Blurb：
When a man named Thomas Morrow storms into a family bookstore and bullies a young boy named Simon Hays for wearing a mask after cleft-lip surgery, he claims to be the boyfriend of Imogen Slater, the CEO of the Slater Group. But the narrator—Simon’s father—knows a shocking secret: Imogen despises all men except him. As Thomas flaunts his fake relationship and demands the boy be thrown out, tensions explode. Who is Thomas Morrow really? And what is Imogen Slater hiding? Dive into a gripping tale of secret identities, betrayal, and a father’s fierce protection of his son, Simon Hays. Uncover the truth behind the CEO’s mysterious love life in this emotional and suspenseful drama.
Content：
During the holiday, my six-year-old son received his cleft-lip surgery. He wore a mask and sat quietly in our family bookstore, engrossed in a picture book.
A young man came in, pinching his nose dramatically as he swaggered up to the manager.
Why did you let someone with an infectious disease in here? he demanded loudly. “Get them out!”
The manager winced. “Sir, I’m sorry, but I don’t have the authority to remove other customers.”
Undeterred, the man marched up to me. “Be wise and get out of here. My girlfriend is Imogen Slater, CEO of the Slater Group. You don’t want to mess with me.”
I froze in stunned silence.
Imogen despised all men except me, and this guy claimed she was his girlfriend.
Chapter 1
…
The bookstore manager seized Thomas Morrow’s arm, his voice low but firm. “Sir, please keep it down. You’re disturbing the other readers.”
Thomas’s eyebrows twisted into knots of rage. He jerked his arm free with a violent shake, growling, “Didn’t you hear me? I’m your boss’s boyfriend, and you want me to whisper? I can get you fired in a minute!”
He smoothed the wrinkles from his silk cuffs, then cast a disdainful glance at my simply short-sleeved shirt. “That kid and his father are clearly contagious. Clear the store and sanitize every surface.”
His arrogance was staggering.
My son, Simon Hays, hadn’t uttered a word or coughed once. He was quietly reading and hadn’t affected anyone.
This guy was deliberately causing trouble.
The manager rolled his eyes discreetly, then leaned in close to me and whispered, “Sir, shall we escort this lunatic, who’s impersonating you, out of the store?”
I shook my head calmly. The blatant discrimination against Simon already had my blood boiling, but curiosity burned hotter: just how many men did Imogen keep behind my back?
Meeting the man’s haughty glare head-on, I fired back, “Wearing a mask means you’re infectious? Then your baseball cap must mean you’re brain-dead.”
Before I could finish, Simon tugged urgently at my sleeve. His eyes were wide with worry, silently pleading for me not to argue. I ruffled his hair reassuringly, but my words ignited Thomas’s anger.
In a flash, he yanked Simon’s mask off. “My girlfriend owns this bookstore, and I say no masks are allowed!”
Then he flinched, shrieking as if he’d glimpsed something horrific. “What’s wrong with his mouth? Is he some kind of freak? Get out of my store!”
I rushed over and shoved him back. “Hands off my son! If you can’t speak civilly, then shut your mouth!”
I snatched the mask from his grasp, wrapped Simon in a tight embrace as he trembled violently, and carefully refastened it over his face.
Thomas planted his hands on his hips and bellowed at the staff. “Someone, throw them out!”
The employees stood frozen, their eyes darting nervously toward me.
This fueled his tantrum. “Fine! If no one acts, I’ll call my girlfriend right now and have every one of you fired!”
Simon shook harder in my arms, and my heart ached. He had always been insecure about his lip shape, and now the loud chaos terrified him.
Cold fury rising, I shot back, “Go ahead! Let’s see if your so-called CEO girlfriend can make me leave.”
Thomas raised his chin, pulling out his phone to type furiously. Moments later, his expression flickered with something strange and unreadable as he stared at the screen.
Meanwhile, the manager’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it and grimaced with disgust.
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”
He faltered. “Mrs. Hays instructed us to provide this gentleman with a private VIP room.”
Thomas shot me a victorious glare over his shoulder. “Hear that? Imogen doesn’t want me sharing air with lowly peasants like you.”
He strutted away after an employee, his leather shoes clicking smugly against the floor.
I stared at his retreating figure, my phone lighting up with a new message.
Imogen: [Honey, why aren’t you replying? Should I just go ahead and book the restaurant?]
Me: [What exactly are you doing right now?]
A photo popped up, showing her sitting at a conference table, exhaustion etched across her features.
Imogen: [Stuck in meetings all day. Haven’t even had a sip of water.]
She was a notorious workaholic, always unavailable during meetings, except for me. This had to be a coincidence. Directing the staff to isolate Thomas simply de-escalated the scene. It was reasonable.
Still, the mood for reading was utterly ruined. I gathered Simon and headed to the mall instead.
My phone buzzed again with a message from my friend.
Donald Diaz: [Bro, that idiot secretly photographed you two and tagged a fake account of Imogen!]
The forwarded tweet showed our backs as we left the bookstore. The caption read: [Encountered a brat and his ill-mannered dad. Good thing my girlfriend has my back.]
I tapped into the fake profile. Its settings showed “visible for the last six months only”.
But Imogen hadn’t touched Twitter in seven years. Her final post was still our wedding photo from back then. It looked like someone was impersonating her and pulling off some sort of con.
I assumed the farce had finally ended, but as I stood in the luxury boutique listening to the manager’s report on last quarter’s new arrivals, those same familiar leather soles echoed behind me once more.
I turned, and there stood Thomas at the entrance, arm crossed with a scowl. “It’s you again! Bumpkins and freaks have no business in high-end stores.”
He sauntered inside, sizing me up like discarded trash. “We don’t sell two-for-ten grocery bags here, old man.”
His gaze swept the displays before locking on the limited-edition crocodile-skin shoes in the clerk’s hands. He said simply, “I’ll take those.”
The clerk hesitated, glancing at me. “Sir…”
I exhaled slowly and waved a hand. “Let the ‘VIP customer’ have them.”
The staff exchanged glances laced with pity as Thomas accepted the box with gleeful satisfaction. Turning to me, he sneered, “Tsk. You can only window-shop these luxuries, huh?”
“Check, please,” he declared grandly, flashing a credit card.
Those crocodile-leather shoes, priced at 0-0.38 million, were not items for flashy people like him. Even if he sold every knock-off item on his body, he couldn’t cover the deposit.
Yet the terminal beeped: transaction approved. I stood rooted in shock as the clerk meticulously wrapped the shoes for him.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and Imogen’s voice came through. “Honey, why didn’t you answer my messages? Once this busy period ends, how about I take you and Simon on a proper vacation?”
Her words barely registered. She was perpetually swamped; she couldn’t even carve out time to pick Simon up from school, let alone take leave for travel.
I’d heard the rumors: when a wife cheated, guilt would drive her to overcompensate with grand gestures.
My stomach twisted into knots. I mumbled a vague reply and abandoned the report midway.
Thomas, ever petty, couldn’t resist another jab. “Escort these disease carriers out! They’re ruining my shopping experience.”
He flipped open his phone and thrust a photo toward the staff. “See? My girlfriendImogen Slater. Disobey me, and you’re all fired.”
Every pair of eyes in the boutique swiveled toward me. My breath caught in my throat as I looked at the woman in the photo. It was none other than Imogen smiling behind her desk.
Chapter 2
Thomas snapped the screen off, his swagger inflating further.
“You heard me?” he said. “Remove the old man and the mutant. Ban them from the mall permanently.”
The boutique manager maintained perfect courtesy but stood firm. “Sir, do you even realize who you’re speaking to?”
Thomas faltered for a split second, his suspicious gaze flicking toward me. The photo had shaken me to my core, but I stepped forward, my voice like ice. “Say it again. Who is your girlfriend?”
Thomas scanned the sea of doubtful faces, then erupted. “Imogen Slater, CEO of the Slater Group!”
A snicker escaped someone in the crowd. Laughter rippled outward like a wave.
Thomas hurled the shoebox to the floor. “You dare mock me? I’ll have Imogen fire every single one of you!”
The manager sighed, ready to explain, but I raised a hand to stop him, facing Thomas’s anger head-on. “They say Imogen Slater is beautiful and wealthy, with a lot of admirers. How do we know you’re not just another impostor? Prove it with maybe a phone call?”
Thomas fumbled for his phone, all thunder and bravado. “Laugh while you can! I’ll make you regret this!”
A growing crowd pressed against the glass doors outside, eager for the spectacle. He dialed repeatedly, but each attempt met the same automated voice: “The subscriber you have reached is powered off.”
His bravado crumbled, and he spat, “Just you wait!”
He scooped up his shoes and bolted for the exit. The staff members shrugged and returned to their routines.
The manager bit his tongue, looking troubled. Reading his mind, I reached for my phone and called Imogen, but her phone was switched off.
One instance might be a coincidence. Two identical failures formed a pattern.
I clenched my fists until the muscles ached. A slow chill spread through me.
That afternoon, I walked Simon to school. The whole incident felt like a splinter in my chest, throbbing with every step.
As a member of the parent volunteer group, I was on duty that day to hand out traffic-safety flyers. The other volunteers, ever hungry for gossip, flocked over.
“Abraham, did you see that tweet? Don’t brush this off,” one said.
They tapped open Thomas’s account and analyzed the odds of Imogen having an affair.
“You’d better watch out these days,” another chimed in. “Women can be tempted easily. Especially true for someone as outstanding as her.”
Just then, the woman who had been unreachable all afternoon called, sounding tired. “Honey, my phone died earlier. Everything okay on your end?”
Before I could answer, she continued breezily, “Oh, and cancel tonight’s dinner reservation. I’ve still got work to handle.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
Her assistant had clocked out by five; what work could she possibly have? It was Simon’s birthday, so even if a true emergency arose, she should move mountains to be here.
The call ended, but a few moments later, a familiar, brash voice burst through the doorway. “Hello everyone, I’m Lotta’s uncle, newly joined the volunteer group. Nice to meet you all.”
Every jaw in the vicinity dropped, while my eyelids twitched at the sight of him.
Thomas’s cheerful grin curdled instantly upon spotting me. “It’s you again!”
He pointed at my nose and raised his chin. “Actually, this is perfect. Saves me the trouble of tracking you down. My girlfriend is picking me up tonight. We’ll see who’s been lying.”
The others exchanged awkward looks, while something in me snapped. I could no longer tolerate this persistent, poison-tinged connection.
My open palm cracked across his cheek with a resounding slap. “In that case, make her come here now!”
Was Imogen cheating on me? It was time to settle the question once and for all.
Chapter 3
Thomas’s head snapped sideways, his cheek instantly swelling red.
He stared in stunned silence for a heartbeat, then roared with rage. “You dare hit me? I’ll smash your face in!”
He charged like a maddened bull, slamming his palm into my forehead. Pain exploded across my skull, making my vision swim.
The other volunteers finally snapped out of their shock. Some seized his arms; others grabbed his legs.
He shrieked shrilly, thrashing against them. “Let go of me! Imogen will make sure every one of you regrets it!”
The courtyard dissolved into pandemonium. Then a parent bellowed over the chaos, “Stop it! Abraham is Imogen’s husband! Hit him again, and we’re calling the police!”
Thomas froze, his eyes bulging in disbelief. “What did you say? I am her real boyfriend!”
He swung wildly once more. I blocked the blow and delivered another stinging slap across his face.
“You’re out of your mind!” I snapped. “Our kid is already six years old. Shall I fetch the marriage certificate for you to inspect?”
The loud slap echoed through the air, and the tension in the air immediately cooled down.
Thomas cupped his swollen cheek, his teeth grinding audibly. Then he sneered, “So what if you’re her husband? She’s finished with an old fossil like you. We hook up constantly. Last Thursday, we spent the entire night in a love hotel.”
I furrowed my brows, but the anger bubbling inside me gradually dissipated.
Last Thursday was our wedding anniversary. Imogen had spent the whole day by my side. But then, it occurred to me that I had drunk too much and fallen asleep early that night.
Doubt clawed viciously at my gut, but on the surface, I kept my composure and fired off a discreet text to my lawyer, asking about custody arrangements, asset division, and infidelity protocols.
I hesitated about telling my parents when a message came.
Imogen: [Honey, are you still at the volunteer event?]
This was likely a probe into the possibility of me catching her with Thomas, but I forced calm into my reply: [I am. Put off whatever you’re doing and come pick me up right now.]
There was a brief pause before she responded with a crying emoji: [Why so worked up? Alright, I’m on my way.]
Her quick agreement didn’t shake the unease settling in my chest. It didn’t make sense. If she came now, our confrontation would be inevitable.
Thomas waved his phone with manic glee, smirking at me. “She’s almost here. Let’s see who ends up with egg on their face.”
I glanced at the chat window, then at his smug face. The nerves in my body quietly tensed.
Soon, a sleek black car pulled up at the building.
Thomas’s eyes lit up, and he eagerly waved his hand. “Babe!”
Imogen stepped out, impeccably dressed in a cream suit, cradling an enormous bouquet of roses.
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