Sweet Romance11 min read
Mommy? The Wrong Face, The Right Home
ButterPicks12 views
I had never planned to be mistaken for someone else’s past. I was just selling cats, mopping the floor, counting receipts, and trying to pay my parents’ bills. Then a three-year-old with two tiny hair buns and a face like a peach burst into my shop and called me "Mommy."
"Mommy! Mommy!" she shouted, clutching a red apple like a treasure.
I froze with my hand on the cash drawer. “I—” I tried to catch her, because she lunged, arms wide.
"She grabbed me!" the child squealed as she hugged my neck. "You're my mommy. You bought me a cat."
I laughed before I could stop myself. "Sweetie, I'm not—"
"You're my mommy," she insisted, as if the words could rewrite the world. Her eyes were so certain that I almost believed them.
A balding older man with a kind face hovered near the doorway, looking at us with polite confusion. "Miss, your name is—?"
"A shop owner," I said, patting the child's back. "You can't pick up kids like stray kittens."
The man blinked. "She's three?"
"Three and a half," she corrected, proudly. "Kensley." She pushed her small chin out. "Kensley Pohl. Daddy says I must find my real mommy."
I wanted to hand her to the man and keep my shop. I wanted my quiet life back. Instead I found my hands adjusting a silver-gray Persian kitten on the counter and gave it to her because I couldn't refuse the way she kept touching my hair.
"Take it for a while," I said. "Just for today."
She cuddled the cat like she'd found treasure. "Bye, Mommy!" she sang.
The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. He looked like someone who knew the cost of things and decided quietly that this was valuable.
"Sir?" I asked.
He stepped in. Tall, lean, the kind of presence I had only seen in magazines—the kind that makes people whisper 'power' when he passes. He moved with the kind of calm that hides a storm.
"You're the one from the jewelry shop?" he asked the staff—a wrong assumption that made me want to laugh.
"I'm Guinevere Alves," I told him. "I own this pet shop."
He looked at me like I was a puzzle. "Guinevere," he repeated. "That's your name?"
"Yes," I said, smiling. "Can I help you?"
He glanced at the child and then at me. There was something like shock and a softer, hidden ache rolling across his face.
"I'm Aurelius Castro," he said finally. "Kensley, right? Your daughter?"
I blinked. The little girl ran to him and did not hesitate. She wrapped both arms around his neck and held on.
"My daddy," she explained, as if that settled everything. "Daddy, I found my mom."
Aurelius's jaw softened. He crouched, took her face in his hands, and said gently, "You found a woman you like, huh?"
"She has cats," Kensley said. "She has cats and one big heart."
Aurelius turned to me. "Would you... stay for a moment?"
I said yes because my palms smelled of cat food and because there was a new, dangerous curiosity in the air.
"I saw you yesterday," he said abruptly. "Across the street."
"You saw me across the street?" I repeated.
"Yes." His voice went lower. "You... you have a mole on your shoulder. The same one."
I snapped. "What? Men never notice details unless it's to buy something. How would you know—"
"I know because once, three years ago, a woman with that mole left me and our daughter," he said. "I have been looking for her since. I couldn't find her. Today my daughter called you 'mommy' and you have the same mole. Tell me, are you—?"
"I'm not her," I lied softly, because the truth was messy. The woman he missed was the kind of person men never forget: dazzling and cruel and gone. I wasn't that woman. I had no luxury, no past at his side. I had a father who fixed bikes and a mother who had trouble speaking after sickness. I had a shop and a stubborn, ordinary life.
But his eyes betrayed confusion. He leaned closer as if trying to memorize me.
"You're Guinevere Alves, owner of this pet shop?" he asked again.
"Yes," I answered.
He studied my hands, my fingers stained faintly with pet food. "Stay tonight," he said suddenly. "My house is nearby. Kensley adores you already. We—my daughter needs stability. Would you consider staying? As—well, as a helper. A manager. A live-in housekeeper."
I laughed but swallowed the sound. "You're offering me... money?"
"Ten thousand a month," he said. "Fifteen if you stay in the house. It will cover your parents' bills."
He said it like a businessman offering a deal, but his voice trembled when he said Kensley’s name.
"Two conditions," he added. "You live with us. You cannot leave unexpectedly. You care for my daughter. That's all."
I had not planned to change my life, but the number on his screen was a ladder—one I could climb. And the little girl's hope in her eyes kept me from saying no.
"Okay," I said quickly. "I'll try it."
"Good," Aurelius said, and for a heartbeat his face was carved from marble but something warm glowed beneath it.
The first days were dizzying. I moved into a room bigger than my entire apartment, clothes hung in closets I didn't deserve, food I didn't have to cook late into the night for myself. Kensley followed my shadow like a living, noisy sun.
"Mommy, can we buy more cats?" she asked on our first morning.
"Of course," I lied, because I liked her asking me questions like that. Those two silly hair buns and those freckles—anything for them.
Aurelius kept watching me. He woke up early, came by the kitchen as if to make sure I had warm water. He spoke little, but every sentence that did arrive landed with gravity.
"You said you weren't her," he told me one night when I found him on the balcony smoking a single cigarette.
"I didn't know her name or—"
"You say you aren't her, but you also said nothing when my daughter called you 'mommy,'" he replied. "Why didn't you correct her?"
"Because she was happy," I lied again, because it felt kinder.
He didn't argue. Instead, he pulled his coat closer and stared out at the city lights. "If you ever want to go, tell me. But do not leave her alone."
"I won't," I promised. I didn't know then that promise would set off a chain I couldn't control.
The first fight came fast. It was bound to. Kensley loved me like a lost sunbeam. It made people come out of the woodwork who smelled opportunity.
"You're Guinevere Alves?" a woman asked in my shop one morning. She was perfectly-coiffed, teeth sharp as knives. She smelled of heavy perfume and judgment.
"Yes," I said.
"You're the one my son has been sleeping with," she spat. "You make a home with a—" she looked down at my plain shoes, "—with a man who obviously could do better. If you don't want trouble, you will stop pretending you are someone else and you will take what you have and leave."
She was Linda Morozov, I later learned—the mother of Calhoun Krause, the man who had claimed to love me while treating me like a temporary convenience. I had the misfortune of knowing Calhoun well enough; he'd used me like a cloak. He'd whispered promises and then courted richer women with a charm I now could see for the cheap thing it was.
"Do you have proof?" I asked, as if my life were a legal transaction.
"No," Linda answered, cold. "But he told me last night he's bringing you home to meet me. I don't know why he'd introduce his mistress to his mother."
My stomach tightened. "Mistress?"
"He told me he was nervous about marriage," Linda continued. "He told me he planned to make you comfortable and then—" She smiled a poisonous smile. "—dump you, if you pleased him."
Calhoun was beneath contempt. He was a man who said words to get what he wanted. I had loved him briefly, thinking he might be kind, but he turned out to be what he was: a boy who wanted his cake and to eat other people's as well.
I wanted to scream. "He's not noble," I said. "He wouldn't hurt a mouse."
Linda barked a laugh. "A mouse? My son doesn't hurt mice. He crushes them. And if you are foolish enough to entangle yourself with our family, have the decency to become useful."
I was about to walk away when the door slammed open and Calhoun arrived like a man who'd swallowed anger whole.
"You—" he exploded when he saw me. "You think you're so clever, pretending to be something you are not."
"Kensley called me mommy," I said simply.
He sneered. "A child is gullible. You're a liar. You've been playing him."
"You were the liar," I said. "You told me what I wanted to hear. You were gentle when it suited you. You left when wanted to. Your mother is here now trying to buy my silence."
"Buy your silence?" Calhoun snapped. "You don't get to accuse me—"
"You asked me to marry you to sleep with me and then leave me," I said. I had never spoken to him like that. The words felt hot and true.
He lunged.
I saw Aurelius at the doorway like a statue becoming a shield. He moved weeks before I could think.
"You!" he said, voice ice.
Calhoun froze as if somebody had jammed a needle into his anger. "Who are you?"
"Aurelius Castro," came the calm answer. "And she is under my protection."
"Protection?" Calhoun laughed crudely. "You shelter anything you like, it seems."
"You tried to humiliate my guest," Aurelius said. "You touched her belongings. For that, you will apologize."
Calhoun was not the type who apologized. He snarled and pushed Aurelius low.
Aurelius didn't raise his hand; he walked forward and grabbed Calhoun as if he carried the heat of calm in his palm. One motion, and the man was on his knees, heart breathless.
"What—" Linda wanted to leap, but the house hush swallowed her voice.
"You will kneel," Aurelius said quietly. "And you will apologize."
"No," Calhoun whispered. He spat. "I will not."
Aurelius's eyes were a depthless ocean then. "Get out of here," he said once.
Calhoun coughed blood and scrambled, humiliated, and left. His mother tried to follow. Aurelius pressed a finger to his temple like a conductor and turned toward me.
"You're safe here," he said. "If either of them comes back, they will know they were wrong."
I held my breath and listened as his words made the room small and true. He didn't know me, or so he said. Yet the way he moved to shield a child and a stranger made him someone I could rely on.
The feud didn't stop at a single scuffle. Linda called old favors and made a display of me in the market, spreading rumors, until someone handed me a paper with the headline: "Local Groom Called to Task—Mistress or Manager?"
I came home that night to find Aurelius watching a file. "Your name appears on a hospital report," he said. "The report says an abortion was performed under your name three days ago."
My heart slammed.
"I never—"
"Someone used your documents," he said. "Bonnie—one of your employees—used your ID to cover herself. She thought she was protecting herself. Instead she used your name. The records show you as having been pregnant and having undergone termination."
I felt my world tilt. "No. That's impossible."
"It's true on paper." He turned toward me. "Did you ever see Calhoun last week?"
"I did," I whispered. "He came and—"
He slammed a hand on the table, not with rage but with a fierceness that made the walls tremble. "He will pay."
He moved like a man who had a ledger of violence: who writes and erases people in the marketplace. He did not simply fire threats. He used his reach.
The first punishment was financial. He ordered the companies tied to Calhoun's family to be suspended. He called banks and legal contacts and, within days, conservative investors abandoned the Krause family as if a rumor had been confirmed. Calhoun's private jets remained grounded in hangars where repairs would suddenly cost too much. Linda's donors withdrew support. The family name—once loud—began to be spoken in whispers.
But that was not punishment enough for what they had done to me. I wanted them humiliated in the same room where they'd tried to humiliate me. I wanted a scene that made their arrogance crumble before witnesses.
So Aurelius arranged it.
He made a public event of charity and invited everyone in the social orbit: donors, mall owners, the mothers from schools, the managers of galleries. The press came because he had money and that was a headline.
The Krause family arrived early, confident and dressed like people used to playing gods. Linda wore pearls like armor. Calhoun sat with the heavy slouch of the small man who thinks posture will hide fear.
I sat with Aurelius like a quiet storm. "You sure?" I asked. My voice rose only a whisper.
He nodded. "You don't have to do anything you don't want," he said. "But sometimes truth has to be spoken in public.”
The room was soft with light. There were children running in the corners, donors politely clapping at the orchestra. The air smelled of coffee and expensive flowers.
Aurelius mounted the podium and smiled like a man about to pull a curtain to reveal a stage trick.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said. "Thank you for coming."
A murmur of greetings.
"We are here tonight not only for charity but also because truth and decency matter in our city," he continued.
Then he did something that made the room shift. "There is a matter I'd like to address publicly. It concerns a local family named Krause."
A chorus of surprised whispers.
At once, Linda's face lost a blush and hardened with itch. Calhoun squirmed like a bug on porcelain.
"You see," Aurelius went on, "I protect what matters. I protect a child who only asked for love. Unfortunately, that child's life was exploited. A woman—my guest—was publicly humiliated by the Krause family. They attempted to smear, intimidate, and coerce."
Linda stood and tried to interrupt, her voice too sharp. "You have no proof—"
"Proof matters little when humiliation is public and delicious," Aurelius said. He lifted a stack of papers he had arranged months earlier, the small miracles of power.
He read aloud, slowly and deliberately, each accusation: the plan to escort the woman into a trap; the threats to coerce her into silence; the coordination to manipulate hospital records. He read messages. He played recordings. Each piece fell on the packed room like a dry thunder.
"She signed a contract," he said. "He asked for favors. They plotted. They even paid a young staff member to use the woman's ID to cover a personal abortion. That woman—whom you have all seen tonight—was named in medical reports that were false. These are the documents."
Calhoun's face went waxy. Linda's mouth flew open, then closed. A table of socialites whispered sharply. The lights seemed brighter, and the smell of lilies suddenly was bitter.
Aurelius prodded further, speaking the details slowly so each journalist could get quotes. "This family thought they could bribe and bully. They used money and influence to mask a lie. Tonight, we unmask it."
The first reaction was stunned silence. Then the room erupted.
"How could they?" someone whispered.
"They used personal documents?" another exclaimed.
Reporters moved like hungry fish. Old acquaintances who had once courted the Krause name now edged away.
Calhoun's bravado evaporated. "No—this is slander!" he stammered.
Aurelius didn't let the kettle boil. He invited a hospital official up on stage, who confirmed the inquest: the signatures, the chain of custody, the woman listed under the name—Guinevere Alves—were falsified. The hospital had processed the paperwork but then discovered discrepancies.
"The documents were submitted with coercion," the official stated. "We have filed a report."
People were filming with their phones. A woman near the front wept quietly. A man in a suit muttered, "I knew they were rotten."
Linda next tried for a grand performance of dignity. She rose, rubbing tears that were less tears than performances of entitlement. "My son—" she began.
Aurelius tilted his head. "You have a son who used you as an excuse for cruelty," he said softly. "You thought the city would shield you. You were wrong."
The crowd changed. Where once they had whispered in favor of the Krause family, they now turned the other way. Fingers pointed. A young mother pulled her child from the front row, scanning the exits. Photographers circled the family like hawks.
Calhoun collapsed into his seat, swallowing blood and shame. He looked smaller than I'd ever seen anyone look.
People reacted with a texture of disgust and pleasure—an ugly curiosity that lapped up disgrace. Cameras flashed. Someone took a live video that got a million views by morning.
Calhoun tried to shout, "It's not true!" His voice cracked and thinned under the onslaught.
When the event ended, he faced multiple consequences. Contracts were rescinded; investors withdrew; private messages of revenge against him were leaked by partners he had used. People began to refuse to be photographed with him. His mother, Linda, who had once sat like an empress on the city's small throne, found herself ostracized. Her pearls became a mocking symbol in the media.
She came back to my shop to beg. The camera crew that had followed the story filmed her kneeling, a public show of contrition; she blamed panic, called it a misunderstanding. But the city had seen her for what she was that night.
"You made me lose a home," she cried when her family name could buy her no favors. "Please—"
I looked at her. "You tried to take a piece of me away and use it for money," I said. "You humiliated a child. You lied. The consequences will follow you."
Her face changed—shock to denial to anger to pleading. She had a small, human collapse.
That public scene didn't end our story, but it marked a sharp turning point. The Krause name was seared by shame; their power turned brittle overnight.
After that, people treated me differently. Some with pity. Others with a respectable social distance. Aurelius stood at my side like a wall—silent and strong.
We grew closer in ordinary ways. He taught me to sign checks without trembling. I taught Kensley to braid hair. We argued. He teased me. We learned each other's fears.
"Do you ever think you might remember her?" I asked once, voice small, as we watched Kensley sleep.
He shrugged. "Sometimes. But if she comes back and you are not her, you'll have to let me choose whether to believe her."
I smiled. "That's fair. But I'm not going anywhere."
He took my hand then, simply, without show, and for the first time in a long time I believed I had a place to belong.
The End
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