My Dad’s Basement, My Prisoners

Chapter 3

The kitchen turned into an absolute disaster zone over the next hour.

"Dad, the heat's too high! It's gonna scorch!" I chided playfully. "Now add the sugar! Hurry, flip it over!"

"Shut up! I know!" he barked without even turning around, but there was barely any real anger in his voice, just a palpable wave of sheer embarrassment.

By the time the first platter of seafood noodles wobbled its way out of the pot, the entire kitchen looked like a war zone. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and a few grease splatters had already stained the collar of his outrageously expensive black shirt.

But somehow, miraculously, the glossy, crimson-glazed ribs on that plate actually gave off an absolutely mouthwatering aroma.

"Try it." He kept a stone-cold face as he shoved the plate toward me, yet his eyes couldn't help darting over, betraying a tiny, carefully hidden glimmer of hope.

I couldn't wait. I snatched up a piece, ignored the scorching heat, and crammed a huge bite straight into my mouth: a perfect tangy-sweet balance, melt-in-your-mouth tender.

It was eerily close—seven or eight out of ten—to the exact flavor he would master in the future.

"This is amazing!" I gushed, my words muffled by a mouthful of food. "Dad, you're a total freaking genius!"

The corner of Cassian's mouth twitched upward completely on its own, only to be ruthlessly forced back down as he put on a cool, icy front. "Don't try to kiss up to me."

But I saw it crystal clear, the tips of his ears were blazing red all over again.

When the doctor and police officers came to examine me and take down details, one glance at my face which had an uncanny resemblance, like I was eighty percent Dad, had them insisting on a paternity test.

By evening, the rush results had already landed.

Mr. Greaves' man hurried in clutching a manila envelope just as I was sprawled on the living room carpet, utterly engrossed in the LEGO set Cassian had bought me, though he'd kept a straight face, stubbornly insisting it was "just a loaner for now."

"Sir, the report's here!"

Cassian practically stormed out of his study. I noticed the tips of his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he reached for the envelope.

He slid out the flimsy sheet of paper, his eyes shooting straight to the final conclusion on the last page.

Then, like a man struck by lightning, he froze right there.

"Probability of paternity… 99.99%…" He murmured the numbers, his voice so faint it was barely a whisper.

Slowly, he crouched down to meet my eyes. In that moment, a tempest of emotions I couldn't decipher churned within his gaze.

His mouth opened, as if to speak, but in the end, he simply raised that trembling hand and, with the softest touch, rested it on top of my head.

I knew it then.

This time, I could stay by his side, rightfully.