My 47-Year-Old Stepson Calls Me Daddy

Not running backward.

Instead, I grabbed the small bench beside me and charged straight at Lucas like a man possessed.

I planted myself in front of him, using my not-broad shoulders to block all lines of sight.

"Who dares touch my son!"

That shout cracked my voice.

My momentum was off the charts.

The whole room went dead silent.

Even the bald brute froze—this wasn't in the script, was it?

He instinctively glanced at Lucas.

Lucas frowned and signaled him to continue.

The bald guy gritted his teeth and rushed at me, swinging the club: "Still talking tough! Get him!"

"Son, run!"

I roared, shoving Lucas toward safety.

Then I lunged straight at the bald brute.

I wrapped my arms around his leg, my whole body hanging off him.

"Every dollar the Gilbert family owes will be paid! Come at me! Don't touch my son!"

Fists rained down on me.

I'd dodged the vital spots and used technique to deflect most of the force.

But that didn't stop me from screaming like I was dying.

"Ah! Not the face! My son still has to look at it!"

"Ugh! This fifty million is what I owe—it has nothing to do with my son!"

"Lucas! Forget about me! Call the cops! Run!"

I called out between blows, voice dripping with paternal devotion.

Like a dying swan's final song—heartbreaking to witness, impossible not to tear up.

Lucas stood frozen.

His script had me kneeling, begging, confessing to gambling debts, then getting thrown out.

Not shielding him with my body and getting beaten half to death!

After all, even a domineering CEO has to follow the law these days.

"Enough!"

Lucas finally snapped.

He rushed over and kicked the bald guy—still in professional character—clean off me.

"Get the hell out! All of you!"

He roared, eyes blazing red.

The thugs exchanged looks—was the job done? Would they get the rest of the payment?

"Out!"

Lucas was an enraged lion.

The extras scattered.

The living room was trashed.

I lay on the floor, blood at the corner of my mouth, eyelids swollen like walnuts.

Lucas crouched beside me, hands trembling, reaching out to help me up but not daring to touch.

With effort, I pried one eye open and shakily grabbed the hem of his shirt.

"Son… are you okay?"

"Did that scare you? When you were little… you were always terrified of thugs…"

Total fabrication—his mom was dead anyway, and dead men tell no tales.

Lucas's throat bobbed hard.

Looking at my wrecked state, that cold heart of his—frozen solid for forty-seven years—finally cracked.

"Shut up."

His voice was hoarse, eyes reddening. "Someone call an ambulance."

Internally, I flashed a victory sign.

This beating? Worth every bruise.

At the hospital. VIP ward.

I was wrapped up like a mummy.

Lucas sat by the bed, peeling an apple.

He peeled with intense focus; the skin came off in one long, unbroken spiral.

Over the past few days, I'd gone full "loving father" mode.

Every waking moment, I fed him "stories from before."

How Mia had held my hand on her deathbed and made me promise to take care of this son of hers—forty-seven years old but still a baby at heart.

I told it so often I started believing it myself.

Lucas went from impatient at first, to silent, to quietly accepting.

He'd been conquered.

"Dad…"

The word was barely a whisper, like it had been dragged out from somewhere deep in his chest.

But I heard it.

I nearly rolled right off the bed. Tears burst out instantly.