My 47-Year-Old Stepson Calls Me Daddy

My 68-year-old rich wife had just passed away, and my 47-year-old domineering CEO stepson was about to kick 26-year-old me out.

To score a massive alimony payout, I decided to give him a taste of family warmth this New Year's Eve.

At the New Year's Eve dinner, my stepson deliberately splashed scalding dumpling soup at me, trying to make me humiliate myself.

But I spun around and shielded him instead, letting the hot soup drench my entire back. Through tears, I choked out, "That was close—almost burned the pillar of our family."

My stepson's expression twisted. The relatives started ripping into him for being unfilial to me, his "little stepdad."

He refused to take it lying down. During the New Year's Eve countdown, he sent in a debt-collection crew to cause a scene—his play to drive me out.

I charged straight at the ringleader and bear-hugged him. Even after they beat my face black and blue, I was still shouting, "Don't be scared, son—Dad will protect you with his life!"

My stepson finally cracked. He knelt beside my hospital bed, called 26-year-old me "Dad," and swore he'd take care of me in my old age until the very end.

Just as the lawyer was reading the will and I was about to hit the peak of my life, my stepson's face went ashen. The teacup shattered in his grip.

"The nanny said Mom never even got the marriage license before she died! That certificate you're holding? Forged by some document faker!"

My blood ran cold.

How was that possible!

Wasn't the forger already hauled off to the precinct for fraud ages ago?

1.

My billionaire wife, Mia Gilbert, was gone.

She was 68.

As her 26-year-old legal husband—married into the family just six months ago—I was now the most awkward person in this memorial hall.

Kneeling at the very front was her biological son, Lucas Gilbert.

47 years old. Current head of Gilbert Group. Notoriously ruthless CEO.

Right now, he was staring at me like he wanted to grind my bones to dust.

I got it.

After all, nobody wants to call a pretty boy 21 years younger than them "Dad."

Especially when that pretty boy was about to take half his mother's inheritance.

The funeral ended. The New Year's Eve family banquet began.

The Gilbert family mansion blazed with light. Aunts, uncles, cousins—all packed around one table. The atmosphere was suffocating.

Lucas sat in the seat of honor, cradling a bowl of freshly cooked, steaming dumpling soup.

A cold smirk tugged at his lips. His wrist jerked—deliberately unnatural.

The bubbling soup traced a perfect arc, flying straight at my face.

The old Peter Harding would've panicked and dodged, then gotten mocked by the whole family for having no manners.

But I wasn't him anymore.

I was Peter Harding—a man who'd sell his soul to acting for $50 million in alimony.

I didn't retreat. I advanced.

Gasps erupted around me. I spun, threw my arms wide, and clamped Lucas's head against my chest like a mother hen shielding her chick.

Sizzle—

The scalding soup hit my back dead-on.

For a second, I swear I could smell my own flesh cooking.

It hurt.

It hurt like hell.

My whole body seized up, but I bit down hard and didn't make a sound.

I even reached out, hand trembling, and touched Lucas's meticulously maintained face.

"Son, you didn't get burned, did you?"

Dead silence.

Lucas froze solid.

His eyes went wide, locked onto my face from inches away.

Cold sweat drenched my forehead. I was pale as death. But I still forced out a smile—so tender it was almost grotesque.

"You're the sky over the Gilbert family. The pillar of this house. Nothing can happen to you."

"If you got hurt, how would I face your mother?"

My voice cracked. Trembling. Thick with "fatherly love."