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How many times had Sylvan Cheney deceived her? She had lost count.

He always managed to play her like a fiddle, as if she were a pet to tease.

Could it be that he was hiding an even bigger scheme from her?

As she thought about it, a cold sweat broke out on Jasmine Yale’s back.

Could it be that even him bringing her home from the street fifteen years ago was a grand deception?

She dared not think any further. She just couldn’t.

The driver, Charles Mcintosh, seemed to sense something. Seeing Jasmine Yale’s pale complexion, he couldn’t help but express concern, “Miss Yale, what’s wrong?”

She remained silent, leaning against the window, motionless.

Her complexion was as white as a sheet.

“Miss Yale, has anyone been causing trouble for you lately?” Charles Mcintosh asked.

The silence was unbearable, so he felt compelled to say something.

He wasn’t one to easily initiate conversation, so he tried to ask some questions.

Jasmine Yale shook her head: “No.”

“If there is any, you can come directly to me or Mr. Cheney.”

Jasmine Yale remained silent.

Charles Mcintosh had no choice but to drop the subject and not ask further.

He remembered that Jasmine Yale didn’t use to be like this.

When she used to ride in the car with Mr. Cheney, she would always talk non-stop.

Sometimes Mr. Cheney found it annoying and would sit in the passenger seat, not with her.

But those times were rare, most of the time, Mr. Cheney and Jasmine Yale would sit together in the back, Jasmine Yale would talk and Mr. Cheney would listen with his eyes closed.

From his memory, Mr. Cheney was not the type to have patience with women.

Except for Jasmine Yale.

Jasmine Yale returned to the Cheney Residence with Charles Mcintosh.

Chale Cheney had fallen asleep while waiting, drowsily laid on the sofa, hugging a chubby Ali.

Riceball was lying under the sofa, also napping.

Jasmine Yale changed into her slippers and quietly walked over.

She stood beside the sofa, looking at the little guy on it.

Looking closer, he really resembled Sylvan Cheney.

Very much so.

No wonder Sylvan Cheney never gave her the photos of Little Cutie when she asked for them.

Hadn’t she always wanted to know what her little rascal looked like when he was born? He probably looked just like Little Chale.

But, her Little Rascal would call her ‘mommy’, not Jasy.

Little Chale only had one mother, her name was Yolanda Fern, not her.

Turing away, Jasmine Yale prepared to head upstairs.

She had no appetite, none at all.

Chale Cheney woke at exactly that moment, and the first thing he saw was Jasmine Yale.

“Jasy, Jasy, hug…” The little guy whined sweetly to Jasmine Yale, reaching out his little arms.

Jasmine Yale’s footsteps halted, but she did not turn around.

“Jasy, Jasy…”

“I’m tired. I’m going upstairs to sleep first.”

Jasmine Yale didn’t turn around and her voice lacked any emotion as she headed for the guest room upstairs.

“Jasy!” Chale Cheney cried out from downstairs in agony.

Why was Jasy ignoring him, why didn’t Jasy hug him…

Why…

Had he done something wrong? He could change…

Crying softly, he was ignored yet again, he didn’t have a mother, and the one person he liked was ignoring him.

Chale Cheney let go of Ali and with short strides ran for the stairs.

Soon, the sound of “thump thump thump” resonated in the living room.

“Jasy, Jasy, why are you ignoring me, don’t ignore me…”

Chale Cheney caught up with Jasmine Yale and grabbed her hand.

The soft touch of his little hand startled Jasmine Yale like an electric shock and instinctively she shook it off.

“Go play by yourself.”

Jasmine Yale did not look at him, and threw out those few indifferent words before walking directly upstairs, leaving him behind..