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.

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.

"Hey! Hey! Good son!" I grabbed his hand, tears streaming down my face. "Once your mom's first seven days are over, we'll live our lives properly, you and me." Lucas turned his head away, ears tipped red. "Austin Dickerson is here to read the will." He changed the subject, but the hostility from before was gone. Austin walked in wearing a black suit, briefcase in hand. Behind him trailed a flock of Gilbert relatives—and that snake Madeline. The way she looked at me was like she was sizing up a corpse. My stomach dropped. Bad feeling. Austin cleared his throat and pulled out a document. "According to Ms. Mia Gilbert's will, all real estate and cash under her name, as well as 30% of Gilbert Group shares..." Everyone held their breath. "...will be inherited by her legal husband, Mr. Peter Harding." Boom— The room erupted. The relatives' eyes bulged with jealousy. Even Lucas, who'd known this was coming, darkened slightly. But he glanced at my bandages, sighed, and said nothing. Looked like he'd accepted it. I was ecstatic—fifty million? That was small-minded! This was hundreds of billions! I was about to reach out, sign, and walk toward the peak of my life. "Wait!" A shrill howl cut through the chaos. Madeline pushed forward. No evidence in her hands—just that vicious smile curling at the corner of her mouth as she stared me down. "Sir! This will is invalid!" Lucas frowned. "Madeline, what nonsense is this?" She jabbed a finger at my nose, voice like nails on a chalkboard: "Because he isn't the madam's legal husband at all!" "That marriage certificate is fake!" My head buzzed. How? Mia and I went to the Civil Registry Office ourselves—took the photo ourselves, picked up the certificate ourselves! Lucas shot to his feet, gaze razor-sharp. "What did you say?" Madeline whipped a photo from her pocket and slapped it onto the table. "Sir, look! I found this among the madam's belongings!" In the photo, Mia sat in a coffee shop. Across from her—a bald old man. On the table between them: two bright-red marriage certificates. I knew that man. Nathan Finch. The fake certificate guy. The same Nathan Finch who got hauled in for fraud. Madeline's voice dripped venom: "That forger admitted it himself—the madam's marriage certificate was his work! You won't find it in the Civil Registry Office system anywhere!" "Peter Harding is a fraud!" Lucas picked up the photo. The veins on the back of his hand bulged. Slowly, he turned to look at me. That flicker of warmth from moments ago—gone. Replaced by something colder than death. "Dad?" He spat the word through clenched teeth, dripping with contempt. "This is the fatherly love you talked about?" "For money, you'd stoop to forging documents?" I opened my mouth. My throat was sandpaper—no sound came out. What the hell... What was happening?!