Chapter 218 A husband that won't give up
Chapter 218 A husband that won't give up
As soon as Elisa’s footsteps faded away up the grand staircase, Ridge let out a breath that sounded like a tire deflating under a semi-truck. His broad shoulders slumped. He looked down at the floor, where the official DNA lab reports were scattered like confetti after a very expensive, very illegal disaster.
"Damn it," Ridge muttered under his breath, dropping to one knee with the agility of a tactical enforcer.
He scrambled across the polished marble, frantically gathering up the papers. He checked over his shoulder, his dark eyes darting toward the service archway to ensure none of the maids were peeking. The last thing he needed was for the household staff to draft a memo titled: How the Billionaire Boss Successfully Ruined His Own Marriage in Under Sixty Seconds.
He shoved the crumpled manila folder into his jacket, his chest tightening. Doomed. That was the only word for it. He was completely, utterly doomed.
Worse yet, he didn't even know how the damn file had ended up there in the first place! Weeks ago, he had deliberately locked that folder away in a secure, biometric-sealed drawer at his downtown headquarters, far away from any prying eyes—especially his own. He had wanted it out of sight, out of mind, because Dr. Francis, the sharp-tongued family physician, had hammered it into his thick skull months ago: “The child is yours, Mr. Lockhart. The biology is indisputable. Stop running secret lab work and look at your wife. She chose you.”
Ridge hadn't needed a second telling. He already knew Sunny was his. He had known it in his bones from the moment Elisa held the baby against her chest. The DNA test had merely been a paranoid reflex of a man whose entire life had been spent dodging bullets, poisoned martinis, and corporate backstappers. He had brought the file home over the weekend to shred it in his personal shredder, and somehow, through some cosmic act of divine punishment, it had migrated to the top of a stack of wedding gifts.
And now? Now he was enemy number one in his own fortress.
Ridge stood up slowly, clutching the bouquet of blood-red roses he had bought just twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes ago, he had been a romantic god walking on sunshine. Now he felt like a stray dog carrying a stick of dynamite.
He ran a hand over his face, a sudden, bizarre memory flashing through his mind. God, women and their moods.
It felt like they had been thrown straight back to the day they first met, back when Elisa had looked at him with enough fiery hatred to melt an ice cap, snapping at him, and acting like a feral cat cornered in a dark alley. Back then, the sheer tension between them had been so electric, so wildly toxic, that he used to laugh at the memory of it. Right now, standing outside his master bedroom, he wasn't laughing. He was sweating through a custom silk shirt.
To make matters worse, his morning hadn't even started with drama. In fact, he had woken up feeling remarkably... vibrant. Let's be honest: Ridge Lockhart had been feeling a bit horny that morning. He had rolled over, ready to wake his gorgeous new bride with a demonstration of marital enthusiasm, only to see Elisa sleeping peacefully, completely exhausted from the wedding whirlwind. Being a reformed, considerate husband, he decided not to disturb her beauty sleep. Instead, he had gone out to cool off, clear his head, and pick up some flowers to appreciate her even more.
And look where appreciation got you, genius, he scolded himself, rubbing the back of his neck.
He pushed the door to the master suite open a fraction, slipping inside like a ghost.
The room was bathed in soft, morning light. Sitting comfortably in the plush velvet armchair by the window was Elisa. She had already retrieved baby Sunny from the nursery, and the little guy was currently parked across her chest, greedily nursing with the enthusiasm of a tiny, professional milk-thief.
Ridge froze in the doorway, his eyes locking onto the scene.
A sudden, inconvenient wave of heat hit him. The morning arousal he thought he had successfully cooled off outside suddenly roared back to life with a vengeance. Watching his wife, with her vibrant red hair tumbling over her shoulders, nursing their son in the quiet sunlight... it was dangerously, intoxicatingly domestic.
For a wild, crazy second, his brain,functioning at about ten percent capacity due to pure testosterone,thought: Hey, maybe I could walk over there, apologize, and ask if I can sample some of that milk too, seeing as I'm still a bit—
“STOP,” his survival instincts screamed louder than a fire alarm. “She will literally murder you with a letter opener, Lockhart!”
The memory of Elisa’s red, furious face downstairs flashed before his eyes. He had never seen that rageous before. He swallowed hard, realizing that asking for a taste of breast milk right after being accused of tyranny and paranoia was a fantastic way to end up sleeping permanently in the doghouse or the morgue.
Wisdom, for once, won over impulse.
Ridge tip-toed across the carpet like a giant, terrified bear. He carefully, silently placed the bouquet of blood-red roses on the edge of the mahogany dresser, making sure they were arranged nicely. Then, he backed away slowly toward the door, keeping his hands up where she could see them if she happened to look up.
Elisa didn't look up. She kept her dark eyes fixed on Sunny, gently stroking the baby's head, radiating an aura of chilling, untouchable frost that could have frozen Lake Michigan in July.
Ridge slipped out of the room, pulling the door shut with the gentleness of a feather landing on a pillow.
He stood in the hallway, letting out a long, shuddering sigh. He had flowers on the dresser, a furious wife inside the room, a secret DNA test burning a hole in his jacket pocket, and a very confused libido that needed to go take a cold shower.
"Alright," Ridge whispered to the empty hallway, rolling up his sleeves with a grim, determined smirk. "You wanted it on your terms, Mrs. Lockhart. Let’s see how you handle a husband who refuses to quit."