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."
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."