Page 72 of Second Chance Daddy

While they bake, I head off into my study. My brain’s a goddamn scrambled egg around Cassie. She knows something’s off, but her obstinate ass still won’t tell me the truth.

And the longer I dwell on that? The angrier I get.

Half an hour later, I see Aria bounding into my study, without knocking. I don’t give a damn. The kid could set up camp in here, and I’d happily throw out the furniture.

“You need something, kiddo?”

Aria pulls out a cookie from behind her back, like it’s a secret—still warm, chocolate chips melting. She holds it up with such pride you’d think she’d built the damn thing from scratch.

“For you,” she says solemnly. “I made it special.”

I take it and try not to be that grown-ass man who cries. “Thank you, nugget.”

She stays there, watching expectantly until I take a bite. Only then does she nod, satisfied, and run back to help Cassie with the rest.

But before she goes, she says something that nearly brings me to my knees.

“You look like me.”

Simple. Innocent. Earth-shattering.

Even this three-year-old child sees the truth. Feels the truth. And Cassie’s walking around like I’ve got blinders on my eyes.

She knows something’s coming. Can probably feel it in the air like a storm front.

I don’t confront her yet. I want her to say it. Want the truth from her mouth, not a lab report.

So I wait. Help her clean up. Speak only when necessary. Let the tension build until it’s thick enough to cut.

She heads off to bed with a pathetic, meaningless goodnight.

Night falls heavily. The house sinks into quiet, and I think of what I want.

And the more I think? The more it feels like time’s slipping right through my goddamn hands. Three years—gone. Stolen. I want Cassie to trust me enough to hand over the truth, but wanting her honesty doesn’t come close to how bad I want the time I’ve already lost. Time with my kid. Time as her father.

I find her in her room, perched on the edge of her bed, phone in hand. She looks up when I enter, tension written in every line of her body.

“Dante,” she says my name like it’s a warning.

I step farther into the room until I’m looming over her, until there’s nowhere for her to run.

“I know,” I hiss. “She’s mine.”

20

CASSIE

Ifreeze like someone cut the air supply to the room. My pulse slams hard against my ribs, my throat tightens, and every ounce of oxygen feels poisoned with panic.

He knows. And from the cold fury in his eyes, he’s not guessing. He knows.

“What are you talking about?” I try damn hard to make him second-guess.

Dante looks like he could burn a hole through my mouth. He just stands there, towering over me where I sit on the edge of my bed, looking so damn angry that I wonder if it’s truly him.

“Don’t,” he says with such coldness that it kills any damn lie on my tongue. “Don’t you dare lie to me again.”

His eyes drill into mine. The kind of stare that strips you bare and leaves nothing hidden. I’ve never seen him like this—so still, so contained.