His Secret Son, My Broken Heart

Ashton, the corporate consultant. He traveled for work, "advising major companies," though I never quite understood the specifics. He always brought back thoughtful gifts, little trinkets from his travels, making me feel cherished. He made good money, or so he implied, yet I, Kaylynn Russell, a romance novelist who worked from home, found myself covering most of our shared expenses. My books were doing well, giving me a comfortable income and the freedom to write from my sun-drenched study. My life was simple, peaceful, filled with words and the quiet companionship of my cat, Luna.

And Alfie. Ashton' s "little brother." A seven-year-old bundle of energy and mischief, who had been living with us for the past two years. Ashton explained that Alfie' s parents were gone, and he, as the older brother, was stepping up. I' d embraced the role, becoming Alfie' s primary caregiver, buying his clothes, packing his lunches, helping with homework. I loved him, despite his occasional moodiness and his tendency to push my buttons.

I ended the video call with Ashton, a silly grin plastered on my face. The "surprise" he' d hinted at still buzzed in my mind. I hummed a little tune as I walked into the kitchen, Luna winding around my ankles. Time to start dinner. Alfie would be home soon.

I was chopping vegetables when the front door burst open. "Kaylynn! I'm home!" Alfie, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder, dumped it by the door, leaving a trail of discarded shoes and a muddy soccer ball in his wake.

"Alfie, honey, your things," I called out, but he was already halfway to the fridge, rummaging for a snack. I sighed, a familiar weariness settling over me. Some days, it felt like I was raising a teenager, not a seven-year-old.

I bent down to pick up his backpack, intending to hang it on its hook. A small, crumpled photo slipped out. I picked it up, my brows furrowing. It was an old photo, faded at the edges. Ashton, looking younger, with a woman. She was beautiful, with striking green eyes and a cascade of dark hair. And beside her, a toddler. Alfie. But a much younger Alfie.

My heart hammered against my ribs. The woman in the photo… her eyes, her nose, her wide smile. They were Alfie's eyes, Alfie's nose, Alfie's smile. The resemblance was uncanny. More than that, she looked like a grown-up version of Alfie. Not Ashton.

A wave of nausea washed over me. Ashton's "little brother"? This woman looked like his mother.

I stared at the photo, my mind racing. Ashton had always said Alfie' s parents were gone. He never mentioned an ex-girlfriend, especially not one who looked so much like Alfie.

Before I could process it, I heard Alfie's voice from his room, muffled but clear. He was holding his phone, talking to someone.

"Mommy Angela, when are you coming back? I miss you. Kaylynn makes me eat broccoli every night."

My blood ran cold. Mommy Angela. The name clicked with the face in the photo. Angela Mcfarland. Ashton's ex. The one he never mentioned. He said she'd "returned from Europe" recently, but he'd dismissed her as a "casual acquaintance" from college.

Alfie kept talking, his voice a childish whine. "Kaylynn is so mean. She said I can't play video games until my homework is done. You're much nicer, Mommy Angela."

A sharp, searing pain shot through my chest. For two years, I had poured my heart and soul into raising this child. I had sacrificed my time, my energy, my money. I had loved him, despite his difficult moments. And he was telling this 'Mommy Angela' that I was mean? And Ashton had let me believe Alfie was his brother, not his son with this woman? The woman who was clearly still in his life, still talking to Alfie.

Alfie. Ashton' s son. Not his brother. The lie. The incredible, sprawling lie that had taken over my entire life. My head spun.

I gripped the photo, my knuckles white. My hand shook so hard I almost dropped it. The dinner I was making, the one I had planned so carefully, forgotten. The scent of burning garlic filled the kitchen. I blinked, tears stinging my eyes. My perfect world, my perfect boyfriend, my happy life-it was all going up in smoke, just like the dinner on the stove.