Chapter 2

In that moment, I saw the expression on his face.

No surprise, no awkwardness—only a natural warmth and affection.

He squatted down, effortlessly lifting Chloe into his arms, as if he had been expecting this all along.

"Sweetheart, did you miss me?" Liam asked with a gentle smile.

I sat back down, my fingers tightening slowly. This guy, who shared no blood relation to me, was comfortably taking my daughter's "dad" title.

"Dad Liam, since my dad is divorcing my mom, you can be my dad now!" Chloe exclaimed, hugging Liam's neck. "You're so nice to me! Last time, you took me to Disneyland and bought me tons of limited-edition Legos! The fried chicken burgers and fries you got me were so delicious!"

She turned to me, deliberately looking away with a challenging, mocking glare.

"Unlike you," Chloe pouted, "who just force me to eat boiled kale and make me do spelling homework every day. I can't be free! And Dad Liam's voice is a million times better than yours! Mom's allergic to you because you're so gross!"

This six-year-old was using the most cutting words to stab at her so-called biological father's heart.

She wanted to see me break down, to watch me cry and beg them to stay.

"Arthur," Liam sighed, casting a reproachful look my way. "Kids are meant to have fun. You're too strict. Chloe's so little; who doesn't love junk food?"

His tone was smooth, but each word painted me as a tyrant.

Liam ruffled Chloe's hair and added with a grin, "And being this strict now? When you're old and in a nursing home, Chloe might not even visit you!"

Ouch.

So, my decision to leave Wall Street, to meticulously care for her every need, to tutor her, had become reasons for her to hate me.

Of course, my voice sounded like a broken kazoo compared to his pop-star charm.

Elena sat there, a subtle smile on her face, allowing her lover and daughter to gang up on me.

Seeing this happy family scene, I suddenly burst out laughing.

"Alright," I nodded. "Then you take over."

Liam's smile froze.

I leaned back in the leather chair, continuing, "Liam, you can start learning how to be a full-time dad right now. After all, Chloe will be your responsibility from now on. You should get used to it; otherwise, how can you live up to the title of 'Dad'?"

The air thickened. Chloe's eyes widened in surprise at my easy surrender. Liam's face shifted from pale to flushed, struggling to find words.

Elena's expression finally changed, her gaze locking onto mine with complexity and scrutiny.

"Let's cut the cake," Elena said, forcing a smile to break the tension. "It's time for the birthday wish."

She tried to act like the earlier conflict didn't happen. She always did this—anything that didn't go her way, she could just block out. When I had a fever, she'd say she was too busy to pick up medicine; when I asked for help with Chloe's school notices, she'd say she didn't have time.

But when it came to Liam?

If he mentioned a sore throat, she'd cancel million-dollar meetings just to drive across Manhattan for some handmade throat lozenges.

Last year, when Liam released a new album, she splurged on a massive LED screen in Times Square.

And on my birthday? She couldn't even remember when it was.

At the table, the three of them forced a cheerful atmosphere. Chloe loudly wished for Dad Liam to stay young forever and for Mom's trust fund to make a fortune. She personally cut the first slice of red velvet cake and fed it to Liam, who smiled with his eyes crinkling, while Elena gazed at him with soft affection.

"Hey, Elena, I'm a bit thirsty," Liam suddenly said.

Elena immediately turned to me, chin lifted. "Go get him a glass of sparkling water."

Her tone was so matter-of-fact, like she was ordering a dog used to following commands.

I stayed put, watching coldly.

Three happy people, and a superfluous mute servant.

This long-running farce was ready for a curtain call.

"Elena," I spoke, my hoarse voice tearing through the warm façade. "Didn't you say hearing my voice was unbearable?"

"Why is it now that your allergy seems to have developed selective immunity?" I mocked, raising an eyebrow. "You're not getting a headache when it's time for me to pour water?"

I pushed myself up from the table, looking down at her.

"I'll say it one last time: we're getting a divorce."