I'm finally getting married, son. After seven years… I'm finally getting married," my father said as he poured himself a glass of wine, like he hadn't just dropped a bomb on me.
But it wasn't just a bomb. It was a nuclear strike—out of nowhere.
I looked at him closely, narrowing my eyes as he crossed his legs on the leather couch, calm as ever. Meanwhile, I was still in my sweatsuit, barely back from my morning jog. My headphones hung around my neck, and my heart was already pounding harder than when I was running.
"You must be joking, right? You're kidding me," I said.
He didn't flinch. Didn't smile. Didn't even blink. His expression was dead still—almost inhuman. Like a vampire staring through me.
"What do you mean?" I asked again, sharper this time.
"I'm not joking," he said flatly. "I'm serious. The wedding is happening in six days."
"Six days? What the f—" I stopped myself, clenching my jaw. "What do you mean by that? To who?"
"You're really starting to annoy me, Jace," he replied, sipping the wine like we were talking about the weather.
"I know it hasn't been easy for you," he continued, "losing your mom twelve years ago. But I've been alone since then. You were eight when she died. I've stayed single all this time—for you. But now, you're twenty. You're grown. It's time I moved on. I'm getting old. I need a wife. Someone to take care of me."
I scoffed. "You call that an excuse? I'm not ready for this. I'm not ready to have a stepmom."
"You don't have to be ready," he said, voice cold. "You just have to accept it."
I glared at him. "Who is she? Some business deal in a dress? Or some woman who's gonna ruin everything and act like she owns this place?"
"You'll meet her tonight," he said, setting the wine glass down. "She's gorgeous. But don't stare too much."
"I don't give a damn," I muttered and turned away, heading for my room.
As I walked off, I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror—blond hair messy, blue eyes cold. Six feet tall, lean muscle—the kind of look people expect from someone raised in a mafia family. But deep down, I wasn't ready. Not for this.
And definitely not for her.
It was exactly 7 PM when I heard the knock at the door. I was sitting on the stairs, halfway between my room and the foyer, just watching. I could hear my father's footsteps echo across the marble floor as he went to answer it—calm, cruel, and collected as ever. Of course he was calm. He'd been waiting for this moment all day.
Ever since my mother died, I knew he wanted another wife. He never said it, but I saw it in the way he looked at empty spaces. The only reason he hadn't remarried was because of me. When I was a kid, I was traumatized. I was only eight years old.
We were out as a family—just going shopping. I don't even remember how it happened. A shot rang out, and she collapsed beside us. I never saw who did it. But now, after years of quiet investigation, I know the truth: it was someone who hated my father. Someone who wanted to hurt him… by taking her away.
But I'm not going to let that go. I'm going to find that person, no matter what.
I'm twenty now. I've been training my body and my mind—sharpening both like blades. I won't let myself stay weak or broken.
Even now, though, the wound is still fresh. The idea of another woman taking my mother's place? It feels like betrayal. That's the worst part. Every woman my father brings home—every smile, every laugh—feels like they're trying to erase her.
I know it's selfish. I know it makes me sound greedy. But I don't want a stepmother.
I want my father to stay single.
Because no one… no one can ever replace my mom.