My 47-Year-Old Stepson Calls Me Daddy

The relatives froze for a few seconds, then the tide turned instantly.

"Lucas, that was way too careless!"

"Exactly—look what you did to your little dad! Look how badly you burned him!"

"This kid, so thoughtless. Good thing Peter shielded you."

Moral high ground: seized.

Lucas's face cycled through green and white. His eyes landed on the bloody water seeping through my back, the blisters already rising, and for the first time, that viciousness in his gaze cracked.

Internally, I was thrilled.

If I don't get at least fifty million in emotional distress compensation, I'll haunt the Gilbert family as a ghost.

I collapsed weakly into a chair. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Lucas pulling out his phone. He gritted his teeth and fired off a message. The screen's reflection let me make out a few words:

"Plan B. Tonight."

When the doctor came to dress my wound, I screamed like a pig being slaughtered—but I refused to let Lucas leave. Made him stand there and watch. I wanted him to see every last red, swollen blister on my back and let that 47-year-old heart of his drown in guilt.

"Gentler… gentler, doc. Don't scare the kid."

I lay facedown on the bed, teeth bared in pain, but still turned to comfort Lucas, who stood rigid in the corner.

His face went dark as the bottom of a pot.

"I'm 47. Not three."

The words came out through clenched teeth.

"In Dad's eyes, even at eighty, you're still my baby."

I replied weakly, throwing in a look of pure fatherly adoration for good measure.

Lucas's face turned iron-blue. His whole body trembled—whether from rage or disgust, hard to say. He spun around and slammed the door on his way out.

The second it clicked shut, I dropped the act and fished my phone from under the pillow.

Quick message to my buddy: "Any unusual movement near the Gilbert house tonight? Whether I can send you 500k a month for living expenses for the rest of your life depends on how you perform."

Reply came instantly: "You got it, Dad. Heard a bunch of professional debt collectors are heading that way."

So Lucas wanted to stage a "stepfather's massive gambling debt drags down rich stepson" drama, then boot me out with a legit excuse?

Too bad. He underestimated the professional standards of a manipulative male mom.

—

Ten at night. The whole family stayed up for New Year's Eve.

Lucas had changed into casual clothes, sitting on the couch sipping tea, glancing at his watch every so often. Madeline Lambert, the housekeeper—a woman who'd served the Gilbert family for years—hovered nearby, her voice dripping with passive-aggressive venom: "Some people just don't have wealth in their fate, but they insist on squeezing their way in. Sooner or later, something's bound to happen."

I sprawled on the daybed, eating cherries while watching the New Year's Gala.

What did any of that have to do with me?

Suddenly—

BANG!

The villa's front door flew open with one kick. Seven or eight burly men with tattooed arms stormed in, clubs in hand.

"Where's Peter Harding?! Get your ass out here!"

The bald brute at the front had a face like raw meat. First thing he did was smash an antique vase.

Showtime.

Lucas set down his teacup, the corner of his mouth curling into an amused arc. He rose unhurriedly. "Gentlemen. Breaking into a private residence is against the law."

"Cut the crap! Peter Harding owes us fifty million in gambling debt! If he doesn't pay today, we're tearing this place apart!"

The bald brute jabbed a finger at me.

Madeline shrieked immediately. "Oh my God! I knew it—he's a spendthrift! Sir, kick him out now! Don't let him drag the Gilbert family down!"

Lucas turned to me, gaze ice-cold. "Peter Harding. The trouble you caused, you clean up. Don't dirty my family's floor."

I took a deep breath and tossed aside the cherries.

Time to act.

Back screaming in pain, I still sprang up from the daybed.