Chapter 2 #2
Numbers didn’t bleed.
Contracts didn’t cry.
“Kai, my son.”
The voice froze me mid-step.
My so-called father stood by the elevator, one hand in his pocket, the other straightening his unnaturally dark hair, slicked back with gel.
Behind him, his other son trailed in like a shadow—silent, wide-eyed, uncomfortable.
“What are you doing here?” I asked flatly.
“Is that how you greet your daddy?” His voice dropped, reprimanding. That old practiced sternness, the kind that made him sound like he still believed he had authority.
Forcing a thin smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “You picked the wrong house for that lecture.”
My gaze shifted to the younger man behind him. “And what’s he doing here?”
I jabbed a finger in my half-brother’s direction. “Last I checked, Mother banned your other family from setting foot in this place.”
The old man’s jaw tightened. “Manners, Kai. Have I not taught you—”
“No, Dad,” I cut him off, the word Dad dripping with irony. “You didn’t teach me much of anything. You were absent for most of it, remember?”
I took a step closer, my voice calm but edged with steel. “How about his manners? Shouldn’t he be greeting his big brother? Or am I just as much a stranger to him as you’ve always been to me?”
“Shut up!” His voice cracked through the air, hand rising in a reflex he probably didn’t even realize he still had.
I almost smiled.
Got you.
My words had done exactly what I intended—dragged the mask right off his face.
That man had never been known for his temper. Not with the woman he chose to marry.
Which meant if he’d finally snapped… something had changed.
And I wasn’t sure yet if that was good—or dangerous.
“You can’t hit me.” My voice was low but steady, threaded with the kind of calm that made men like him uneasy. I shook my head slightly, curling the corner of my lip into something between a smirk and a warning. “I’m much stronger than you.”
Then I turned—slowly, deliberately—to the teenage boy standing behind him. “And him.”
I hadn’t practiced martial arts lately—hadn’t needed to—but every muscle in my body remembered. The drills, the bruises, the lessons he’d paid for but never cared to watch. It was all still there, waiting beneath the surface.
“I need to talk to my wife.”
Dad’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and commanding, but it didn’t move me.
He closed the distance, ignoring me entirely, but I stayed rooted. I held my ground, unblinking, the way he’d once taught me to when facing an opponent stronger than myself.
Only now, the lesson was his to learn.
He stopped inches from me. I could see the fine lines around his eyes, the scent of his aftershave clashing with the stale smell of his cigarette breath.
“Move,” he said.
Turning slightly, I avoided his breath but not his gaze. My chest lifted higher. My feet anchored to the marble floor.
If I moved, I’d lose.
And surrender wasn’t in my blood.
“You can talk to me.”
“No,” he growled. “I want to talk to your mother.”
I closed my eyes and inhaled through my mouth. Of course. That was what this was really about.
He wanted something—he always wanted something.
And with his bastard son now old enough to be paraded around like an heir, I could guess—his timing was unmistakable.
It was time.
He was here to settle something—once and for all.
Divorce. Recognition. Legitimacy for his mistress and bastard son.
Whatever polite word he’d dreaded since he first walked out.
And it had finally arrived—at the worst possible time.
“No.” My hand came up, palm flat against his chest. The fabric of his suit was rough against my skin. I pushed, not hard, but enough to make him step back. “Whatever you want to say to her, you can say to me.”
I turned to Dave. Our eyes met, a silent exchange passing between us. I didn’t want the old woman disturbed—not today, not ever. But I also knew if we stayed here any longer, she’d sense something was wrong.
Dave wouldn’t lay a hand on him unless I said the word, but he had no problem escorting him out if it came to that.
“Get the car ready,” I grunted, not looking away from him. “You can join me in the car if you want, but you’re not staying.”
It was my way of compromising. Or giving him an exit before things got ugly. If the old bastard knew me at all, he’d take it.
“You shouldn’t talk to Dad like that.”
The voice was low, coarse, cracking with the strain of adolescence.
I turned toward the kid. My annoying teenager.
Last time I’d seen him, he was barely reaching my shoulder. Now, he stood almost eye-level with me.
His shoulders had filled out, and his jaw was trying to sharpen—and I hated it.
Hated that he’d inherited the same height, the same eyes, the same genes that made him look like me.
The idea of him growing taller, stronger, looking down at me one day—it made my skin crawl.
It wasn’t in my control—unless I hired someone to break his fucking legs.
“Get the fuck out now—while you can walk on your own legs.” My tone dropped low, lethal. I moved toward the door, ignoring the two pairs of eyes burning into my back. Their stares were empty threats.
Dave could handle an old man and a trembling boy on his own. I didn’t even have to lift a finger.
We soon reached the main entrance of the apartment. Clare stood by the car, brows raised at the sight of Dad. The driver opened the back door nearest to me. I gestured for that man to go first.
A man in suit emerged from the visitor parking bay. Clare’s instincts kicked in—she moved to block him until I lifted a hand. I recognized him immediately—my father’s driver and assistant.
Dad’s mistress never allowed female staff around him now. Not after the affair. She’d tried everything—older women, less attractive ones—but it didn’t matter. The old bastard didn’t have a type. His type was anything with legs and a pulse.
Muttering to his assistant, he slid into my car. The driver backed off right away.
“Not you.” I blocked the kid as he tried to follow. “This ride’s not for you.”
“But…” he stammered, his voice breaking. “Daddy—”
Between the acne and the wobbling voice, it was hard to take him seriously.
The window rolled down. Half of his face appeared, his expression softening. “It’s okay, son. Go with Uncle Rong. I’ll see you at home.”
The warmth in his voice—gentle, patient, almost loving. Emotions I didn’t want to name stirred.
My little jerk nodded obediently, and something twisted in my chest.
Jealousy. Perhaps.
Or something uglier.
I couldn’t recall a single moment he’d spoken to me with that kind of softness.
Perhaps he had, once—but I couldn’t remember.