The Rejected Wife: Chapter 23

“Not Peppa Pig, honey. Anything else but that, please?” If I have to listen to this episode one more time, I might scream. I swear, I know all the words by heart. That’s how many times I’ve seen it with Serene.

It’s late afternoon, I’m running on fumes. I’ve managed to juggle two conference calls in between applauding Serene for telling me when she wants to use the bathroom to poo.

Yep, not even two and she’s almost potty-trained. A miracle. I know. But Serene’s ahead of the curve in a lot of her developmental goals. It’s the only thing reassuring me I’m not a complete failure as a dad.

I hold up the TV remote in one hand, my phone in the other, scanning my gaze over the list of emails that never seem to abate. Goddamn. I’m clearly behind on my work again. And it feels wrong that I’m checking my emails when I’m with Serene, but given I work out of the house full time now, and I still don’t have a nanny, this is the only way I can manage to do both.

“Papa. Peppa Pig. Please. Papa. Peppa Pig. Please,” Serene chants and bounces on the couch.

I’ve propped her up with cushions on either side to make sure she doesn’t slide off. Which she has in the past, and it’s been completely fine, because the kid’s steady on her feet and runs everywhere around the house. And she’s tall for her age, so she’s able to slip off the sofa or the chair and always land on her feet. But still. Best not to take chances, right?

“How about something else?” I flip to another program. ‘This one?”

“No.” She shakes her head.

Oh yeah, we’re still in the ‘no’ stage. That hasn’t abated, either.

I flip the screen to a third program.

“Nope. Papa. Not this.” She scowls. Yeah, her expressions are alarmingly grown-up. She can hold entire conversations with me and is so aware, it’s almost like talking to a grown-up. A little grown-up. Mostly. Except when it comes to mealtimes, and bath times, and bedtimes, that is. As long as I’m treating little Miss Serene like a proper grown-up, she’s totally fine.

I push my luck, try a fourth program. She screws up her face in what I know is a prelude to a crying jag. Shit. I give up, flipping the screen to Peppa Pig. Instantly, her face lights up. “Thank you, Papa,” she says sweetly.

My heart melts. This little girl can manipulate me in a heartbeat, and honestly, I don’t mind. It’s probably not good that I let her get her way with me so often. But I’m only human. And my daughter means the world to me. It’s difficult for me to deny her. Doesn’t mean I’m going to give her everything she wants. I’m not going to risk spoiling her. But allowing her to see a kid’s program so I can answer my emails is all right. I think?

I place the remote down, and she leans around me to watch the show. Yep. Dad’s forgotten. I’ll take that as my exit… For now. I move to the armchair not far from her and settle down to answer my emails.

The security app on my phone dings. I pull it up and find a familiar face at my door. I stiffen. Cilla? What’s she doing here? My heart pounds in my rib cage. Is she here because she misses me? Because she wants to be with me?

She seems to be staring at the door with a half stubborn, half dreading-this look on her face. She turns to leave, walking down the steps from the front door. Then changes her mind and walks up to stand in front of the door again. She probably doesn’t realize I have a motion sensor which triggers my security app.

She looks nervous, anxious, like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. My heartbeat slows. Common sense prevails. After how she turned me down that day at the coffee shop, it’s not likely she’s here to pick up where we left off. Not when she was so pissed off that I asked her to be my nanny… I stiffen.

Hope is a tenuous green shoot that breaks through a crack in the parched ground of my heart. Is she here to accept my offer of being Serene’s nanny? Not Cilla; I need to call her Priscilla. After how pissed off she was the last time, I don’t think she’d appreciate it if I used that nickname. In fact, she seemed to make it clear that I should keep my distance from her.

I use the opportunity to watch her, unobserved. Her thick, auburn hair is lit up from behind by the setting sun. Maybe a coincidence, but like the last time I saw her at the coffee shop, she seems to have a halo about her. Yeah, she’s my angel, all right. One I seem to have a knack for pissing off. Believe me, I racked my brain for days on end, trying to figure out what I’d done wrong when I asked her to be Serene’s caregiver. She threw it in my face and stormed out of there as if I’d insulted her, leaving me stupefied.

I mulled over it, ending up none the wiser. Clearly, I was missing something. I wanted to check in with my brothers on it. But most of my brothers are married and busy with their own lives. As for Connor and Brody? Given their bachelor status, I’m not sure they’re the people I want to take advice from.

Instead, I settled for realizing I’d done something wrong, but I didn’t have a clue what it was. I didn’t try to contact Priscilla, either…not wanting to make things worse between us. And then, I spent the last month travelling and helping Ryot and Aura with security arrangements.

It meant calling on my background as a Royal Marine, and I enjoyed the groundwork. Since returning, I’ve thrown myself into caring for Serene and trying to function as CEO—trying being the operative word. I’m drowning. I need help with childcare. Desperately. But after picturing Priscilla in that role, it felt wrong to even think of someone else taking her place in Serene’s life.

So here I am, living life an hour at a time, still trying to make sense of what I did. And now she’s here. Standing at my door. Like a goddamn dream. Like the sky cracking open after weeks of rain. Like that first hit of air when you’ve been underwater too long.

Has she forgiven me—for forcing her out of my penthouse that day, thinking I was doing the right thing? Is she here because she feels it too—the way I’ve missed her, every damn day since?

My chest tightens. My pulse kicks. I swallow hard.

Is she here because she still wants this—wants me?

I watch her on the security feed. She shifts from foot to foot. Blows out a breath. Tilts her face to the sky.

Come on. Ring the doorbell. Please.

She glances over her shoulder. Sighs again. Then lifts her chin.

And finally, the doorbell rings.