On the day of the twins' birthday, the CEO wife brought her first love home.

Watching the two of them together, inseparable, Wilfred Dickerson finally decided to let go.

"Hildegarde, I don't love you anymore. I'm setting you free."

"Wilfred, can you please stop making a scene?"

"I'm not making a scene. From now on, I just want to live for myself."

Five years ago, Hildegarde Pruitt—the eldest daughter of one of Cloudhaven's most powerful families—had her heart shattered when her childhood sweetheart abandoned her for a marriage alliance overseas.

In her despair, she agreed to an arranged marriage of her own.

After the wedding, Wilfred gave up everything for her. He believed his devotion could melt her icy heart, that sincerity would be met with sincerity. But in the end, it was nothing more than wishful thinking.

Hildegarde's heart had always belonged to the man who left her.

Now, that man was back.

Wilfred finally saw things clearly. He decided to give them both a dignified way out.

That day, he carried his luggage in one hand and his daughter in the other, walking past Hildegarde and her first love without a word.

Hildegarde barely glanced at him. Her voice was cool and detached. "Wilfred, if you walk out that door today, don't think you can come back so easily."

"Don't worry, Hildegarde. I won't be coming back."

"From here on out, our paths won't cross again."

——

For the twins' birthday banquet, Hildegarde had invited nearly every prominent figure in Cloudhaven's business circles.

At the head table, Hilary Pruitt clung to Patrick Lyons's arm, calling him "Daddy Patrick" with sugary affection.

Patrick smiled and lifted the five-year-old onto his lap, planting a kiss on her chubby cheek. Then he turned to look at Wilfred, who stood off to the side like hired help, and smirked.

"Now, Hilary, that's not quite right. Wilfred is your real father. When there are people around, you should call me Uncle Patrick. When we're alone, then you can call me Daddy Patrick."

Laughter rippled through the banquet hall.

All eyes turned to Wilfred, glinting with amusement.

Hildegarde spared him a single glance, her gaze as cold as frost. "Wilfred, what are you standing there for?"

"Patrick said he wanted those butter tarts you make. Why haven't you brought them out yet?"

Wilfred slowly lifted his head. His eyes moved from Hilary to Hildegarde.

Hildegarde Pruitt was the eldest daughter of the Pruitt family, one of Cloudhaven's five great houses. At only twenty-six, she helmed the Pruitt Group, with a net worth approaching ten billion dollars. Every man in Cloudhaven considered her the untouchable goddess of the business world.

Five years ago, her childhood sweetheart Patrick Lyons had left to marry another woman abroad.

The news had devastated her. She drowned herself in alcohol night after night.

One evening, stumbling out of a bar, she was cornered by a group of thugs. They dragged her into an alley, and just as they were about to assault her, Wilfred—on his way home from work—intervened without hesitation.

He fought them off and pulled her from their grasp.

That night, whether out of gratitude or revenge against the man who'd abandoned her, they checked into a hotel and spent the night together.

The next morning, Wilfred woke with his body aching. Hildegarde was already dressed, watching him with cold eyes. She gave him two choices.

One: Go to Family Court with her and register their marriage. Become a live-in son-in-law for the Pruitt family.

Two: She would accuse him of assault and personally see him put on trial.

He chose the first option without hesitation.

And just like that, for the next five years, he stumbled into life as the Pruitt family's live-in son-in-law.

Hildegarde gave him twin daughters, as lovely as porcelain dolls.

To repay her for bearing his children, Wilfred willingly stayed, taking on the role of househusband—cooking, cleaning, caring for the elderly and the young.

For Hildegarde, for his two precious daughters, he poured his youth into the kitchen without a single complaint.

Then, six months ago, Patrick ended his four-and-a-half-year marriage abroad and returned to Cloudhaven.

From that point on, Hildegarde came home less and less.

A week ago, she claimed she had a business trip. Instead, she took Patrick and Hilary to Phuket for a vacation.

That day, Hildegarde forgot to restrict her social media post. She uploaded a photo of herself and Patrick holding Hilary on a sunlit beach—a perfect "family portrait."

It was also their wedding anniversary.

When Wilfred saw that photo, his heart shattered.

"Mommy, Mommy! I don't want Daddy! I don't want Daddy! I want Daddy Patrick to be my daddy! Daddy is no good at anything. He's just a boring old hick!"

Hilary's shrill voice cut through his thoughts.

Hildegarde gazed at Patrick, her eyes soft with affection. She pinched Hilary's rosy cheek and cooed, "Alright, alright. Daddy Patrick can be your daddy. Mommy promises, okay?"

Then she turned to Wilfred, and her expression went cold again.

"Wilfred, what are you still doing here? Haven't you embarrassed yourself enough? Get to the kitchen and make Patrick's tarts!"

Wilfred's heart felt like it was being carved up with a knife.

Everything inside him turned to ash.

Without a word, he walked back to the kitchen.

He carefully removed the birthday cake he'd baked from the oven—his final gift to his daughters.

Once he brought the cake out and celebrated one last birthday with them, he would leave this house forever.

Then a small hand wrapped around his leg from behind.

"Daddy!"

Wilfred looked down.

It was Penelope Dickerson.

Hildegarde had given him twin daughters. The elder was Hilary; the younger was Penelope.

Looking at Penelope's delicate face and her wide, innocent eyes, Wilfred fought back tears. He reached down and stroked her hair. "Tell Daddy—what's your birthday wish?"

"I want to be with Daddy forever."

"Daddy... are you going to divorce Mommy?"

Penelope's big eyes brimmed with hurt.

She was the younger twin, but she was remarkably bright. At three, she'd shown intelligence far beyond her years. By four, Wilfred had started teaching her calligraphy.

After a year of practice, she could already read many characters.

She must have found the divorce papers he'd hidden in his study drawer.

Wilfred couldn't hold back any longer. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

He knelt and pulled her into his arms.

"Then let me ask you something. If Daddy really divorces Mommy, do you want to stay with Daddy, or with Mommy and your sister?"

"I want Daddy!"

Wilfred smiled.

His battered heart finally found a sliver of comfort.

He took Penelope's small hand in his.

In that moment, his resolve solidified.

If Hildegarde wanted to be with her childhood sweetheart, if Hilary wanted Patrick to be her father—fine. He would give them what they wanted.

All he needed was Penelope.

He pushed open the kitchen door, walked into the dining room, and set the cake on the table.

"Hilary, this is the cake Daddy made for you."

"I don't want it! I don't want it! I don't want Daddy's ugly cake! It's so ugly! I want the fancy cream cake Daddy Patrick is getting me—the one with lots and lots of chocolate!"

Hilary shook her head furiously from Patrick's lap.

"Of course, of course. Daddy Patrick will get it for you." Patrick held her close, his voice dripping with indulgence.

Hildegarde sat beside them, a faint smile on her lips.

In that moment, the three of them looked more like a real family than Wilfred ever had with them.

"Hilary, you can't eat chocolate cake!" Penelope piped up, her voice soft but urgent. "Don't you remember what the doctor said? You and I are both allergic to chocolate. If you eat it, you'll get all red and bumpy!"

"Oh, just a little bit won't hurt!" Patrick waved dismissively, still holding Hilary. But when his gaze shifted to Penelope, a flicker of distaste crossed his face.

Penelope was perceptive. She didn't like Patrick, and he didn't like her.

Hildegarde's expression remained icy. "Wilfred, take that cake away. Patrick already ordered a proper one. It'll be here soon."

Wilfred didn't move.

Instead, he picked up a knife and cut the cake in half. He held out one piece to Hilary.

"Hilary, listen to Daddy. Your sister's right—you can't have chocolate cake. It'll make you sick."

"No! No! No!" Hilary wailed. "Your cake is ugly! It's ugly just like you! I'm not eating your stupid cake! I'm waiting for Daddy Patrick's big chocolate cream cake!"

"Wilfred, do you not understand plain English?!"

Hildegarde shot to her feet. "Take your pathetic cake and get it out of here. My daughter doesn't want it!"

"If she doesn't want it, then she doesn't have to eat it."

Wilfred looked at Hilary, and a calm smile settled on his face. "Hilary, you just said you want Daddy Patrick to be your real daddy, right? If that's your birthday wish, then Daddy will make it come true."

"From now on, Daddy Patrick is your daddy."

He lifted his head and met Hildegarde's eyes. His gaze was steady, more peaceful than it had ever been.

"Hildegarde, let's get a divorce. Starting today, Hilary stays with you. Penelope comes with me."

The room fell silent.

Every eye turned to Wilfred.

No one had expected this—not here, not now, not at his twin daughters' birthday party.

Hildegarde certainly hadn't.

In five years of marriage, Wilfred had always been meek, careful, obedient. He never dared step out of line. Yet here he was, demanding a divorce in front of everyone.

Where had he found the nerve?

Had he lost his mind?

"Wilfred, are you trying to pick a fight with me?"

"No. This isn't a fight. I mean every word."

He shook his head. "Hildegarde, there's only ever been one man in your heart, and it isn't me. Hilary has never seen me as her father either."

"For five years, you've taken her abroad every year. I know exactly what those trips are about."

"I'm in the way. So I'm stepping aside."

"Hilary, this is the last birthday I'll celebrate with you. Happy birthday."

With that, Wilfred took his younger daughter Penelope by the hand. His voice softened. "Penelope, come with Daddy."

"Okay." She nodded firmly.

"Wilfred!"

Hildegarde's composure shattered. She slammed her palm against the cake, sending it toppling. Her pale face flushed crimson. "You're making a scene in front of all these people! Are you trying to humiliate me?"

"I'll say this once more. Get back here. Take Penelope and go upstairs."

"This is your last chance!"

Wilfred didn't stop. Didn't turn around. Holding Penelope's hand, he walked toward the door, dozens of stares following him.

"Tomorrow. Two o'clock. Family Court."

Outside, a light rain had begun to fall.

Wilfred had brought an umbrella. He opened it, lifted Penelope into his arms, and carried her to the parking lot.

He settled her into the car seat in the back, then paused. She'd been so quiet, so well-behaved through all of it. His heart ached. He kissed her forehead.

"Penelope, Daddy's taking you away from Mommy and your sister. Do you blame me?"

"No." Her voice was small but unwavering. "Mommy wants to be with Uncle Patrick. She doesn't want us anymore. If she doesn't want us, we don't want her either."

"Alright. Daddy will take care of you from now on."

Something tightened in his chest.

He started the car and drove toward the Dickerson residence.

At the Pruitt house, the guests shifted uncomfortably.

"Hildegarde, don't be upset. Wilfred's clearly misunderstood something. Let me go explain—"

Patrick set Hilary down and made to stand, but Hildegarde caught his arm.

"Don't bother, Patrick."

"Trust me. He won't go through with it. Without me, he's nothing."

In Hildegarde's eyes, Wilfred had always been nothing more than a glorified housekeeper. For five years, all he'd done was cook, clean, and watch the children. He had no skills, no career, no standing.

She refused to believe a man who depended entirely on her would actually dare leave.

What would he eat? Where would he go?

She was convinced he couldn't survive a single day on his own.

"He'll come crawling back tonight."

She lifted Hilary into her arms and turned to face the guests with an apologetic bow. "I'm sorry, everyone. Forgive the spectacle."

"Oh, it's nothing, Ms. Pruitt. Couples argue. He'll be back before you know it."

"Honestly, a woman of your caliber, your looks—married to him? What a waste."

"If you ask me, you and Patrick are the real match."

"Patrick! How about a toast with Ms. Pruitt? A lovers' cup!"

"Yes, yes! A toast!"

Patrick raised his glass, gazing at Hildegarde with practiced tenderness. "Hildegarde, you've put up with so much these past five years. Let me drink to you."

"Thank you, Patrick. But I'm not feeling well. I'll pass."

She shook her head.

Her period had started, and she couldn't drink. Besides, she was still seething.

Wilfred had humiliated her in front of everyone. She wanted nothing more than to drag him back and force him to his knees, to make him apologize in front of every guest.

How dare he?

A man who lived off her charity. A man who couldn't survive a week without her support. How dare he demand a divorce—and act so righteous about it?

If anyone was going to file, it should have been her.

Her gaze drifted toward the door.

Wilfred, you'd better not come back. Because if you do, I'll make you regret it.

The party ended early.

Hildegarde declined Patrick's offer to stay and help. She bathed Hilary, then put her to bed.

The truth was, she wasn't used to caring for children.

For five years, Wilfred had handled nearly everything—both girls. She'd never even changed a diaper.

By the time Hilary finally fell asleep, Hildegarde was exhausted. She had just laid down when—

"Mommy, I'm itchy!"

Hilary wriggled against her like a restless kitten, scratching at her face and arms.

Hildegarde switched on the lamp. Her daughter's face was flushed red, and angry welts spread from her neck down to her chest.

An allergic reaction.

Just as Wilfred had said—both girls were allergic to chocolate. Severely. He'd always been meticulous about keeping anything with cocoa away from them.

But the cake Patrick brought tonight had been loaded with it.

Hildegarde pulled Hilary close.

"Wilfred! Hilary's having a reaction!"

Silence.

Then she remembered. Wilfred was gone. He'd taken Penelope and left.

She had no choice but to call the housekeeper.

"Ma'am, what happened to the little miss?"

The housekeeper's face went pale at the sight of Hilary's swollen skin.

"Allergic reaction," Hildegarde said.

"But how? Mr. Dickerson was always so careful about what they ate. He never let them near anything with cocoa."

"Enough! Do you know where he kept the allergy medication?"

Hildegarde's patience snapped.

"I... I don't know." The housekeeper shook her head helplessly. "Mr. Dickerson always took care of the girls himself. He kept the medicine. I have no idea where it is."

Ever since the two girls were born, Wilfred had treated them like precious treasures, afraid they might melt if he so much as breathed on them. Everything related to the children—medicine, supplies, schedules—he kept under his personal care. No one else was allowed to touch any of it.

Not even the housekeeper.

"Fine, I'll call him."

Hildegarde pulled out her phone and dialed Wilfred's number.

The number you have dialed is no longer in service.

"How dare he!"

"Wilfred, you bastard! You actually blocked my number!"

Rage flickered in Hildegarde's bright eyes.

There was no mistake—she'd been blocked. Otherwise, it wouldn't have given that message.

"That bastard. Does he think I can't take care of Hilary without him?"

"Go find it! Search everywhere! I refuse to believe he hid the allergy medicine in the sky."

Marjorie rushed to the adjoining room and began tearing through drawers and cabinets.

Nothing.

Hilary's condition was getting worse by the minute. Left with no choice, Hildegarde had Marjorie carry the child to the car and drove through the night to Children's Hospital.

After a round of emergency treatment, Hilary's allergic reaction was finally under control.

The little girl lay on the hospital bed, her small body looking pitiful.

"Mommy, can you not tell Uncle Patrick I had an allergic reaction? Otherwise he won't buy me chocolate anymore." She paused, thinking. "Actually, it's Daddy's fault. He never lets me eat chocolate. If I'd eaten more of it, I wouldn't be allergic."

Hildegarde slumped against the headboard, exhaustion carved into her face.

Hearing her daughter mention "Daddy" brought Wilfred back to mind.

Her chest felt like it was stuffed with a stone.

"Wilfred, you bastard. You blocked my phone. Your daughter had an allergic reaction, and you didn't even care. Fine. You've got nerve!"

"Go ahead—don't ever come back!"

By the time Hilary's IV finished, it was already one in the morning.

Hildegarde drove her daughter home, too exhausted to even shower. She collapsed onto the bed and sank into a dead sleep.

At six a.m., she was jolted awake by her daughter's crying.

Normally, Hildegarde slept until eight-thirty sharp. When she woke, her toothpaste and warm water would already be laid out—Wilfred always prepared them.

But today, she was dragged from sleep at six.

Her head felt like it was about to split open.

"Marjorie, what's going on?"

The housekeeper hurried in. "I'm so sorry, ma'am. The little miss woke up and started fussing. I've tried everything."

Hildegarde clawed at her tangled hair like a woman possessed. Gone was any trace of the poised, commanding CEO. Her voice came out in a near-shout: "Make her stop!"

"She's just a child! You can't even manage that? What exactly am I paying you for?"

Marjorie felt wronged. The two girls had always been Wilfred's responsibility. Since coming to this household, she'd never once been asked to handle childcare.

Of course she didn't know how.

But seeing her employer on the verge of losing it, Marjorie swallowed her words. She scooped up Hilary and hurried downstairs.

Hildegarde had mild insomnia. Once woken, she couldn't fall back asleep.

She gave up and went downstairs.

"Marjorie, make me breakfast. I want an egg and ham sandwich. The ham has to be imported from New Zealand, and the egg fried medium."

"Me too, me too! I want a bacon cheese egg burger!" Hilary chimed in with her own order.

Marjorie froze.

Cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

All of Hildegarde and the girls' meals had always been Wilfred's domain. Marjorie had never so much as touched the kitchen.

She had no idea how to make what they'd ordered. She'd never even heard of half of it.

"Um, ma'am, miss... just give me a moment. I'll call Mr. Dickerson and ask how it's done." Marjorie's face burned with embarrassment.

Hildegarde's brow furrowed.

In that moment, she realized that without Wilfred, this entire household had fallen apart.

She couldn't sleep. Now she couldn't even eat breakfast.

But she would never admit he mattered.

"Wilfred, if you've got the nerve, don't ever come back. You want a divorce? Fine. Let's divorce."

"When you can't make it out there and come crawling back begging me to remarry you, I'll make you kneel at my feet and sing 'I Surrender' for twenty-four hours straight!"

Achoo!

Miles away at the Dickerson old house, Wilfred was woken by his internal clock—and immediately sneezed hard.

He glanced at the alarm clock on the nightstand and couldn't help a bitter smile.

Five years in the Pruitt household. Every day, he'd woken at this hour to take care of the children, to take care of Hildegarde. Now it was second nature.

Even without setting an alarm, his body woke him right on schedule.

His phone rang.

He picked it up and checked the screen.

Marjorie.

After a moment's hesitation, he answered.

"Hello, Marjorie—"

"Mr. Dickerson! Ma'am and the little miss are up, and they want some kind of egg and ham sandwich—the ham has to be imported from New Zealand, the egg fried medium—and the little miss wants a bacon cheese egg burger. I don't know how to make any of this!"

Marjorie's voice cracked with panic.

Wilfred had been the man of the Pruitt house, yet he'd always been approachable, never making things difficult for the staff.

"Here's what we'll do," he said. "I'll send you the recipes right now. Just follow the steps. I'll also send you a list of Hilary's dietary needs and things to watch out for."

"Marjorie, I'm leaving Hilary in your care from now on."

"Alright, Mr. Dickerson. But... when are you coming back?"

"I'm not coming back."

"What?!" Marjorie thought she'd misheard.

"Hildegarde and I are getting divorced," Wilfred said. "I won't be involved in Pruitt family matters anymore. Don't call this number again."

He hung up before she could respond.

"Did you reach Wilfred?"

Hildegarde looked up at Marjorie, her expression cold and detached.

Marjorie nodded. "Y-yes, I got through."

"What did that bastard say? When is he crawling back?"

"Mr. Dickerson said... he said he's divorcing you. He's never coming back."

"Pfft—!"

Hildegarde had just lifted her coffee to her lips. She spat it out in a spray, eyes wide as she stared at Marjorie. "That bastard said... he said he's not coming back?"

"Yes, absolutely. That's exactly what Mr. Dickerson said. Ma'am, did you two have a fight?"

Marjorie had been off yesterday for the girls' birthday party. She had no idea what had happened between them.

"Mind your own business!"

Hildegarde shot her a glare.

Her fingers tightened around the coffee cup until her knuckles went white.

"Not coming back? Hmph. I hope you mean it!"

"Without me, Wilfred, do you really think you can survive?"

When they were together, Wilfred had cupped her face in his hands more than once and told her she was the love of his life, that she was his everything.

And now he wanted to leave her?

Could he really let go?