He Took My Everything, So I Took His Son

The iron gate let out a sharp, grating creak. I sat on the cold bench, my fingers curled into tight fists. Three years. I've spent a full three years inside this psychiatric hospital. White walls, the scent of disinfectant, and those vacant, numb eyes. I learned to lower my head, to obey, to play the harmless madman in front of others. "Larry Fraser, it's time to go." The nurse's voice was cold and devoid of warmth. I rose slowly, moving as stiffly as a marionette. At the doorway, the blinding sunlight forced me to squint instinctively. A black luxury car was parked by the roadside. The car door opened, and Nova Jackson stepped out. She wore expensive maternity clothes, her belly visibly swollen, a gentle smile on her face. But I knew the malice lurked behind that smile. A young man stood beside her—Owen Locke. He had his arm around Nova's waist, his gaze sweeping over me with disdain. That was her lover; I had known it all along. "Larry, long time no see." Nova's voice was sickeningly sweet. "Thank you for enduring these past three years." I lowered my eyelids, my voice hoarse: "Not hard at all." "Owen and I are getting married," she said, stroking her belly with a tone full of pride, "My baby will be born soon, and from now on you'll help us take care of this family." Take care of her and her lover's family? Take care of that child in her belly, whose father you don't even know? I dug my nails deep into my palm, the metallic tang of blood filling my mouth, yet I forced a meek smile: "Alright, I will." Owen Locke sneered, reaching out to pat my cheek: "Good, you're finally wise." His fingers were cold, laced with contempt. I didn't resist, only lowered my head slightly. Nova Jackson nodded with a satisfied smile: "Get in the car. From now on, we're family." Family? I sneered bitterly inside. We were never family. We are enemies—bitter, irreconcilable enemies. I followed them into the car and sat in a corner of the backseat. The car window shut out the world outside—and the storm of hatred raging behind my eyes. Nova Jackson and Owen Locke spoke intimately in the front seat, discussing their child's name. I close my eyes, pretending to be exhausted, but my mind is frantically calculating. Nova Jackson. Owen Locke. What you owe me, what you owe my parents—I will take it all back, bit by bit, with interest. These three years of patience are only the beginning. The game of revenge is only just beginning now.