Chapter 137
In the afternoon, I went to pick up the kids from kindergarten as planned.
I picked up Milly first and told her, "Milly, your dad said he wants to have dinner with you tonight. Shall we go to the Smith Villa together?"
When Milly heard this, her little face first showed obvious shock. Her big eyes blinked, as if she couldn't believe it. Then that shock was replaced by enormous joy, like stars falling into her clear eyes, instantly lighting up her entire face.
She nodded vigorously, her little hand gripping my fingers tightly, her voice filled with barely contained excitement, "Really? Mom, Dad wants to have dinner with me?"
Seeing her so happy over such a simple statement, the frustration I felt from being coerced by George suddenly dissipated, and I even felt a bit grateful. Grateful that I had agreed.
Even if it was just a fake dinner, even if it was George's ulterior arrangement, being able to give Milly such an evening full of anticipation, letting her feel that the role of "dad" wasn't completely out of reach—it seemed worth it.
Then I went to pick up Jack. As soon as he got in the car and saw Milly there, and heard we were going to the Smith Villa for dinner, he immediately snorted, his little face full of disdain and superiority, "What's the big deal? It's just dinner! Dad eats with me every day. I'm sick of it!"
His words were like cold water, extinguishing the light that had just ignited in Milly's eyes.
The smile faded from Milly's face. She lowered her head, her little hand unconsciously picking at the seatbelt, a clear trace of sadness and disappointment passing through her eyes.
Yes, what she longed for but couldn't have was something Jack already possessed.
The comparison was so cruel.
Anger rose in my chest. Taking advantage of the red light, I stopped the car and turned around, looking coldly at Jack, who sat in the back seat with a smug expression.
My gaze held no warmth, my voice stern, "Jack, if you dare say one more word to upset others, I'll pull out your tongue, tie it in a pretty bow, and hang it on your bedroom door as decoration. I mean what I say."
Jack was frightened by the coldness in my eyes. He quickly covered his mouth, his eyes wide with terror, shrinking back. He didn't dare make another sound, only glaring at me with resentful eyes.
I turned back around and restarted the car.
With this kind of spoiled brat who has no empathy and even enjoys hurting others, you really can't be polite at all.
Reasoning doesn't work—you can only use a more savage method he can understand to intimidate him.
When we arrived at the Smith Villa, George seemed to have just finished work and was coming down from his second-floor study. He had changed into casual home clothes, looking less harsh than in his suit, but the sense of distance in his expression remained.
When Milly saw him, her little body visibly stiffened, both nervous and expectant. She opened her mouth, wanting to call out to him, but the word rolled around in her throat without coming out.
I knew she really wanted to call him "Dad," but was afraid of getting George's cold indifference or even a displeased frown like before.
I crouched down, gently holding her little hand, giving her encouragement and confidence, "Milly, go ahead and call him. Mom is right here."
Milly took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and very timidly called out toward George, "Dad..."
Her voice was as light as a feather, trembling with uncertainty.
My heart rose with it, afraid George would hurt her again like before with cold silence or a "don't call me that."
But this time, George didn't.
He heard her. His gaze fell on Milly and stayed for two seconds. His face still showed no obvious expression, but he didn't frown, didn't object, and showed no impatience. He just very plainly, almost imperceptibly, nodded.
For Milly, this was already a huge response. Her eyes immediately lit up again, a shy and happy smile blooming on her little face.
But this warm moment obviously irritated Jack.
He became uncomfortable and immediately jumped out, pointing at Milly with possessiveness and dissatisfaction, saying loudly, "That's MY dad! What are you calling him for? Who said you could?"
The smile froze on Milly's face. Her eyes quickly reddened, and she looked at me with grievance.
I was about to scold Jack when George spoke first.
His voice wasn't loud, but carried an unquestionable coldness, "Who told you to talk nonsense?"
He paused, his tone even heavier, "Did the punishment last time not teach you a lesson?"
Jack was shocked by George's cold gaze and words.
Compared to my bluffing threat about pulling out his tongue, he was clearly more afraid of George's real authority and punishment.
Because George controlled everything in his current life.
He immediately fell silent like a chicken grabbed by the neck, lowered his head, and didn't dare speak again, only shooting Milly an even more venomous glance.
During dinner, the atmosphere was strange and silent.
George sat at the head of the table, Milly and I sat on one side, Jack on the other.
What I didn't expect was that George actually, for the first time ever, used the serving utensils to place a piece of steak on Milly's plate. His movement was natural, without extra words.
Milly looked at the steak that suddenly appeared on her plate, looked up at George in pleasant surprise, then at me, her little face full of incredible joy.
Then she carefully picked up her knife and fork and ate it in small bites, cherishing it, as if it wasn't an ordinary piece of steak but some rare treasure.
Watching Milly like this, my heart ached as if pricked by needles.
She received this tiny bit of insignificant favor, and it made her so content, so careful.
This made me more determined—for Milly's sake, I must divorce George.
I must take her out of this hellhole and give her a healthy, warm, secure environment to grow up in, instead of letting her live forever in the shadow of begging for fatherly love, reading people's faces, and being bullied by another child.
Seeing George serve Milly food, Jack immediately became upset.
He pushed his bowl forward too, looking at George expectantly, his tone whiny and dissatisfied, "Dad! I want some too! Serve me some!"
George didn't even lift an eyelid, his voice indifferent, "Serve yourself. You're a man."
Jack's little face turned red with anger at this completely different treatment, but he didn't dare lash out at George.
He blamed all his resentment on Milly, glaring at her viciously with hostile and jealous eyes throughout the entire meal.
Milly felt uncomfortable under his stare, but perhaps because of George's earlier protection and my presence beside her, she didn't shrink away in fear like before. She just lowered her head and focused on eating her food.
The meal ended in this atmosphere of hidden agendas.
After dinner, I immediately stood up, preparing to take Milly and leave.
Every second longer here made me feel suffocated.
George also put down his knife and fork, looked at me, and stated in a flat tone—more notification than invitation, "The room is ready. You can stay here with Milly."
His tone made it sound like we were occasional visitors who needed his hospitality, carrying a condescending sense of charity.
A wave of bitterness rose in my chest, but more than that was sharp sarcasm.
This place hadn't been my home for a long time.
From when he put Sarah's clothes in the closet, from when he deleted and restored my fingerprint access just for convenience, from when Jack pointed at me saying this was his dad and mom's home—from then on, this was only George, Sarah, and Jack's home.
And I wasn't even a guest.
I coldly refused, "No need. We're going home."
With that, I took Milly's hand, no longer looking at George or acknowledging the still-glaring Jack, walked straight to the entrance, changed shoes, opened the door, and walked out.
The night breeze was cool, dispersing some of the stuffiness in my chest.
I started the car and slowly drove away from the Smith Villa.
I faintly heard, from the open door of the villa, Jack's tearful and aggrieved complaint, "Dad, you used to be so nice to me, but tonight you served Milly food and not me."
"I'm a bit upset. Did this stepmother and Milly complain about me to you? Is that why you're treating me like this?"
Then came George's ice-cold, emotionless response, "No."
Then the door seemed to close, blocking out the rest of the sounds.
I pulled at the corner of my mouth, pressed the gas pedal, and completely left that place.
Throughout the ride, Milly was very quiet, not chattering like on the way there. But her little face didn't show unhappiness—rather, it showed a strange calmness.
When we got home, I ran a bath for her.
Warm steam filled the air. As I helped wash her hair, I asked softly, "Milly, were you a bit unhappy today?"
Milly shook her head, her little face very serious, "I'm not unhappy, Mom."
She let me rub the foam through her hair, her voice small, carrying thoughts beyond her years, "I just feel like I'm already very happy. Today Dad served me food and even looked at me. I can't be greedy for more."
She turned her wet little face to look at me, her eyes crystal clear, "Mom, I remember what you said last time about divorce. Grandma also secretly told me a lot."
"Grandma said Mom works very hard, and Dad has his own life."
"As long as I'm with Mom, that's already very, very good."
"So I can't be greedy. I can't always want Dad to be nice to me all the time."