We Want Mommy, Not You, Daddy!

Cedar's POV

[Don't mess this up. This partnership is vital for the company.]

My adoptive father Jonathan Wright's text glared at me from the screen as I smoothed down my gray pantsuit in the mirrored elevator of the hotel. The message wasn't surprising—Jonathan had never been one for encouragement—but the timing felt particularly cruel. As if I needed a reminder of what was at stake.

I watched the floors tick upward, each number bringing me closer to a meeting that could either elevate Wright Creatives or confirm what Jonathan had always implied: that I would never be good enough. The weight of being the Wright family's adopted daughter pressed down on my shoulders, heavier than the portfolio case in my hand.

Brad Wilson, General Manager of Wilson Group's investment division, greeted me with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. The meeting started professionally enough—I presented our design concepts, he asked questions about market potential. But as the hour progressed, the atmosphere shifted.

"Your work is impressive," Wilson said, moving closer as I gathered my materials. "But I need more... personal assurance before committing our funds."

His hand brushed my arm deliberately. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion over dinner tonight. Somewhere private."

The implication was unmistakable. I stepped back, maintaining eye contact.

"Mr. Wilson, our proposal stands on its business merits alone. I'd be happy to address any professional concerns, but my personal time isn't part of this negotiation."

His expression hardened. "You're naive about how business works at this level, Ms. Wright."

"If that's your condition for partnership, then I believe our meeting is over," I replied, closing my portfolio with steady hands despite my racing heart.

"You'll regret this decision," Wilson said coldly. "Your little family company needs this more than we do."

I left with my dignity intact but my career prospects in jeopardy.

Rain had begun to fall by the time I exited the hotel, the awning offering momentary shelter before I stepped onto the slick sidewalk.

My phone vibrated: three missed calls from Jonathan. I silenced it and tucked it into my pocket. That conversation could wait until I figured out how to explain that I'd just declined the partnership he'd been pursuing for months.

Standing under the meager shelter of a store awning, I opened the Uber app and requested a ride back to my apartment in Wicker Park. The distance between the Gold Coast and my neighborhood felt symbolic of the gap between the Wright family's aspirations and my own reality.

In the back seat of the Uber, watching raindrops race down the window, I replayed the past few months at Wright Creatives. The sustainable materials sourcing I'd secured that cut costs by fifteen percent. The Architectural Digest feature that had prominently mentioned my work—which Jonathan had quickly attributed to "the Wright family design legacy."

"You should be grateful we took you in."

The words of my adoptive mother, Elara, echoed from a recent meeting, when her real daughter Selena had presented my bathroom fixture designs as her own. When I'd objected, Elara had given me a cold stare across the conference table. "Family supports family, Cedar. Don't be difficult."

Family. The word had always felt conditional in the Wright household—a status I had to continuously earn through achievement and compliance. At twenty-six, I was still trying to prove my worth to people who had decided my value the moment they'd signed the adoption papers.

The car pulled up to my building, a walk-up in Wicker Park with creaky wooden stairs and tall windows that let in plenty of light, even if the insulation left something to be desired. The rain had intensified, drumming against the sidewalk as I paid the driver and stepped out, shielding my head with my bag as I hurried toward the entrance.

That's when I noticed the small figure huddled by my building's entrance—a child, no more than six or seven, half-soaked and shivering. His oversized navy hoodie clung damply to his small frame.

"Hey there," I called, approaching slowly. "Are you lost? Where are your parents?"

The boy looked up, and I froze. His eyes—startlingly blue and framed by long lashes—mirrored my own in a way that seemed impossible. His small face, pale from cold, held features that stirred something deep and inexplicable within me.

"Mommy, you're finally back." His eyes widened with excitement as he stood up, but his voice was thin and trembling.

I blinked, certain I'd misheard. "What? No, sweetheart, I think you're confused. Are you lost? Do you need help calling someone?"

He shivered, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. "I found you," he whispered, his small body trembling violently. "They...they said you were dead, but I knew... I knew you weren't. They are all liars." Another sneeze shook his frame, and he winced, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth.

A mistake, surely. He must be longing for his mother.

I knelt beside him and pressed my hand to his forehead. He was burning up.

"Sweetheart, you're very sick. We need to get you inside and call your parents."

He sniffed again, his teeth chattering. "Don't have parents," he said, his voice slightly tired. "Just a father. He doesn't want me anymore." He paused, shivering, and let out another small sneeze.

The words struck a painful chord. I knew what it was like to feel unwanted, to question your place in a family. I'd spent my childhood trying to earn the love the Wrights gave so freely to Selena.

"I have you now," he said softly, his blue eyes—so eerily like mine—looking up with complete trust despite the fever-glaze. "I knew if I found you, everything would be okay." His voice was hoarse, and then he hugged me tightly.

His words made my heart twist. I couldn't bear to let him down, not when he looked at me like that.

I forced a gentle smile. "What's your name?" I asked softly.

"O-Oliver." He sneezed again, barely catching himself.

"Oh, dear. Oliver, let's get you warm and dry first, all right?"

He hesitated, then looked up at me, hope flickering in his fever-bright eyes. "Can I stay... with you?"

His small hand reached for mine, fingers curling around my thumb. "Please don-don't send me away," he pleaded, his voice soft and broken, punctuated by another sneeze.

I saw his body sway, legs giving out beneath him. I caught him just in time as he collapsed, his small frame burning with fever against my arms. Without thinking, I scooped him up and hurried inside, my mind spinning. Who would kick a child this young out? How had he found his way to my doorstep?

Inside my apartment, I laid him gently on the sofa and rushed to get towels, blankets, and my thermometer. When I returned, his eyes were half-open, following my movements.

"Mommy," he murmured as I wrapped him in a blanket, his small hand reaching out to grasp the edge of my jacket. "Please don't go away again. Promise?"