Max and Adrian chuckled at his bluntness.
"It's been six fucking long years. Welcome back to the world of fucking chaos," Max replied, lightly pounding his chest with his fist.
"I'm guessing you impregnated half the girls at that damn college of yours. How many, huh? Tell me—how many did you knock up?"
"Never fucked before," Scott said casually.
Adrian and Max exchanged a glance—and immediately burst into uncontrollable laughter. Scott chuckled softly, looking away; he knew perfectly well they'd never believe him.
"Screw you, predator! Fucking hell!" Adrian muttered, punching Scott lightly on the shoulder, still laughing hysterically.
Some of the absurd, ridiculous things Scott said were almost criminal—statements that deserved to go straight to hell.
"And which of them have you impregnated so far? How many? One wrong answer, and both of you are going straight to heaven," Scott said, a sly glint in his eyes.
Adrian and Max erupted into laughter.
"Uncountable!" they chorused in unison. Scott let out a low, amused chuckle, shaking his head.
__
Kyla was struck mercilessly across the cheek, the force sending her hair scattering across her face.
She staggered, both hands flying to her burning cheek as she struggled to steady herself.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze—only to meet Stacy, who stood before her, the one who had just delivered the blow.
"You've been cooking for four hours now!" Stacy snapped, her voice sharp with fury.
"Just because you're starving doesn't mean I should suffer with you. You were bought with our money—you'll serve us properly, with everything you have. It's already 7 p.m., and you haven't finished the dinner you started at six? Just because you're lazy doesn't mean you get to neglect your fucking duties!"
She raised her hand to strike again.
Kyla flinched, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, bracing for the blow.
"Drop it."
The voice came from behind—calm, deep, yet laced with an unmistakable chill.
Stacy's eyes widened.
Slowly, she turned, only to find Scott standing there, dressed in fitted jeans and a simple singlet, his muscles strained against the fabric, as though barely contained.
One hand held a can of water, the other tucked casually into his pocket.
His expression was colder than ice—unforgiving, and utterly unreadable.
"Drop it," he repeated—quieter this time, yet far more lethal, his piercing gaze locked onto her.
Stacy could hardly believe it was coming from him. He knew everything—the story of how Kyla's parents had borrowed a vast sum from their father—and yet, here he stood, still defending her.
Her jaw tightened, teeth clenched in restrained fury. The hand she had raised faltered midair before she slowly lowered it, her composure slipping, if only for a fleeting moment.
Kyla slowly opened her eyes, her fingers trembling slightly against her cheek, she was really surprised to see Scott there, her lips wavering and rufty, a drop of tears left her eyes.
"Do you truly not understand that she has been our maid for the past three years?" Stacy said, her voice laced with sharp disbelief.
"She's paying for her parents' sins—serving this household, doing every bit of work, day after day—and yet you stand there, stopping me from even laying a hand on her, despite knowing exactly why she's here?"
She stepped forward, closing the distance until she stood directly before him, her presence tense with restrained fury.
Kyla remained where she was, silent, watching it all unfold.
"Her parents borrowed millions from our father and sent her to school, using our money to cover every expense until she graduated!," Stacy shouted, her voice sharp and seething with fury.
"And now that she's done, they think they can play smart and refuse to pay him back. So they offered their daughter instead, expecting our father to take her as
repayment" Her eyes flared red with anger, every word dripping with venom and righteous indignation.
"Do you really believe her coming into this house means peace or freedom? She will serve us—be our maid—until the day she dies. That is the price she must pay for her parents' sins!"
Scott took a slow step forward, the air around him growing icy.
Stacy stumbled back slightly, and he leaned in, his face inches from hers, eyes blazing with an intensity that seemed to sear through her..
"Her parents borrowed the money, not her. And she married our father, not you. She is not your property, Stacy," Scott said, his voice low, cold, and razor-sharp, sending a palpable chill through the room.
"No inherited debt, no so-called punishment gives you the right to lay a hand on her. The next time I catch you, I'll break your fingers—one by one. You will feel every ounce of the pain and then you will narrate how sweet, how melodious your cries sounded."
Stacy's eyes went wide with shock.
Kyla swallowed hard, disbelief twisting in her chest. He was truly threatening his own sister—for her sake.
Slowly, painfully, Kyla understood: this display of protection would only deepen Stacy's hatred toward her.
"I'm deeply disappointed that this is coming from you, Predator—truly disappointed," Stacy shouted, her voice sharp and venomous.
"But understand this: in this house, she will remain a maid. She was sold to our father, and he handed her over to us. We will do as we please with her—that is the price she must pay for her parents' debt!"
With a final stomp, she stormed out of the kitchen, her anger echoing through the halls.
Scott brushed his hair back deliberately, then moved to the fridge, taking out another can of water. He closed it quietly, tossing the empty bottle he had brought in with him into the bin.
Without sparing Kyla a single glance, he turned and started leaving.
"Thank you," Kyla whispered softly from behind him. Scott stopped in his tracks and cast a brief glance over his shoulder.
"Remember this—you'll return the favor, Little Stepmom," he said, his voice calm, controlled, and icy, before finally leaving the kitchen. He opened his can of water and took a long, deliberate sip.
Kyla exhaled, brushing her hair from her face, her chest rising and falling heavily. Her gaze lingered on the door long after he had gone, his words echoing in her mind.
How.. exactly is she supposed to return that favor?
She let out a long, weary sigh and returned to her cooking, trying to steady her racing thoughts.
Adrian entered the kitchen, his eyes immediately settling on her back. A dark, knowing smirk played across his lips as he made his way to the fridge.
He opened it, retrieved a juice, and as he closed the door, his gaze slid back to her, deliberate and unrelenting.
The soft thud of the fridge door made her instinctively turn toward him. He had done it on purpose—every movement calculated to make her look.
Kyla's hands froze on the spoon, her heart skipping a beat. She tried to keep her composure, but the intensity of his stare made her stomach twist.
"And what are you cooking tonight, dear Stepmom?" Adrian asked, his voice low and teasing, yet threaded with a subtle edge that sent a shiver down her spine.
He walked toward her deliberately, each step measured.
Kyla's mind raced—what was he planning this time?
Adrian's cruelty always came cloaked in teasing, especially in the kitchen. He might place the salt on the highest shelf or hide it entirely, then stand back to laugh as she struggled to reach it.
What trick is he up to now? she wondered, tightening her grip on the spoon, bracing herself for the inevitable.
He peered into the pot of porridge she was stirring, lips curling into a faint, amused smile.
Carefully, he dipped the tip of his finger into the warm mixture, tasted it, and let out a soft, approving grin. Then his gaze shifted to her, and she stared back in disbelief.
"You're really a good chef," Adrian said, leaning casually against the counter, his tone light but teasing.
"Your mother must have been excellent too. Tell me—how do you make this porridge? Suddenly, it's become my favorite."
He raised an eyebrow, silently urging her to answer, the faint smile on his lips never fading.
Kyla blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his demeanor. Her hands hesitated over the spoon, unsure whether to answer or remain silent.
He nodded again, his eyes lingering on the pot as if signaling her with a silent command. Her gaze dropped to the boiling porridge, and she resumed stirring.
"It's… simple," Kyla said softly, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "Just oats, milk, a little sugar, and cinnamon. You stir slowly, let it simmer until it's smooth and creamy. When it reaches this color, you'll know the porridge is ready. That's how my mother taught me. And thank you for the compliment, though you haven't seen a real chef yet. Compared to proper cooking, this is nothing—I'm terrible at it."
Adrian nodded, his gaze briefly flicking to the faint red mark on her cheek.
She didn't need to explain—it was clear who had caused it: his unpredictable, crazy sister.
Adrian leaned casually against the counter, eyes fixed on her as she stirred, a faint smirk still lingering on his lips.
"Terrible, huh?" he murmured, his tone teasing but not unkind. "I'd say you're underselling yourself. This… looks perfect."
Kyla felt heat creep up her neck, her hands tightening slightly on the spoon.
She focused on the porridge, letting the steam rise between them, though she could feel his gaze like a weight pressing lightly on her back.
"Maybe one day," he added, voice low and deliberate, "you can teach me more than just porridge. Show me the rest of your recipes if I'm lucky."
She turned off the gas, a soft smile curving her lips as she placed the lid on the pot and faced him.
"I like this version of you better," Kyla said, her voice steady, warm, and sincere. "And I'll never forget the day you saved my life—when I nearly bled to death during my fifth miscarriage. You were the one who took me to the hospital. Thank you, Adrian. I'll be forever grateful. I just… hope this attitude of yours today lasts—and that you're not faking it."
Adrian stood frozen, staring at her, utterly speechless.
Kyla returned his gaze with a carefree smile before moving to bring out the plates and trays, carefully dishing out the food.
He watched her quietly, uncapping his juice and taking a slow, measured sip, his expression unreadable, but his eyes never leaving her.
*
*
*
At the dining table, the family had gathered. Mr. Robert sat at the head in a chair that seemed almost king-like, his wives and daughter arranged around him, Adrian at his side.
Only Scott was absent.
Stacy ate in silence, still simmering with anger over what had happened in the kitchen.
How could he—her own brother—threaten her like that all over a maid? The thought gnawed at her, her fork pausing midair as she glared down at her plate.
"And why isn't Scott down yet?" Mr. Robert's deep voice cut through the low hum of the dining room.
He wore only a singlet and shorts, dark tattoos crawling across his arms and around his neck. Multiple earrings adorned his nose, and each of his ten fingers glittered with rings, exuding a dark, commanding energy that sent a subtle chill through the room.
"Perhaps he's still in his room," Mrs. Kath said, her voice calm but laced with quiet authority.
"You know he's never been much of a foodie. Think of his childhood—he hardly ever ate properly. I don't expect him to join us today. He just returned; it's better to let him rest. If he gets hungry later, he can always have Kyla make him something."
She dabbed at her lips with a tissue, her gaze steady as she glanced around the table, the room heavy with a tense, unspoken understanding.
Stacy scoffed quietly, her fork hovering midair.
"Rest? After what he did in the kitchen? He doesn't get to rest. Not until he explains himself to me."
"And anything he did to you is well deserved—because tell me, Stacy, what was your reason for slapping Kyla while she was busy making dinner, right on schedule, as she does every single fucking day?" Adrian snapped, his gaze snapping toward her.
Stacy's eyes widened, realization dawning—so her two brothers had now united, forming a weapon pointed squarely at her.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Mrs. Valencia slammed her hand down on the table, sharp and angry.
Stacy rolled her eyes in irritation, while Adrian scoffed, brushing his hair back with a careless flick. Mr. Robert, unfazed, took a slow sip of his hot coffee, paying no mind to the tension unfolding before him.
"Shut up! I know your lecturers and even your elementary school teachers taught you both proper table manners," Mrs. Valencia snapped, her voice cold and commanding.
"This is not a battlefield—it's a family meal. You are no longer children; you are adults. Disrespect and chaos have no place in this house. Adrian, you are the eldest—you should behave accordingly. And you, Stacy, act like the youngest you are. Is that clear?"
Mrs. Kath gave a subtle, approving nod, her expression stern and unwavering.
Adrian muttered under his breath, "Lost the appetite," before rising and walking out, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.
"Sit down," came Mr. Robert's low, commanding voice.
Adrian clenched his fists tightly, teeth gritted, refusing to respond. The next moment, a thunderous slap echoed across the room—Mr. Robert's hand connecting sharply with Adrian's cheek.
Adrian staggered, his skin burning, lips splitting under the force.
The remaining eyes in the room widened in shock. Stacy gripped her clothes tightly, her heart hammering in her chest.
She was the cause of this.
"Sit down and finish the plate in front of you," Robert's voice dropped lower, colder, deadlier.
Adrian hesitated, then pushed the chair back with a sharp scrape and sat down. His chest heaved, still seething, as he slowly picked up the spoon and began eating.
Mr. Robert leaned back in his chair, and everyone resumed eating, their breaths coming faster than before.
Footsteps echoed from the stairs, drawing their attention upward.
Scott appeared, shirtless, wearing only boxers with a singlet draped casually over his shoulder, speaking on a phone call and exhaling smoke as he descended.
Without sparing anyone a glance, he walked straight to the door—and just like that, he was gone.
Mr. Robert's lips curved into a faint smirk as he brought his coffee to them, taking a long, deliberate sip.
Stacy picked up a piece of meat with her fork and placed it on Adrian's plate, but he immediately pushed it back, his irritation clear.
She set it down again, and he returned it once more, his expression tight.
Mrs. Kath and Mrs. Valencia exchanged knowing glances, their eyes reflecting both amusement and concern at the silent standoff unfolding across the table.
Stacy placed the meat back on his plate, and this time, Adrian didn't push it away—he ate it.
A small smile spread across her face; forgiveness accepted. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and continued eating.
Mrs. Kath and Mrs. Valencia exchanged wide, approving smiles, the tension in the room easing ever so slightly.
Meanwhile, in the pool, Scott leaned against the edge, his elbows resting on the cool stone.
His eyes were fixed on Kyla as she moved through the garden, scissors in hand, cutting flowers. Her hair danced in the breeze, brushing against her shoulders as she worked among the grasses.
He watched her as if she were a scene from a movie, each movement framed perfectly in his gaze.
"Thank you," he recalled, her voice soft and gentle.
A small smile curved his lips as he raised his cigarette to them, exhaling a thin stream of smoke without once taking his eyes off her.
Her eyes suddenly met his.
For a brief moment, she froze—caught in that silent collision of gazes. Then, almost immediately, she averted her eyes, turning back to the flowers as though nothing had happened.
But her hands betrayed her.
They trembled slightly as she continued the cutting, each movement more careful than the last, as she struggled to steady herself and regain her composure.
Why was he staring at her like that?
Had he forgotten she was his stepmother?
That gaze was not the kind a son should ever direct toward his mother—it lingered too long, too intense, far from innocent.
Kyla swallowed hard, trying to ignore the weight of his attention on her. Yet she could still feel it, as though his eyes were brushing against her skin, making the fine hairs on her body rise.
Still, his stare did not waver.
Unable to resist, she glanced back at him once more—and there it was. Those piercing eyes still locked onto hers, unbroken, unyielding. He remained in the pool, cigarette in hand, watching her in silence as if she were the only thing in his world.
She quickly looked away and resumed cutting the flowers, but an uneasy chill lingered down her spine. Her breathing grew heavier, and fine beads of sweat formed across her forehead. She raised her arm and wiped them away, trying to steady herself.
For a moment, she stilled.
Then she turned toward the pool.
He was no longer there.
Instead, he was already leaving, water dripping from his skin as he made his way back toward the building.
A quiet sigh of relief escaped her lips. She lowered her gaze and continued with the flower cuttings, forcing herself back into composure.
*
*
___
Scott changed into his casual outfit and made his way to the couch, settling into it slowly.
For a moment, silence surrounded him.
Then his thoughts drifted back to what had happened hours earlier—flashes of his haunting past, and the way he had blacked out without warning.
He remembered waking up on the couch, a duvet neatly covering his body, as though someone had taken care of him while he was unconscious.
And the only person he knew who had been there was no one else but his little stepmom.
A knock sounded at the door.
Scott rose from the couch and walked over, opening it to find his father, Mr. Robert, standing on the other side. Without a word, Scott stepped aside, leaving the door open as he returned to the couch.
Mr. Robert stepped inside, his hands tucked casually into his pockets. A dark smirk rested on his lips as he entered the room.
"You returned after six years of schooling, yet you still haven't greeted your father properly," Mr. Robert said coldly.
"For nearly twenty years, you've carried this hatred toward me for no reason. I gave you everything—I trained you, I ensured your account was funded every single day, never allowing it to run dry. And yet, after coming back home, you choose to hold onto that unexplainable resentment, refusing even a simple greeting for your own father."
He walked over to the wine cellar, opened it, and retrieved a glass and a bottle of wine. Pouring himself a drink, he then turned back toward him.
"And to extinguish whatever hope you still cling to, I never touched a single cent of the so-called blood money you kept sending me. I paid my own way through school and took care of myself with earnings I built on my own. If what you want from me is a greeting, then you might as well prepare to watch me die—because I will never give you that. A man worthy of being called a father acts like one, not like a beast such as you. And as for this so-called hatred, understand this clearly: I never liked you from the moment I knew you as my father," Scott said, leaning back slightly on the couch.
His posture remained relaxed, yet his eyes held nothing but cold resentment.
Mr. Robert let out a dry, low chuckle.
"And yet you still live under the same roof as the beast," Mr. Robert said calmly, taking a measured sip of his wine.
"You believe that refusing my money makes you independent, and that your resentment somehow makes you strong. If you truly built everything on your own, then tell me—why return to your father's house instead of your own?"
He began walking toward Scott as he spoke, his presence unhurried yet imposing.
Scott let out a low, dry chuckle, his gaze sharp and piercing.
Mr. Robert stopped a few steps away from him, swirling the wine gently in his glass. The faint crimson liquid caught the light as he studied Scott with quiet, almost clinical interest.
"Silence," he said at last, "has always been your shield. But even silence begins to sound like confession when stretched too long."
Scott remained seated, his expression unchanged. The faint chuckle still lingered at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes were hard—unyielding.
Mr. Robert tilted his glass slightly, watching the wine swirl before his eyes.
"I didn't return here for you," Scott said coldly. "I came back to solve a puzzle. And once I finally piece it together, I'll return to the empire I built with my own money. A single year in this house is more than enough to unravel it. Now, if you're done, get the fuck out of my room."
His gaze was sharp and unrelenting, his teeth clenched in barely contained fury.
Mr. Robert's smirk deepened.
__
TBC