Chapter 33 Ethan's Kid

Chapter 33 Ethan's Kid
Liana's POV

The sudden sharp shriek cut through the low hum of the ice cream parlor. Every head, including mine, swiveled towards the sound like a well-rehearsed chorus. And there they were. Ethan, his silhouette instantly recognizable even from behind, and Clara, her bright blonde hair unmistakable. Between them, a small, pink-clad whirlwind. A little girl, perhaps three or four, stood rooted to the spot, a melting mountain of strawberry ice cream pooling around her tiny patent leather shoes. Fat, silent tears streamed down her face, and her small shoulders shook with each sob. Clara knelt, her voice a soft, frantic murmur I couldn’t quite decipher from this distance, trying to pat the child’s back. Ethan, on the other hand, stood like a statue carved from granite, a deep frown etched across his handsome face. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed, not on the sobbing child, but on Clara.

The little girl wouldn’t stop. Her cries, initially muffled, now rose in pitch, a desperate, wailing sound that grated on the nerves. Ethan’s voice, when he finally spoke again, was sharper, closer to a hiss than a word. I still couldn’t make out the exact words but the stiff set of Clara’s shoulders and the way she flinched told me plenty.

Then his voice carried, clear and cruel, across the relatively quiet space. “This is exactly what I mean, Clara. You’ve taught her to throw these tantrums. You haven’t taught her responsibility, only how to get what she wants by making a scene.” He gestured wildly with one hand, encompassing the crying child, the splattered ice cream, and the curious stares of the other patrons. “Look at this. She’s disgracing me. Right here, in public.”

My breath hitched. My hand, which had been idly tracing the rim of my empty sundae glass, froze. Disgracing him? My gaze darted between Ethan’s furious face and Clara, who now looked less soothing and more defensive.

Aiden, who had been chatting quietly with Liam about the various candy toppings, suddenly went still beside me. I felt his eyes on me before I even turned. My menu, which I had forgotten I was holding, was still up, mostly shielding my face. Only my eyes, wide and probably a little horrified, peeked over the top.

“You know them?” Aiden’s voice was low, a question more than an accusation.

I didn’t answer immediately. My mind was reeling. This wasn’t the picture of domestic bliss they had so carefully painted for me. The almost sickeningly sweet smiles, the playful touches, the suggestive whispers – all designed, I now realized, to twist the knife, to show me what I supposedly lost. This public spectacle, this raw, unfiltered anger, felt far more real, far more ugly. Ethan looked genuinely disgusted, his jaw tight, his lips thinning into a colorless line. Clara’s face was flushed, a mix of humiliation and rising anger.

The little girl continued her relentless, heartbreaking cries. Most of the patrons had stopped pretending not to stare. Their hushed conversations had died, replaced by an awkward, tense silence punctuated only by the child’s sobs and the occasional frustrated sigh from Ethan. It was thick with discomfort, a shared sense of wanting to escape.

“She’s not mine to take, Ethan!” Clara’s voice cracked, finally rising to meet his in volume. She had stood up now, hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. “She’s your child! Don’t you dare stand there and act like you didn’t get me pregnant! Don’t you dare act like I conjured her out of thin air!” Her voice trembled with outrage. “Take your own child, Ethan. When we’re done with our ‘little scene.’ Don’t blame me for your daughter’s behavior.”

My jaw dropped. The words hung in the air, a raw, undeniable declaration. Your child. The child he had so carefully kept hidden from me during our entire relationship. The child he had conveniently forgotten to mention. The child he now publicly disavowed in a fit of temper.

Liam, bless his innocent heart, peered around Aiden. He had been quietly working on his own ice cream sundae, a mountain of chocolate and whipped cream. He looked up, his brow furrowed with concern. The shrill cries seemed to affect him particularly.

“Maybe,” Liam began, his small voice surprisingly clear in the tense silence, “maybe if I give her some of my ice cream, she’ll stop crying.” He made as if to push his enormous sundae across the table, his eyes earnest. He looked ready to slide out of his seat and offer it himself.

A sudden, unexpected surge of protectiveness, of raw anxiety, shot through me. I didn't want him anywhere near this explosive situation. I didn't want him near them. My voice, when it came out, was sharper than I intended, laced with an urgency I rarely showed to Liam. "Liam, no! Stay in your seat. You are not to move from this table."

The words hung heavy. My own voice, tight with unfamiliar sternness, startled me as much as it must have startled him. Liam's eyes, usually so bright with mischief, widened slightly. The surprise on his face reflected the fact that I rarely, if ever, spoke to him with such an edge. He looked at me, a brief, questioning glance, before turning towards Aiden, seeking solace or an explanation. He scooted a little closer to Aiden, finding comfort in his father’s familiar presence.

Aiden, sensing my sudden tension and Liam’s reaction, placed a large, reassuring hand on my arm. His thumb stroked gently, a silent attempt to calm me. “Liana, it’s okay. Calm down.” His voice was a low murmur, only for me.

My gaze snapped back to the scene unfolding – a car crash I couldn’t tear my eyes from. Ethan, his face now a mask of cold fury, had reached into his wallet. He pulled out a sleek black card and thrust it towards the young woman behind the counter, who stood with wide, sympathetic eyes, struggling to avoid eye contact with Clara. “Here,” he clipped, his voice devoid of any warmth. “This is for the ice cream. Take care of it.” He didn’t even glance at the child or the mess. His eyes were fixed on Clara, a dangerous glint in them. “Meet me in the car, Clara. When you and your daughter are quite finished with your pathetic little scene.”

With that, he turned on his heel. His broad back, stiff with indignation, disappeared through the parlor doors, leaving a furious Clara, a still-sobbing child, and a room full of stunned onlookers behind him. The sound of the bell above the door chimed, a final, poignant punctuation mark to his dramatic exit. Clara stood frozen for a moment, her face a canvas of conflicting emotions – anger, hurt, shame. Then, slowly, she knelt again, her hands reaching for the little girl, ignoring the melted ice cream, ignoring everyone else in the room. Her shoulders slumped, and for the first time, she looked utterly defeated.