THE RETURN OF THE RED BUTCHER

THIS CHILD IS NOT YOURS

“No, Simon,” Isabella said coldly. “This isn’t just…”

Simon stared at her, waiting for the rest of the sentence, but her silence already felt like an answer. The living room was too clean, too bright, too full of people who looked ready to watch him bleed without touching him.

Isabella lifted her chin. “This isn’t just about the baby. This is about my future, the future of my company, and my father’s legacy. I don’t think you are good enough to be my husband, let alone be a member of this family.”

Simon shook his head slowly. “Good enough?”

“Yes,” Isabella said. “You heard me.”

“I served your father well,” Simon said. “I protected this family when you had enemies you did not even know about. I helped Robertson Oil survive deals that would have ruined it. I sat with executives, corrected contracts, stopped bad investments, and saved your father from people smiling at his table while planning to bury him.”

Fiona laughed from the sofa. “Listen to him. A fish seller now claims he built Robertson Oil.”

“I did not say I built it,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on Isabella. “I said I helped. Your father knew that.”

Caleb scoffed. “Convenient. The dead man is the only one who can confirm your story. Do you think we are children you can lie to and get away with it?”

Irene crossed her legs. “Maybe next he will say he taught Father how to breathe.”

Simon ignored them. “Isabella, the reason I sell fish now is because your mother made sure I was thrown out of the company.”

Fiona’s face tightened. “Careful, Simon.”

He looked at her then, and something dark passed through his eyes. He remembered Fiona in the early days after he entered John Robertson’s service. She had not loved him. She had wanted to use him to satisfy her sexual needs. She had liked his face, his body, his roughness, and the danger she sensed about him but could not name.

She had made advances more than once, always when John was away.

Simon had refused her every time.

Not because Fiona was not beautiful, but because John Robertson had loved and trusted him. Simon would rather face an army than betray a man who had given him shelter, peace and a normal life.

What made it worse was Isabella. In those days, Isabella had been young, proud, and deeply in love with Simon. During private talks with her mother, she had praised Simon too much. She had spoken of his strength, his passion, and how he made her feel loved and desired. She even spoke of how Simon was a titan in bed, satisfying her greatly every time they had sex.

Fiona had listened, smiled, and hated him more each time she heard such stories.

After John died, Fiona found her chance.

“You had me sacked,” Simon said. “You blamed me for a five-million-dollar mistake that came from your own poor decision.”

Fiona stood up sharply. “Lies.”

Simon’s voice stayed calm. “You signed the approval. You ignored the warning. Then you told the board I misled you.”

“Enough,” Fiona snapped. “You entered this family with a humble face, but I saw through you from the beginning. You were waiting for the right time to steal from us, siphon money, and run away after breaking my daughter’s heart.”

Simon almost laughed, but there was no joy in him. He had once had access to Robertson oil accounts worth hundreds of millions. He could have moved money through channels no one in that room could trace. He did not do it because of John. He did not do it because he loved Isabella.

And now Fiona called him a thief.

“You know why you are saying this,” Simon said quietly.

Fiona’s eyes flashed. “I am saying it because it is true.”

“No,” Simon said. “You are saying it because I refused to become your dirty secret.”

The room froze.

Irene’s eyes widened. Caleb lowered his glass. Romeo leaned back slightly, watching with sudden interest.

Fiona’s face went pale, then red. “How dare you?”

Simon turned back to Isabella. “Even after I was forced out, I did not sit down and complain. I worked. Day and night. I sold fish, made profit, and brought money home. Your family is rich, yes, but I still wanted to give value. I wanted to prove I could be a good husband.”

Isabella’s expression did not soften. “Selling fish does not protect my father’s legacy.”

“It feeds people,” Simon said. “It is honest trade.”

“It is embarrassing,” Irene cut in. “Do you know how people laugh at us? Isabella Robertson, daughter of an oil mogul, married to a man who smells like the public market. Who smells like fish.”

Caleb nodded. “You are not good for the family image. You are not good for business. You are not even good for conversation.”

Romeo smiled gently. “Simon, sometimes love is not enough. A woman like Isabella needs someone who can stand beside her in public without making her lower her head.”

Simon looked at him. “And you think that person is you?”

Romeo adjusted his cuff. “I do not think. I know.”

Simon’s jaw tightened, but he still turned to Isabella. “If you are tired of me, say it. If you are ashamed of me, say it. But for the sake of our unborn child, do not break this family because of the useless noise from your mother and siblings. Let our child come into a home that is united, not broken.”

The slap came hard.

Isabella’s palm struck Simon's cheek, and the sound cracked through the living room.

“How dare you speak of my mother like that?” she asked.

Simon slowly turned his face back to her. His cheek burned, but his eyes were steady. Beneath his calm, anger moved like something locked behind iron.

“Isabella,” he said, “I came here because I thought you were in danger.”

“You came here to insult my family.”

“No. I came here to save mine.”

Fiona stepped closer, her voice sharp. “Don’t mind him. It is because we were kind to him. We accepted him into our home, and now he thinks he can speak like a king. I think it is time he knows the truth.”

“Yes,” Irene said quickly. “He needs to know the truth.”

Simon looked around the room. Caleb would not meet his eyes. Romeo looked pleased. Uncle James only watched in silence, like a man waiting for a bad debt to be collected.

“What truth?” Simon asked.

Isabella looked away.

Simon’s breathing grew heavier. “What truth are they talking about, Isabella?”

She pointed toward a brown file bag on the center table. “We need to get a divorce. The documents are in that file.”

Simon did not look at the file. “What truth, Isabella?”

“Sign it,” she said.

“What truth?”

His voice was low now, but the room felt it.

Fiona smiled with cruel satisfaction. “Come on, Isabella. Tell him the baby you carry does not belong to him. Tell him there was no way you were going to carry the child of an average Joe like him.”

The words struck Simon hollow.

His face lost color. He looked at Fiona first, hoping she had only said it to hurt him. Then he turned to Isabella. The woman he had loved stood before him with one hand on her belly and her eyes lowered.

“Is that true?” Simon whispered.