SIDDHII

Title: The Maddox Misconception
—a rich, messy, slow-burn drama soaked in secrets, obsession, and the kind of love that ruins and redeems.



Sky Maddox is thirty-two, filthy rich, drop-dead gorgeous—and a single mom to the most unattainable boy in school. Everyone assumes she’s Sebastian’s sister, his sugar mama, or his way-too-young stepmom. But the truth? She’s his mother. The kind who still asks if he’s eaten, sends him “I love you” texts mid-class, and believes her baby boy is the sweetest soul on earth.

But Sebastian Maddox—eighteen, six-foot-two, emotionally unavailable and devastatingly hot—is living a secret double life. He smokes. He rides a bike. He clubs. He hooks up with a new girl every weekend. And behind Sky’s back, he's becoming the one person she never recovered from:

Rain Chen.

The man who left her the moment she got pregnant. The man who taught Sebastian everything he shouldn’t be. The man who just walked back into their lives like a storm, aged like sin and dangerous as ever.

And Rain? He doesn’t want redemption. He wants Sky. He wants control. He wants to shatter the bond between mother and son just to prove that he still can. Because nothing infuriates him more than seeing Sky love Sebastian the way she once loved him.

As secrets spill, old wounds reopen, and love is twisted into rivalry, Sky must confront a brutal truth:

The boy she raised may be the shadow of the man who broke her.

And the biggest misconception of all?
That the Maddox family isn’t already falling apart.

The Maddox Misconception

I don't have a reason. No evidence. No signs.

Just the mother instinct. That quiet, insistent tug in my gut that tells me—something happened.

I'm stirring pasta sauce when I hear the door unlock. He's late. Again. And I told myself I wouldn't worry, but I did anyway. I always do. He walks in like he's fine, bag slung over his shoulder, hoodie half-zipped, expression blank.

I don't say anything right away. I let him take off his shoes, toss his bag on the floor like always. He walks past me into the kitchen, kisses my cheek in that distracted way he does when his head is full.

But his hand lingers on my back. Just a second too long.

I turn to him, softly. "You okay, baby?"

There's a pause. A deep one. The kind that isn't silent, but loud with everything he's not saying.

He does. And in that second, I see it.

The storm. The unrest. The walls he's built up since he was little—and something in him is screaming behind them.

"You've been… distant." I say it like I'm walking on glass. "Is it something I did?"

He blinks, startled. "No. No, it's not you."

And then, out of nowhere—quiet, but sharp—he says:

"Why don't you ever talk about my dad?"

The spoon clatters in the pot. My heart stops.

"My dad," he repeats, louder now. "You never say his name. You never told me who he really was. I don't even know what he looks like."

I step back. Not out of fear. But out of reflex. Because this moment was always coming—and I thought I could outrun it forever.

"Where is this coming from?" I ask carefully.

He shrugs. But it's not casual—it's defensive. "I just… want to know. Was he a good person? Was he like me?"

I take a shaky breath. "He wasn't ready. That's all."

"Wasn't ready to be a dad?" His voice tightens.

"And you still named me after him?"

I feel like I'm choking on everything I never told him.

"I didn't name you after him," I whisper. "I named you in spite of him."

I reach for his hand, but he pulls back—just slightly.

"You deserve to know," I say. "But I was trying to protect you. He… he wasn't kind, Seb. He wasn't someone I wanted you to grow up like."

And then, softly, almost like it hurts to say: "Was his name Rain?"

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.

"Oh my God," I whisper. "Seb… has he contacted you?"

He looks at me. And it's the first time in years that he looks like a boy again, not a man.

"I didn't know it was him," he says, voice low. "But now I do."

He steps forward then. Just once. "What did he do to you?"

And I realize… he isn't angry at me. He's angry for me.

I reach for him. This time, he doesn't pull away. He lets me hold him. And even though he's taller, stronger, grown—he leans into me like the little boy who used to sneak into my bed at night after nightmares.

I stroke his hair and whisper, "I'll tell you everything. I promise. But we're going to be okay. You and me. No matter what he tries."

But I'm not that sixteen-year-old girl anymore.

Things We Don’t Talk About