My nails dug deep into my palms as I clenched my fists.
Before I could respond, the little boy in her arms piped up in his childish voice.
“Isn’t she just the nanny? How can the nanny stay in Alpha’s room? Nannies should stay in the tiny room by the stairs downstairs.”
Charlton quickly pulled the child closer, silencing his innocent honesty. He turned to me, his voice softened.
“Let it go, Arizona. Why don’t you stay in your son’s old room?”
My lips parted. He must have thought I was about to explode. Instead, I whispered, “All right.”
I could tell his chest tightened with unease. After five years apart, I was different—so different that he must have felt a creeping loss of control.
Then, he shook his head, as if protesting, ‘No. Impossible. She was still the same girl from that small town—kind, devoted, hopelessly in love with me. What real change could five years bring?’
With a blank expression, I walked toward the children’s room. But when I pushed open the door, my chest wrenched in agony.
The room that once belonged to my son had been turned into a storage space!
The colorful drawings he once painted on the walls—our little family smiling together—had been scribbled over with markers.