Chapter 167: Moving (Part 1)
After walking back from Jack’s apartment, Alison made up her mind to change.
First the apartment, then even her phone number. In just two days, she had already made it—she always acted quickly.
She did it all to spare him from a dilemma, to stop his mother from using her own life as a threat.
Although she had hired professional movers, by the time they settled into the new place, she sat amid the chaos, utterly drained.
In just a few short months, this was their second move. Ethan was thoroughly fed up, his little face full of discontent.
“Mom, why do we have to move again?”
“Because it’s safe here. I heard there were child traffickers around our old place. Mommy was afraid bad people would take you two away. Too dangerous,” she said gravely—though the real bad man she referred to might be their father, Jack.
“Mom, does Dad know we moved? If he comes looking for us, won’t he be lost? And why didn’t Dad help us move?” Ethan pressed.
“Daddy’s family member is sick and in the hospital, so he can’t come right now. You two have to be good, okay?” She explained, conceding at last that Jack was their father.
She sighed. She truly didn’t want to place the children in a dilemma.
After all, it had been so short a time since they’d tasted the joy of having a father.
From now on, she planned to live peacefully with only her children.
After packing everything up busily, she flopped onto the bed and soon drifted off to sleep.
She had thought moving quietly would let her slip under everyone’s radar. But she forgot about Aimée—whose spies had already found out exactly where she had moved.
⸻
“Mom, this is chicken soup Aimée made herself. The doctor said you need nourishment; otherwise, your wounds won’t heal properly. Just drink it,” Jack coaxed.
Isabella took a sip, then frowned. “This doesn’t taste right. Aimée’s stew never tasted like this.”
“It is hers,” Jack replied.
“The chicken soup Aimée made the day before yesterday was so delicious. How could it taste different after just one day?” Isabella muttered.
Aimée approached, one hand pressed to her lower abdomen, always reminding Jack and Isabella she was now expecting.
“Auntie, I simmered this chicken soup using medicinal cuisine methods. What’s wrong? Doesn’t it taste good?”
Isabella chuckled softly. “Hmm, I just think the one from the other day was better.”
Deep down, Jack knew this soup wasn’t Aimée’s work—he had never seen her cook. She had walked in carrying the pot, insisting she’d prepared it herself, and he had no choice but to play along.
He turned to Aimée. “Could you make it the same way you did the day before yesterday? Aimée.”
Aimée agreed, cursing Alison inside. That wretched woman, why make things so difficult? How can I compete with a housewife?
She had scoured cookbooks to replicate it, even hired a professional chef today. Yet Isabella still dismissed it, making Aimée’s head snap up.
Isabella waved her hand. “Never mind. Just make some porridge. Jack, give my shoulders a rub. They’re stiff.”
She kept constant watch on her son—never allowing him the chance to see Alison.
Jack responded with a reluctant nod. If not for his mother’s endless suicide threats, he would have fled this hospital long ago. She had even confiscated his phone, determined to sever his link to Alison.
He wasn’t nervous at all, firmly believing Alison would wait for him outside.
As he rubbed his mother’s shoulders, he thought: once her injuries healed, he would arrange round-the-clock care. He was certain that if he persisted, he would eventually win her over.
Aimée had left, likely to prepare chicken soup or congee.
The longer he spent with her, the more he sensed her insincerity. She couldn’t even cook properly, yet insisted the soup was hers—and this time, she had been exposed.
He turned to Isabella. “Mom, you’ll be discharged in two days. Do you want to move back to the old house, or the new villa?”
Without hesitation, Isabella replied, “I want to live with you.”