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No matter what, the little one was innocent.

He didn’t know anything and she had promised him she would never leave him.

The one to be blamed was only Sylvan Cheney.

How many women had he toyed with? Little Chale’s mother, Yolanda Fern, and even her.

Scumbag.

Jasmine Yale embraced her blanket and went to sleep.

Sylvan Cheney also took a bath. After that, he sat on the couch and smoked.

Outside the window, the moon was hidden by the mist, the heavy autumn dew imminent. The deep autumn night was very cold, filled with a bone-chilling chill.

The living room was particularly cold.

Wrapped only in a bathrobe, Sylvan Cheney’s heart was very calm and serene.

The smell of tobacco spread throughout the living room with the smoke gradually unveiling his memories.

Three years ago, Charles Mcintosh had handed him the infant that survived in the incubator.

The little one was very light, being prematurely born, he was much smaller than normal children. Like a kitten, but much more interesting, crying, laughing and making noise.

Big eyes, long eyelashes, small dimples.

From every angle, he looked exactly like him.

He didn’t feel anything for children, but holding his own child for the first time made his stony heart grow soft.

Especially when the little one smiled at him, he found the corners of his lips lifting to a pleasant smile.

He named the child Chale Cheney.

From then on, there was another person in the world that he had to protect.

Thinking about this, Sylvan Cheney, his hand holding a cigarette, reached for his phone.

They had taken many photos when they were at the amusement park last time.

There were photos of Chale Cheney, of Jasmine Yale, and of himself.

Sylvan Cheney opened the group photo and stared at it intensely.

The little one, looked seventy percent like him, and thirty percent like her.

In the early morning, the sun was beautiful. Its rays pierced through the curtains, filling the room with a misty glow, creating a fairy-like atmosphere.

The red maples were everywhere, indicating the arrival of autumn.

Jasmine Yale was sleeping soundly, hugging her “pillow”.

Sylvan Cheney had already woken up. He was lying in bed handling his emails.

However, his arm was being used as a pillow by her, so he couldn’t move.

Jasmine Yale maintained this habit for years.

When she first came to the Cheney Residence, she was young and timid, unable to sleep at night.

Seeing her pitiful, he had no choice but to keep her company at bedtime.

She liked to use his arm as a pillow so that she could fall asleep quickly, fearing nothing.

Later when she grew older, she was no longer the naive and innocent young girl but a graceful young woman.

To avoid misunderstandings, he no longer shared a bed with her.

Jasmine Yale, now aware of the matters between men and women, also no longer asked for his company.

For a period, with her adolescent feelings blooming, she would purposely avoid him whenever she saw him.

Jasmine Yale turned in her sleep, snuggling closer into his embrace.

Sylvan Cheney felt a burning sensation, which he quickly suppressed.

He put down his phone, his large hand gently stroking her soft hair.

Her hair was smooth, black as ink.

All night, she wasn’t quiet. Her hand was grabbing at the quilt, his shirt, and occasionally touching where she shouldn’t.

“Sylvan Cheney… give me the baby…”

She mumbled, frowning in her sleep.

“Hmm?” Sylvan Cheney furrowed his brows, looking down at her.

What Chale Cheney said was true, she would call out his name in her sleep.

“Bastard…” she cursed again.

The light came into the room, making everything quiet.

Suddenly—

Jasmine Yale’s little hand grabbed him!

“Hiss…” Sylvan Cheney inhaled sharply.

A long red mark appeared on his arm where she had grabbed him..