I’m The Spoiled Princess With Three Dads Chapter 05

I’m The Spoiled Princess With Three Dads Chapter 05

Sophie froze, her hand still circling my wrist. She lifted her head like a rusted clockwork toy.

I sniffled, tears still on my face, and instinctively pulled my arm back. She tightened her grip out of reflex—nails digging deeper. I winced.

All three men stepped forward at once.

“Let go.”

Jonathan’s two words hit the floor like stones.

Sophie flinched and released me instantly. She burst into tears. “I didn’t! Mr. Hart, I really didn’t! We were just—just playing!”

She sobbed and backed away, her small face twisting into a messy, tear-streaked mess. Tears fell fast and round.

If I hadn’t felt the burning marks on my wrist, if I hadn’t heard her whisper “cry, let the housekeeper hate you too”—I might have believed her.

Dad Two set his bubble tea on the table with a click. “Tsk.”

One syllable.

He turned to the housekeeper, his tone pure courtroom cross-examination. “You were the only other person in the house?”

The housekeeper’s knees went weak. “M-Mr. Reeves, I was in the kitchen. I heard Lily cry—”

“Heard what, exactly?”

“Heard… heard this young lady tell Lily to cry louder so I’d hate her too.”

Sophie’s sobbing hitched.

Michael’s lips curled—not a smile.

“Alright.” He pulled out his phone. “Jonathan, pull the security footage.”

Doc Dad didn’t speak. He walked straight over.

He crouched, lifted me into his arms, and pressed his fingers gently against the red marks on my wrist.

I hissed. His brow tightened. He turned his head. “Jonathan.”

Just one word, but I knew it. Doc Dad was angry.

He’d said nicer things on the operating table when a suture needle got mislabeled.

“Mr.—Mr. Hart,” Sophie shrank back, “my mommy is coming soon. You can ask her—”

“Perfect.” Michael pocketed his phone. “Tell her to come over.”

“What?”

“I said, tell her to come.” Michael sat down slowly, crossing his legs. “Mrs. Warren, right? I’ve got a few things to discuss with her.”

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Mrs. Warren swept in with her driver, trailing a cloud of perfume so strong I nearly choked.

She rushed to Sophie and scooped her up. “Baby, what happened? Who hurt my baby?”

Sophie sobbed into her mother’s shoulder. Impressive performance.

Mrs. Warren looked up, eyes red. “Mr. Hart, my Sophie is only eight. Three grown men surround her like this—”

“Mrs. Warren.” Michael cut her off.

He slapped his phone onto the coffee table. The screen glowed with living room security footage: Sophie pulling my hair, grabbing my wrist, reaching for my bracelet. Every frame.

Mrs. Warren’s flush faded to white.

“That’s—that’s just children playing—”

“Playing?” Michael tilted his head. “Mrs. Warren, your daughter said ‘cry and make the housekeeper hate you.’ Is that also playing?”

Mrs. Warren opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Michael smiled again.

“Alright.” He stood. “Let’s say it’s playing. But your daughter also claimed that one of Jonathan’s friends is helping change her name. She’ll be ‘Sophie Hart’ soon?”

Mrs. Warren’s handbag hit the floor.