My Ex Called Me Cheap, Now I’m a Mogul’s Wife

Leslie's POV

My son, Leon, was clinging to my leg, sobbing uncontrollably.

I crouched down and gently offered him the melted popsicle, trying to coax out a smile.

"Just one little lick, okay?"

Before the treat could even touch his lips, Bradley spun around.

He glared at us, his chest heaving with barely contained fury. Then, without saying another word, he stormed over and smacked the popsicle clean out of Leon's hand.

"Leslie! You're seriously feeding my son this kind of garbage?"

As if that wasn't enough, he yanked a silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers, as if just being near us was dirtying him.

"You really can't scrub the poverty out of your bones, can you?"

Leon jumped back, startled, and broke into a loud, heartbreaking cry.

I immediately picked him up and held him close, softly whispering to calm him down. His small body trembled against mine as he buried his face in my shoulder.

Bradley froze for a second. Then, his hand hovered just inches from Leon's back, reaching out... hesitating... but at the last second, he pulled it back.

He dropped his voice, and it lost some of that aggressive edge. "Why didn't you tell me you were pregnant?"

I went completely still.

That outburst—at first, I thought I'd misheard him.

But now, there was no mistaking it.

He actually thought Leon was his son.

Seriously? He really thought I'd leave, have his kid in secret, and spend years raising him alone out of some messed-up, self-inflicted martyr complex?

"You've got the wrong idea," I said, steady and calm. "He's not your son. And if you don't mind, please step aside. I have zero interest in taking a stroll down memory lane."

My husband will be pulling up any minute now, and the last thing I need is for him to see this circus. Because trust me, Bradley's tantrum would seem like child's play compared to his.

Still, Bradley didn't budge. He stood there, simply staring at Leon as if he were trying to memorize every detail.

Then Sabrina stepped in, sliding up beside him, her arm looping through his as if staking her claim.

"Bradley, you're scaring the poor kid," she cooed, all sugar and light. "Leslie must be under a lot of pressure right now. But this little boy? He looks just over three. There's no way he's yours."

Then she rose on her toes and whispered flirtatiously in his ear, "If you want a baby, we could get married sooner and have one of our own…"

But Bradley cut her off without hesitation.

Firmly, he asserted, "That is my son. Look at him! He's handsome as hell. Who else could he take after but me?"

I almost laughed at how proud he sounded. The kind of smug confidence that only comes from someone completely delusional.

Sure, Leon inherited his dad's eyes and nose, I wouldn't deny that.

But everything else? That was entirely me. His mouth, his cheeks, that spark in his eyes that made him so uniquely himself—that all came from me.

His looks? Credit goes to me and the man who's actually his father.

Bradley didn't get to claim a single feature.

By now, people were starting to take notice. Parents and staff had begun whispering, craning their necks to see what the fuss was about.

"Wait… is that Bradley Goodman's illegitimate child?"

"Looks like a classic love triangle. Mistress versus fiancée. Oh, this is gonna be good!"

"Still, I gotta give the mistress credit. She raised the kid solo and never asked for a cent."

The gossip was spreading fast, faster than wildfire.

It was starting to show on Sabrina's face. Her charming expression briefly cracked before she quickly regained it, her voice remaining soft but tinged with passive-aggressive sympathy.

"Leslie, we're getting married soon. So, even if your son is really Bradley's child, I hope you'll continue to raise him yourself. Please don't bring unnecessary drama into our lives. Bradley and I have worked through a great deal to get to where we are. I don't want a child we didn't plan for ruining that."

She leaned into him, playing the sweet, supportive girlfriend who couldn't bear conflict.

"Bradley, maybe you could give Leslie some child support? I mean, I'm not ready to be anyone's stepmom."

Bradley's gaze snapped back to me, his fury simmering beneath his voice.

"My son is over four years old, and this is what you've turned him into? He's scrawny and underfed! You can't even take care of him right. Did it never occur to you to ask me for help? Doesn't it trouble you to see your own child like this?"

I stared at him, stunned, not just by the nerve of it, but by how confident he was rewriting reality.

Leon was three years old, and for his age, he was remarkably healthy, intelligent, strong, and more energetic than I could sometimes manage.

But in Bradley's words, Leon suddenly appeared like a neglected child raised in filth.

"I'll say this one more time," I said, voice steady but firm. "He's not your son. Leon was born in May. He just turned three. Kids his age? They're all about this size."

Bradley's brow furrowed as he pulled out his phone, clearly prepared to fact-check me as if this were a courtroom.

Typical.

He could never take no for an answer, even when the truth was staring him in the face.