Leslie's POV

My son, Leon, was clinging to my leg, sobbing uncontrollably.

I crouched down and gently offered him the melted popsicle, trying to coax out a smile.

"Just one little lick, okay?"

Before the treat could even touch his lips, Bradley spun around.

He glared at us, his chest heaving with barely contained fury. Then, without saying another word, he stormed over and smacked the popsicle clean out of Leon's hand.

"Leslie! You're seriously feeding my son this kind of garbage?"

As if that wasn't enough, he yanked a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers, as if just being near us was dirtying him.

"You really can't scrub the poverty out of your bones, can you?"

Leon jumped back, startled, and broke into a loud, heartbreaking cry.

I immediately picked him up and held him close, softly whispering to calm him down. His small body trembled against mine as he buried his face in my shoulder.

Bradley froze for a second. Then, his hand hovered just inches from Leon's back, reaching out... hesitating... but at the last second, he pulled it back.

He dropped his voice, and it lost some of that aggressive edge. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"

I went completely still.

That outburst—at first, I thought I'd misheard him.

But now, there was no mistaking it.

He actually thought Leon was his son.

Seriously? He really thought I'd leave, have his kid in secret, and spend years raising him alone out of some messed-up, self-inflicted martyr complex?

"You've got the wrong idea," I said, steady and calm. "He's not your son. And if you don't mind, please step aside. I have zero interest in taking a stroll down memory lane."

My husband will be pulling up any minute now, and the last thing I need is for him to see this circus. Because trust me, Bradley's tantrum would seem like child's play compared to his.

Still, Bradley didn't budge. He stood there, simply staring at Leon as if he were trying to memorize every detail.

Then Sabrina stepped in, sliding up beside him, her arm looping through his as if staking her claim.

"Bradley, you're scaring the poor kid," she cooed, all sugar and light. "Leslie must be under a lot of pressure right now. But this little boy? He looks just over three. There's no way he's yours."

Then she rose on her toes and whispered flirtatiously in his ear, "If you want a baby, we could get married sooner and have one of our own…"

But Bradley cut her off without hesitation.

Firmly, he asserted, "That is my son. Look at him! He's handsome as hell. Who else could he take after but me?"

I almost laughed at how proud he sounded. The kind of smug confidence that only comes from someone completely delusional.

Sure, Leon inherited his dad's eyes and nose, I wouldn't deny that.

But everything else? That was entirely me. His mouth, his cheeks, that spark in his eyes that made him so uniquely himself—that all came from me.

His looks? Credit goes to me and the man who's actually his father.

Bradley didn't get to claim a single feature.

By now, people were starting to take notice. Parents and staff had begun whispering, craning their necks to see what the fuss was about.

"Wait… is that Bradley Goodman's illegitimate child?"

"Looks like a classic love triangle. Mistress versus fiancée. Oh, this is gonna be good!"

"Still, I gotta give the mistress credit. She raised the kid solo and never asked for a cent."

The gossip was spreading fast, faster than wildfire.

It was starting to show on Sabrina's face. Her charming expression briefly cracked before she quickly regained it, her voice remaining soft but tinged with passive-aggressive sympathy.

"Leslie, we're getting married soon. So, even if your son is really Bradley's child, I hope you'll continue to raise him yourself. Please don't bring unnecessary drama into our lives. Bradley and I have worked through a great deal to get to where we are. I don't want a child we didn't plan for ruining that."

She leaned into him, playing the sweet, supportive girlfriend who couldn't bear conflict.

"Bradley, maybe you could give Leslie some child support? I mean, I'm not ready to be anyone's stepmom."

Bradley's gaze snapped back to me, his fury simmering beneath his voice.

"My son is over four years old, and this is what you've turned him into? He's scrawny and underfed! You can't even take care of him right. Did it never occur to you to ask me for help? Doesn't it trouble you to see your own child like this?"

I stared at him, stunned, not just by the nerve of it, but by how confident he was rewriting reality.

Leon was three years old, and for his age, he was remarkably healthy, intelligent, strong, and more energetic than I could sometimes manage.

But in Bradley's words, Leon suddenly appeared like a neglected child raised in filth.

"I'll say this one more time," I said, voice steady but firm. "He's not your son. Leon was born in May. He just turned three. Kids his age? They're all about this size."

Bradley's brow furrowed as he pulled out his phone, clearly prepared to fact-check me as if this were a courtroom.

Typical.

He could never take no for an answer, even when the truth was staring him in the face.

Leslie's POV

Still insisting, Bradley pressed on.

"Give me your number. I'll transfer the child support now. If I want to see my son in the future, I need a way to contact you."

"That won't be necessary," I responded, my voice flat from trying to keep up with his delusions.

His tone instantly shifted, hardening with that cold, entitled edge I remembered all too well.

"The kid isn't just yours. I'm not allowed to do my part as a father?"

I exhaled sharply and frowned. My frustration was apparent, and honestly, I didn't care who noticed.

"Are you done?" I asked in exasperation. "It's been five years since we broke up, Bradley. What's the point of dragging this out now?"

He blinked as if he hadn't expected me to shut him down so directly. But after a moment, his face hardened into something smug and sharp.

"Don't flatter yourself, Leslie. You think this is about you?" Bradley said, his voice adopting his usual condescending tone used when trying to win an argument. "I just don't want my son growing up under your roof, living that kind of life. This has nothing to do with you."

His gaze shifted between me and my son, his expression gradually becoming more insinuating.

"Relax," he added, like he was doing me a favor. "Even if I had your number, I'd only use it to schedule visits. I wouldn't want Sabrina getting the wrong idea."

Then he paused, just long enough to twist the knife.

"Or is that really what this is about?" Bradley's eyebrow shot up as he asked. "You're still bitter. You're starving my son to get back at me, hoping I'll regret the breakup and come crawling back?"

I stared at him, genuinely stunned by how absurd he sounded.

I nearly laughed.

Waving my hand, I said calmly, "I love Leon. I would never—"

"Leslie!" Bradley cut me off, snapping his voice and rubbing his temples, as if I were exhausting him. "Stop playing the tough girl. I know the breakup crushed you. But I love Sabrina now. And if I'd known you were pregnant back then, I would've made you get rid of it. We wouldn't be in this mess."

I went still. There it was.

No sugarcoating. No pretending. Just raw, ugly truth.

Even if I had been pregnant with his child, he would've treated it as nothing more than a problem—something to erase, a threat to his perfect future with Sabrina.

I didn't need that reminder.

If I had truly been carrying his baby, I never would have kept it because a man in love with someone else didn't deserve to have a child with me.

I didn't say anything for a long moment, and just let the silence hang between us.

Then I calmly pulled out my phone.

"He's not your son," I said. "I'm married. My husband treats me well. Want to see the proof?"

I held my phone like a shield, prepared to put an end to all of this.

But just as I started to unlock it, Bradley reached out and grabbed my wrist.

"Photos can be edited," he snapped, eyes sharp. "If you're lying, of course, you'd come prepared."

I stared at him, completely done. "Think whatever you want, then."

The crowd around us was getting louder. The whispers had grown into a hum of curiosity just beneath the surface.

Right then, I bent down to pick up Leon. My son had seen enough. He was too young to be caught in a mess like this. But before I could lift him, Bradley grabbed my wrist again. He didn't even look at me this time. His eyes were fixed on Leon.

"Leon," he said quietly, "say Daddy."

I froze.

Leon looked up at him with those wide, innocent eyes.

Then, after a tiny pause, he said shyly, "Uncle."

Bradley's face fell in an instant. His eyes reddened, and he looked at me like I had torn him apart.

"Leslie," he said, voice breaking, "you never told him about me? You never even mentioned me?"

Bradley's voice cracked again as he continued, "How could you do that? Other kids grow up with their fathers, and my son has to suffer without one?"

And just like that, I lost all my patience.

"Are you done? Let go of me!"

But his grip only tightened. He stayed silent for a long second before releasing a deep, tired sigh. His voice was soft when he spoke again, as if he was trying to sound reasonable now.

"For our son's sake, I'll compromise."

I gave him a confused look. "What the hell are you even talking about?"

A smug curl of his lip was his response.

"You can come back," Bradley said, as if he were granting me a wish. "That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

From the side, I heard a gasp.

"Bradley, what about me?" Sabrina's voice cracked as she turned to him, her eyes wide in disbelief.

He barely glanced her way.

"Sabrina," he said smoothly, "I'll treat Leslie as my son's nanny. My feelings for you haven't changed. It's just I can't abandon my son."

Sabrina's face collapsed. Whatever performance she'd been putting on suddenly slipped away. She turned to look at me as if she wanted to tear me apart.

Then, unexpectedly, Sabrina's eyes welled up, and tears began to fall.

Leslie's POV

Frustrated with Bradley's plan, Sabrina yelled, "I'm not letting this happen! That woman's pulling every dirty trick in the book to keep her claws in you. Look at her, acting like some helpless victim. It's obvious that she's never moved on."

Bradley tried to calm her down, but not before throwing a sharp glare straight at me.

"I know. Don't worry," he muttered under his breath. "Even if Leslie dropped to her knees and cried, I wouldn't budge. You and I both know that someone like her, with that background and narrow little worldview, could never be good enough for me."

And then, as if on cue, the popsicle vendor nearby let out a loud, dry laugh.

"I thought she was some big shot," the guy muttered. "Turns out she's just another drama queen holding onto her ex."

That one comment triggered a flood of snide remarks from the bystanders around us.

"She's playing the innocent card, but she's a grade-A manipulator."

"Raising that poor kid to be bitter and petty, just like her."

"Didn't you hear what Bradley Goodman said? She's from the countryside. Tacky and broke. What'd you expect?"

Their words didn't sting. Not really. I'd heard worse.

So what if I was from a small town?

I worked my way up from nothing to managing investment portfolios that generated returns of seven and eight figures. I didn't climb my way out of nowhere just to be insulted by people who couldn't tell grit from gold.

But to Bradley, none of that ever mattered. He never saw me beyond where I came from.

I liked simple things—midnight food runs, sunrise hikes, cutting a watermelon in half, and eating it straight from the fridge with a spoon. To Bradley, that was all 'low-class,' something to be ashamed of.

But Sabrina? She was the broke scholarship girl he once supported. She spent his money on designer handbags and wore brand names like armor. Yet, Bradley never once called her materialistic.

Because let's be real, this wasn't about background or taste.

Bradley didn't love me.

Not back then. Not now.

With my expression flat, I yanked my wrist out of his hand. "Bradley, keep this up and I swear I'll call the cops."

Sabrina instantly latched onto his arm. "Bradley, come on. She's just poor and stubborn. She always takes your kindness and twists it into something else. Let's stop wasting our time."

But Bradley didn't budge. His gaze stayed locked on me, sharp and smug.

"Call the cops?" he said, his tone colder than ever. "Great idea. With my lawyers, custody would easily go to me."

Then he made it real.

"You've got two choices," Bradley said with icy calm. "One: give me your number and accept the child support. Two: come back to my place with the kid. You can raise him like a nanny."

The rage bubbling inside me was so fierce that I actually laughed.

Without another word, I picked Leon up and turned to leave.

But Bradley's expression changed. Something in his eyes darkened, and suddenly he lunged forward and tore Leon right out of my arms.

"If you're gonna be ungrateful," he barked, holding my son like he had the right, "then I'll raise him myself."

Leon screamed, kicking and thrashing in his hold. His tiny arms reached out for me, terrified.

"If you ever want to see him again," Bradley said as he backed toward his car, "come to Ocean One Estates. I just moved to Harbor City."

I stood there frozen, heart racing, while he marched toward the Maybach with Leon in his arms.

Sabrina chased after him, whining pitifully, "Bradley, weren't we just here to pick up my nephew?"

And then, Leon let out a heart-wrenching scream, desperately reaching his small hands toward me.

"Mommy! Bad man! I'm scared!"

Something snapped inside me. I pushed forward, adrenaline coursing through my body. But just as I lunged, the crowd surged ahead like a wall of people, blocking me with cold, indifferent stares.

"Why are you freaking out? With Bradley Goodman, that kid's set for life," someone scoffed.

Another parent remarked, "No wonder he left her. She's got zero class. Doesn't even care what's best for the kid."

I watched as Bradley opened the car door.

I broke.

Voice trembling, I yelled his name. "Bradley! Please! I'm begging you, give me back my son!"

My hands trembled as I scrambled to unlock my phone.

"I'm not a mistress! My husband is Sean Mercer. Leon is our son. We even have a daughter! I have a family photo—look!"

I held up my phone as if it were proof of my existence.

For a second, the crowd went silent—just a second.

Then came the laughter.

Cold. Cruel. Cutting.

"Sean Mercer? You mean that Mercer family? The one that can bankrupt half the city with a phone call?"

"If Sean Mercer were your husband, your kid wouldn't be going to some rundown public kindergarten."

"Yeah, right. What's next? You're the mayor's wife? Maybe the First Lady?"

They were laughing—every single one of them.

And not a damn one believed me.

I felt it then—that harsh, marrow-deep cold that climbs your spine and lingers, regardless of how hot the sun is.

But even with my heart breaking and my hands trembling, I couldn't just stand there and watch my son be taken away.