One Night Stand With My Ex's Uncle

Marcus’s POV

jolted awake to Benedict’s cries piercing the darkness. My body ached with exhaustion, but instinct propelled me upright before my mind fully surfaced from sleep. The door creaked open immediately, revealing Peter Reed’s concerned face.

"Mr. Murphy, is the young master hungry?" he asked, his usually stoic expression softened with genuine concern.

I glanced at the digital clock, noting it was precisely 2:13 AM. A small smile tugged at my lips-my son already had his own schedule. "Probably," I murmured, pushing myself out of bed and padding toward the crib.

The moment I lifted Benedict, a surge of unfamiliar responsibility washed over me. His tiny body trembled slightly against my chest, his cries growing more insistent. I gently checked his diaper, feeling the dampness through the fabric.

"He needs a change," I announced, still marveling at how naturally these words now came from the same mouth that once only discussed market takeovers and asset acquisitions.

Peter nodded, already moving with practiced efficiency. "I’ll prepare his formula right away, sir."

Watching him warm the bottle and gather fresh diapers, I felt an unexpected wave of gratitude. This man who’d orchestrated corporate raids with clinical precision now applied the same meticulous attention to my son’s care.

Benedict seemed to sense help had arrived, his wails subsiding to hungry whimpers, his small mouth opening and closing expectantly. I studied his face, those light-colored eyes that somehow already held traces of Anna, and my chest tightened with an emotion I couldn’t quite name.

Peter changed Benedict’s diaper with surprising dexterity, his movements confident and gentle. The incongruity of my stern-faced assistant tending to an infant struck me as bizarrely fitting.

"You should rest, Mr. Murphy. I can look after Benedict," Peter suggested after expertly feeding and burping my son.

I shook my head, silently thinking: *If my son’s awake, I’m awake*. The sentiment felt foreign yet wholly natural. The man who once worked seventy-two-hour stretches to close deals now found nothing more compelling than watching this small human breathe.

Peter smiled as Benedict drifted back to sleep, sated and content. "Babies truly are the most fortunate creatures, sir. Where else does one receive praise for successful bowel movements?"

I couldn’t argue with his observation.

The ruthless business mogul who once fixated on European market expansion now constantly asked: "Has Benedict had a bowel movement today?" and "Benedict hasn’t had a bowel movement yet?" My appetite would desert me during his constipated days, and a successful diaper change brought more satisfaction than closing a billion-dollar deal.

---

I descended the stairs later that morning, surprised to find a sullen pre-teen sprawled across the living room sofa. Steven Jones glanced up, muttering a reluctant "Uncle Marcus" before returning his attention to his phone.

"Shouldn’t you be in school at this hour?"

Steven shrugged, his expression defiant. "Don’t feel like going."

Oliver Jones strode into the room, stopping abruptly at the sight of his younger brother. His face twisted with irritation. "Steven? Why are you still home?"

When Steven merely shrugged again, Oliver’s composure fractured. He snatched up the discarded backpack, hurling it toward his brother.

"Skipping school? Who do you think you are?" he snapped, voice rising sharply. "Ryan, Darren! Take him to school and make sure he actually enters the classroom. If he escapes again, don’t bother coming back."

Two security personnel appeared immediately, flanking Steven as they escorted him outside. The boy went surprisingly quietly, though the calculating gleam in his eyes suggested he was already planning his next escape.

Oliver collapsed onto the sofa, exhaustion etched across his features.

"That kid will be the death of me.

God, if he turns into one of those entitled trust fund disasters, my parents will never forgive me."

I considered his predicament, understanding the weight of unexpected responsibility. "You’re his guardian now. He needs patience and rational communication."

Oliver rolled his eyes at my advice.

"Wait, why does he call you ’Uncle Marcus? Isn’t that messing up the generational titles?"

I dismissed the trivial concern, my thoughts already drifting back to my sleeping son upstairs. Becoming a father had revealed something I’d never anticipated-that there existed something far more valuable than my business empire: that small life and each moment of his growth.

Jack’s POV

The sound of something shattering against the wall stopped me cold, my hand frozen mid-knock on my father’s hospital door. His muffled curses filtered through the thin wood, each one more venomous than the last. I closed my eyes, drawing a deep breath.

This had become our new normal-his rage, my silence, and the growing chasm between us.

When the cursing finally subsided, I pushed the door open. A male nurse was silently sweeping up the remains of what looked like a water pitcher, his face a practiced mask of professional indifference. The Simpson name on the door-and the substantial bonus added to his paycheck-ensured his discretion.

He slipping past me with the dustpan of broken glass.

Father glared at me from his hospital bed, his once-imposing frame diminished under the thin blanket. His skin had a sickly yellow tinge that the expensive private room’s soft lighting couldn’t disguise. The pneumonia had led to heart complications, but you’d never know it from his venom.

"Where’s the food?" he demanded, eyes narrowing at my empty hands.

"You’re trying to starve me to death now?"

Without responding, I pulled out my phone and ordered his dinner from hotel. My own stomach had been in knots all day, appetite nonexistent under the crushing weight of Simpson Group problems and father’s worsening condition.

"You’re just like your ungrateful mother," he spat suddenly, his finger jabbing the air between us. "Waiting for me to die so you can take everything I’ve built."

The accusation hit like a physical blow.

I’d been coming here every night after fourteen-hour workdays, keeping his empire from collapsing while he hurled abuse at me.

"Is that what you think?" I asked, my voice barely audible even to myself.

"I know you and your mother are already dividing my assets." His eyes burned with feverish suspicion. "You’re both vultures, circling, too impatient to wait for me to die."

I stared at the stranger in my father’s bed. The illness hadn’t just ravaged his body; it had twisted something in his mind, corrupting what little warmth had ever existed between us.

"If that’s what you believe," I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice remained, "T’ll resign from Simpson Group tomorrow."