Chapter 744 Oats and Secrets

Yunice’s gaze dropped to Wyatt’s wounded side. Her voice was low, trembling. “And if you’re the one hurt—don’t you think I’d blame myself?”

Wyatt froze, then suddenly laughed, soft and rough. “Just for those words… taking that bullet was worth it.”

His eyes stayed on her, unwavering.

Yunice looked away, her hand resting protectively on her stomach. “The child is mine. I’ll decide how to raise it.”

“Fine,” Wyatt said without missing a beat. “Even if she calls me ‘sir,’ that’s enough.”

Something flickered in Yunice’s eyes—something softer. Who could resist a man who claimed her child as his own?

She hesitated, then said quietly, “It’s a boy.”

Wyatt’s brows shot up. His fantasy shattered.

“I told you,” Yunice added, a hint of teasing in her tone, “you’ll never have a daughter’s fate.”

Wyatt: “…”

He left the ward in a daze.

“Wyatt?” Scarface scratched his head. He couldn’t understand how Wyatt went into Yunice’s room looking normal but came out like he’d lost his soul.

Wyatt clutched his arm with tragic despair. “My wife is soft and sweet, like a little cake. Even if she doesn’t give me a cream puff, she should’ve given me a soufflé. How did she end up with… a landmine?”

“What? Madam’s carrying… a landmine?” Scarface stared like Wyatt had been possessed.

Wyatt groaned, “A son. She said I’ve no destiny with daughters…”

Scarface rubbed his scalp. “A son isn’t so bad. He’s still yours, isn’t he? Why fuss?”

Wyatt glared. “Hard, stiff sons are nothing like delicate daughters!”

Scarface tried to comfort him. “Not all sons are hard and stiff. Some are… soft.”

Wyatt’s eyes bulged. “Soft sons? Do you hear yourself?”

Scarface slapped a hand over his mouth. “Spit, spit, spit—forget I said anything.”

Months passed, and Wyatt still struggled to accept the idea of a son.

His friends teased him: wait until after this baby—coax Yunice into having another. If not next time, then the time after; surely a daughter would come eventually.

Wyatt beat them for it, warning that if Yunice ever heard such talk and grew upset, they’d answer with their heads.

After that, no one dared mention more children again. Still, whispers followed him: what a shame—all that wealth, and only one son to inherit.

Yunice stayed in the hospital on strict bed rest, pouring all her energy into protecting the fragile life inside her.

She even left Saunderss Hospital matters to others, her focus entirely on the baby.

Not long after, news broke—Jensen and Linda had been arrested.

Handcuffed, the pair were shoved into police cars under a storm of cameras.

Their charges matched Paul’s: financial crimes.

Yunice, startled, turned to Wyatt, who was cooling porridge at her bedside. “Your doing?”

Wyatt didn’t look up. “Cutting the weeds means pulling the roots. I won’t let another Margaret rise again.”

He lifted the spoon toward her lips.

She turned her head away. “I’ve been drinking this for two months. I’m sick of it.”

He leaned closer. “Then what do you want? I’ll get it.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t the oats maker’s son the one who ruined the recipe in a fit of spite? Who else could still make it taste the same?”

Wyatt raised a brow. “Nothing’s impossible—only depends if you care enough.”

She caught the weight of his words immediately. Her sharp mind pieced it together.

Her gaze drifted to the bowl. “You made this?”

Wyatt smiled faintly. “The man who cooked those oats had a wife who loved him. He tore the recipe, but she memorized it. She resented her ungrateful sons and kept it from them. I went to her, told her my wife’s health was poor, that she craved her husband’s oats more than anything. She thought I was lying, trying to trick her. To drive me off, she cooked a fake batch. I tasted it and knew instantly. So I kept going back, pestering, begging. Finally, she relented and made the real thing for me.”

Yunice recalled. “Gill brought that bowl to me at the Saunderss house, didn’t she?”

Wyatt nodded. “But I kept troubling the old lady. She grew tired of me and handed me the recipe herself.”

He chuckled. “And now that I’ve mastered it, you’re sick of it.”