Claimed by my Ex Husband's Dad

Chapter 7- The Match

Alexander

I parked my car outside my son's front door.

Three years. It had been three f*****g long years since I last saw him. I heard that he is married now.

I never said this to anyone, but his rude and ignorant behaviour towards me, always sitting heavier on my chest. His coldness. His hatred toward me hurt like hell.

No matter what I did, no matter how many times I showed up or reached out, he despised me. And I could never do anything except prove through my actions that he was the one I loved most in this world.

It took everything in me to drive here today.

I stepped out of the car and stood on the pavement for a moment, straightening my jacket. Then I walked to his door and knocked.

A lady around my age opened the door. She looked like a housekeeper. Her eyes moved over me with quiet caution, brows slightly knitted together.

"Is James home?" I asked.

"Yes, he is. But who are you?"

"I am Alexander Fox. James's father."

Her eyes widened immediately. "Ohh —my.. I am so sorry, Mr. Fox. I have never seen you before." She stepped back, flustered.

I waved my hand. "It is fine. Now you know me. May I come inside?"

She blushed . "Oh Yes, yes, of course. Please."

I stepped inside. The house was modest not large — but it was warm and well kept. Everything in its place. It had the feeling of a home that was actually lived in, cared for. I looked around slowly, taking it in.

The housekeeper disappeared down the hallway, maybe called James. I stood in the middle of the room, hands in my pockets, eyes drifting across the shelves, the furniture, the small details that told me something about who my son had become without me.

Then I heard footsteps.

I turned toward the direction, and there he was.

James.

He had grown into himself broader in the shoulders, sharper in the jaw. But the expression on his face was the same one I had been carrying in my memory for three years. Cold. Closed.

But I smiled anyway. I walked toward him and pulled him into a hug before he could say anything.

"How are you, son? It has been far too long." For one brief moment I held him, and my chest filled with a warmth I had almost forgotten.

I stepped back.

"Why are you here?" His voice was flat, and of course Unwelcoming.

"Can a father not come to see his own son?"

He let out a short, hollow laugh. "For me, you are not my father. You have been dead to me since the day you walked out on my mother and me. So tell me.. why do you keep showing up when the very sight of yours disgust me?"

My jaw clenched. I felt the anger rising from somewhere deep and old. "Watch your tongue, James. You are speaking to your father." I pressed down the emotion as hard as I could, but his words always managed to find the one place in me that had no armour.

He kept staring at me. That same cold, unwavering hatred.

"Where is your wife?" I asked, ignoring his expression and comfortable myself on the sofa.

"That is none of your business." He barked.

I looked at him for a long moment. Three years had passed. He had built a new life, found someone to share it with. I had genuinely hoped… quietly, privately — that maybe settling down had softened something in him.

That marriage, love, stability a woman had reached the places in him that I never could. But standing here now, looking at his face, I could see that nothing had changed. Not toward me.

I rose back to my feet and folded my arms.

"I came here because I wanted to invite you and your wife to dinner at my house. I have settled here permanently now and moved my business here as well."

Something flickered across his expression — brief, involuntary. Surprise, perhaps. He buried it quickly, but I caught it.

I placed my hand on his shoulder. "I love you, James. That is the only reason I am standing in your house right now. And I want you to know that I tried. I always tried to be a good father. It was your mother who—"

"Stop." His voice raised. "Don't you dare to speak against my mother. Not one word."

I said nothing.

There was nothing left to say. There never was. In his version of the story, I was the villain. Every wound, every absence, every mistake.. all of it belonged to me.

I had made my peace with the fact that I might carry that weight for the rest of my life. It did not make it hurt any less.

I nodded slowly.

"I am taking my leave, son. But if you ever need me, for anything — call me." I set my card on the table, took one last look at him, and walked out.

By the time I reached my house, the hollowness and loneliness had already settled inside me.

This was the new house I had bought since I decided to permanently settle here . Before this, whenever business brought me to Texas, I stayed in my hotel suite.

I stepped inside, closed the front door behind me, and leaned against it for a moment in the silence.

D*mn. I should have bought an apartment. A mansion this size, with no one in it, only made the quiet louder.

I changed my clothes, switched off the main lights, and lay down on my bed. Flat on my back, staring up at the ceiling. The kind of stillness that does not give you peace, it just gives you too much room to think.

And then, without warning, a memory hit my brain, the girl from the club.

Sophie.

I had not set foot in my club in nearly two months. I had been avoiding going there. since that first night — the night I had reached out instinctively and caught her before she could fall, and for one split second she was pressed against me and god she was so soft, I wanted to… I stopped before stupid thoughts came into my skull.

But it came back, same as it always did. And then the last time I saw her, something had shifted in her. She carried herself differently. There was a quiet confidence to her now, but beneath it, a sadness that she could not quite conceal. It hit me somewhere I was not expecting.

The most surprising thing was discovering that she was married.

The jealousy I felt at that moment was still a mystery to me. How could any man cheat on a woman like her? Her husband was a fool d*mn sure.

She was another man's wife. She was young, entirely off-limits, completely unlike the women I usually have one night stand with.

I had dark corners in me that someone like her had no business being anywhere near. I knew that. I told myself that.

And yet.

The memory of her body falling against mine — the warmth of her, and her soft boobs pressed against my face, f**k, my body betrayed me every time I let my mind go there .

I wanted to know what it would feel like to have her beneath me, wanted it in a way that I could not reason away no matter how many times I tried. It was not the first time I had found myself caught in that particular fantasy at the end of a long night.

I stared at the ceiling and sighed.

Maybe it was simply because I had not been with anyone in months. Of course this is the reason I convinced myself.

But since the night I saw Sophie, I had lost all desire to go out, to find company the way I used to. I had no appetite for it. I ran a hand through my hair. She was nobody to me. She was married. And here I am behaving like a loyal man.

I reached for my phone and opened the Fantasy app. I had downloaded it a while back but never actually used it — I had never needed to, I always found willing women who wanted to have fun.

But tonight felt different. I need this app to fulfill my fantasy, since this app is designed for people who want a certain kind of experience without names and histories attached.

When two people matched they agreed to meet, they wore masks. No identities exchanged unless both parties chose otherwise.

I filled in my profile, used a false name the way most people did, and then sat staring at the filter settings.

I set the age range to early twenties.

I scrolled. Profile after profile, most women felt fake. Then one stopped me.

A woman. Only a side profile photograph visible, nothing more. Twenty-three years old. Her profile name was Baby Girl.

There was something about her that felt completely unfiltered. Natural in a way the others were not. I could not explain it. I just felt it.

I liked her profile and hit the match button.

Then I set my phone face-down on the nightstand.

Well I know She would not match me back. A twenty-three year old woman choosing a forty-five year old man.. twice her age, nahh, still part of me hoped that she would choose me.

I closed my eyes and let sleep take me.

Morning light came sharp through the curtains.

I sat up slowly, reached for my phone out of habit, and opened it to check for anything urgent, emails, messages, the usual noise of a morning.

And then I saw it.

Baby Girl had accepted my request and matched me back.