seat, Isadora's expression darkened. She pressed the gas, and within seconds they were in front of the small villa. She caught Avery's reflection in the rearview mirror, but he didn't look at her. He stepped out, still holding Maggie.
The porch light cast his shadow long and straight across the steps. Maggie clung to his neck, glancing back at her mother. Children could always sense the undercurrents between adults.
This was Isadora's home, but Avery moved like he belonged here. The household staff took one look at him — the authority in his bearing — and said nothing as he carried Maggie upstairs.
"Ms. Penrose, what is—?" one of them began.
"He's Maggie's father. Go rest," Isadora said, hanging her coat in the foyer.
Her hand hesitated on the hanger. Was Avery here only to acknowledge Maggie? Or was he planning to take her away?
Under the crystal chandelier, her face was pale.
Upstairs, in the child's bedroom, Avery moved with surprising ease. He had never been a father, but he had held Abigail, spent time with Luna. A daughter was new, but not overwhelming.
Maggie was already smitten. Children wanted simple things — to keep the people they liked close. She piled her storybooks and toys into his lap, looking up at him with pride, waiting for his praise. Waiting for him to tuck her in.
Avery smiled.
She wriggled out of her little coat, climbed into bed in her cartoon pajamas, and looked at him expectantly.
He understood. He leaned against the headboard, letting her curl into his side, and began to read The Little Mermaid in his deep, steady voice.
She fell asleep before the story ended.
Her small hand clung to his arm, her breath warm and sweet against him. She was five — old enough for school — and Isadora had hidden her away in Vesper City all this time.
He set the book aside but didn't turn off the light. He wanted to see her face, to memorize every detail of the child Isadora had given him.
The house was quiet. Footsteps approached. The door opened.
Isadora stood there, a glass of milk in her hand.
"She's asleep?" she asked softly.
Avery looked up at her, his eyes unreadable.
After a long pause, he asked quietly, "Was it that night?"
Color rose in her cheeks. She hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. That night."
"Why didn't you tell me?" His voice was low, but the weight in it was unmistakable. "You had so many chances, Isadora. But you stayed silent. You kept things as they were. Was I not worth fighting for? Not even once?"
Under the light, her face was pale.
She knew what he meant. It was about Jacob — about the fact she had once loved another man. It was true. She couldn't deny it. And now, she only wanted to understand what Avery wanted from her.
When she asked, his expression deepened.
He countered, "What do you think?"