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Mated to My Fiancé’s Alpha King Brother

Chapter 57
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57 Chapter 57

57 Chapter 57

Damien’s POV 1

The sound of my phone buzzing on the nightstand joltedawake at exactly 5:47 AM. For a heart-stopping

moment, panic flooded my system as | reached for it, expecting semergency from the northern territories

where Sera was conducting her heritage search.

Instead, | found a text from Ophelia.

*Emergency at the hospital. My mom had a stroke. Can you handle Adrian today? I'm so sorry - | know this is last

minute but | can’t

reach anyone else and | have to get to Portland immediately.*

| scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to shake off the lingering drowsiness. Of course | could handle Adrian

for a day. How hard

could it be?

*Of course. Take care of your mom. Adrian will be fine.*

Her response cimmediately: *Thank you SO much. I'll leave the spare key under the flower pot by the door.

He knows the routine. *

Twenty minutes later, | stood outside Sera’s modest apartment building, still slightly disoriented by the early

hour and the suburban

quiet. The key was exactly where she'd said it would be, hidden beneath a ceramic pot containing.

I let myself in as quietly as possible, not wanting to wake Adrian before necessary.

“Mr. Damien?” A small voice drifted from the direction of bedroom. “Is that you?”

“Yeah, buddy, it's me, | called softly, following the sound of his voice down a short hallway. “Aunt Ophelia had to

go help her mom, so I'm

going to hang out with you today.”

Adrian’s bedroom door was cracked open. He was sitting up in bed, his dark curls sticking up at impossible

angles and his blue eyes still

heavy with sleep. He wore Spider-Man pajamas that were slightly too big for his small frame, the sleeves

covering his hands completely.

“Is her mom going to be okay?”

Follow on NovᴇlEnglish.nᴇt

“I think so,” | said honestly, settling on the edge of his bed carefully. The mattress dipped under my weight, and

he scooted closer

without seeming to realize he was doing it. “But Aunt Ophelia wants to be there with her, just like how your

mommy would want to be

there if you got hurt.”

Adrian nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with this explanation. “Are we going to have adventures today?”

“What kind of adventures do you usually have?” | asked, genuinely curious about how a four-year-old structured

his days.

“Well,” Adrian said, settling back against his pillows and adopting the tone of someone preparing to deliver a

comprehensive lecture, “first we have breakfast. Aunt Ophelia makes really good pancakes, but she says they're

not as good as Mommy's. Then we brush teeth

and get dressed and maybe watch cartoons if there’s tbefore school.”

Right. School. | glanced at the clock on his nightstand and realized we had exactly forty-seven minutes to

accomplish all of those tasks

and get him to his preschool on time.

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57 Chapter 57

“Pancakes it is,” | said, standing up with more confidence than | felt. “But we need to get moving if we're going

to make it to school on

time.”

Adrian bounced out of bed with the kind of instant energy that only children seemed capable of summoning. “I

can help! I'm really good

at stirring.”

The kitchen proved to be my first major challenge. Ophelia had thoughtfully left out a box of pancake mix and a

note with basic instructions, but she'd apparently overestimated my domestic capabilities. The note cheerfully

suggested “just add water and stir!”

Adrian proved to be an excellent sous chef, chattering continuously as we worked through the pancake process.

He toldabout his friend at school who could allegedly burp the alphabet, about the new teacher who wore

“sparkly” earrings, and about a book Sera had

been reading to him about dragons who lived in libraries.

| attempted to flip our first pancake with disastrous results. “Mommy says that’s how you get really smart-by

reading lots of books.”

“Your mommy is very wise,” | agreed, scraping pancake fragments off the pan with growing dismay. How had

something so simple gone

so wrong so quickly?

“Here, letshow you,” Adrian said, reaching for the spatula with the fearless confidence of someone who had

never doubted his own

abilities. “You have to wait for the bubbles on top, and then you flip it really fast. Like this!”

With surprising skill for someone whose hands were barely large enough to grip the handle properly, he

demonstrated the proper pancake-flipping technique. The pancake landed perfectly in the pan, golden brown

and intact.

“Where did you learn to do that?” | asked, genuinely impressed.

“Mommy taught me,” he said proudly. “She says everyone should know how to cook at least a little bit, even

boys.”

We managed to produce a stack of reasonably edible pancakes, which Adrian declared “almost as good as

Mommy's but better than the

cafeteria ones.” Victory, apparently, cin small and sticky packages.

His preschool was a bright, cheerful building that buzzed with the controlled chaos of dozens of small children

arriving for their day. | watched other parents navigating the drop-off routine with practiced ease, and tried to

project the scasual competence despite

feeling completely out of my element.

“Mr. Damien, Adrian said as | walked him to his classroom, his small hand warm in mine. “Will you pickup

today too?”

“If that’s what you want,” | said, surprised by how much | hoped his answer would be yes.

“Good, he said with satisfaction. “I want to show you the picture I'm going to draw of you today. I'm going to

make you really tall and

give you superhero muscles.”

“Have a wonderful day, sweetie,” | said, crouching down to Adrian’s level. Without hesitation, he threw his small

arms around my neck in

a hug that was brief but fierce.

“You too, Mr. Damien,” he said solemnly. “Don’t forget to eat lunch. Mommy says you sometimes forget to eat

when you're working.”

When | arrived at the school that afternoon, Adrian crunning towardwith the kind of uninhibited joy that

made several other parents smile. He crashed into my legs with enough force to makestagger slightly, his

backpack bouncing against his back.

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“Mr. Damien! Look what | made!” He thrust a piece of construction paper at me, practically vibrating with

excitement.

The drawing was clearly meant to be me-a very tall stick figure with what appeared to be a business suit and an

expression that could generously be described as “serious.” Beside the stick figure was a much smaller figure

labeled “ADRIAN” in careful block letters, and both figures were surrounded by what looked like hearts and stars.

“This is incredible,” | said honestly, studying the artwork with the attention I usually reserved for multimillion-

dollar contracts. “I'm

definitely putting this on my office wall.”

By the twe returned to the apartment, Adrian's energy had finally begun to flag slightly. We settled on the

couch with a stack of his

favorite books. His warm weight against my side was surprisingly comforting.

“Mr. Damien?” he said quietly as | finished reading about a lost penguin finding his way home.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Do you think Mommy misses us?”

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