CHAPTER 174: THE BASTARD AT THE GATES

One Week Later...

A week after my night with Valentina—seven days of stolen glances in hallways, sex in the infirmary, and text messages that vanished faster than a Kardashian marriage—Edward Sterling decided to crash into our lives like a B-movie villain with a trust fund.

Edward Sterling. Biological father of my twin sisters. Walking lawsuit in loafers. The human embodiment of "do you know who my father is?" energy.

It was my first time seeing the bastard in person.

Sure, I’d Googled him before—late-night masochism sessions where I stared at the smug face of the man who’d tried to ship me to child services but couldn’t be bothered to send Mom a check.

The kind of guy whose LinkedIn profile probably reads like a parody of late-stage capitalism.

I was in my room when the shouting started—Mom’s voice, taut and professional, the same one she probably used to talk down schizophrenics in the ER. Then a man’s voice, smooth with entitlement, like melted caviar.

When I came downstairs, there he was: tall, silver hair that definitely wasn’t natural, suit that screamed "mortgage payment," standing in our living room like he was gracing us with his presence.

Exactly like his corporate headshots—generic power pose, fake confidence, a jawline sculpted by generational wealth and zero actual effort.

So this is the legendary asshole. The sperm donor who bailed because Mom wasn’t up to his yacht-club standards. Imagine being so allergic to responsibility you ghost your own kids.

But what really stuck out? The way he looked at me. Not like I was background noise. Not like I was just some punk in his ex’s house. No—this guy’s stare had intent. He was studying me like I was a math problem he’d been avoiding for years but couldn’t stop checking.

Oh, fantastic. The deadbeat he was: Here was a man who’d contributed nothing to Sarah and Emma’s lives—no financial support, no birthday cards, no awkward father-daughter dinners. Because why raise your daughters when you can obsess over the bastard stepson you tried to erase?

Irony so thick it deserved its own Netflix special: The man who gave zero shits about his actual children had apparently devoted energy to tracking me like I was a stock portfolio.

And, of course, he hadn’t come alone. Cowards never do. He brought backup—a security gorilla with shoulders so wide they needed planning permission. Guy looked like he ate dumbbells for breakfast and shat out smaller security guards by noon.

Mom stood her ground, arms crossed, her tone pure Nurse-from-Hell. "Edward. You have sixty seconds to explain why you’re in my home."

Edward sneered, his lips curling like he’d just tasted something beneath his tax bracket. "Your son"—he spat the word like it was a racial slur—"assaulted a faculty member. He’s violent, unstable, and now he’s endangering my daughters by association."

Ah, there it is. The Sterling Hypocrisy Special. The guy who abandoned his daughters now suddenly cares about their safety... from me. It’s like watching a vegetarian write Yelp reviews for steakhouses.

"You’ve turned that boy into a violent, mentally unstable criminal," Edward ranted, jabbing a finger at me like I was a rabid dog he’d caught pissing on his Persian rug. "He’s a danger to everyone around him, especially my daughters!"

’My daughters.’ Right. The same daughters he hasn’t spoken to in twelve years but suddenly remembers exist when it fits his courtroom drama audition.

I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the spectacle like bad community theater. Mom sat on our couch—the secondhand one with a spring that jabbed you if you weren’t careful—listening, enduring, because she knew yelling would only make things worse for Sarah and Emma.

"Mr. Sterling," I said, deliberately casual. "Interesting interpretation of events. How exactly am I endangering your daughters by defending mine? Where was this protective energy when Holloway was terrorizing students?" I tilted my head. "Oh right, you were probably on the golf course."

His face went through a time-lapse of humiliation—pink to crimson to full-on eggplant. "You—" He actually flinched, then glanced at his insurance policy.

Because of course Edward hadn’t come with just one. He’d brought another muscle. This one was like some HGH experiment by the door, arms bulging like he did bicep curls with car batteries.

Human meat shield in an Armani knockoff.

Brought a two bodyguards to argue with a barely seventeen-year-old?

The small dick energy could power a city block.

"You’re a menace," Edward hissed, puffing himself back up. "A violent thug who should be in juvenile detention, not walking free."

"Your concern is touching," I said, voice steady even as rage coiled in my chest. "But again—this paternal crusade was nowhere when Holloway was harassing her in his office or when Emma couldn’t sleep without nightmares. Oh, right. Eighteenth hole. My bad."

"How dare you—"

"No." Mom’s voice cracked like a whip. She stood, shoulders squared, dignity radiating so hard it made his thousand-dollar suit look like polyester.

"How dare you come into my home and lecture me about protecting children. Where were you when Emma needed protection? When Sarah was breaking under the pressure? When any of them needed anything? When Peter was—" She stopped herself, but the silence said more than words.

Edward didn’t care. He was pacing again, monologuing about "proper child-rearing" and the dangers of "enabling violent behavior," a TED Talk on hypocrisy. Not once did he ask about Emma’s therapy, Sarah’s stress migraines, or the wreckage he’d left behind.

Fourteen years of silence, and now he shows up—not to help, not to heal, but to protect the one thing he’s always cared about: his reputation.

Then his eyes landed on the keys by the counter. The silver Mercedes logo might as well have been glowing neon.

"New car?" His voice sharpened, cruel. He drifted toward the window, spotting Mom’s GLE parked outside like he’d found evidence of a crime. "That’s quite an upgrade for someone on a nurse’s salary. Unless you’ve found... alternative income sources?"

The implication hung in the air, poisonous and heavy.

And there it was. The mask slipping. The rich man’s nuclear option: when you can’t win the argument, slut-shame the woman who raised your kids without a dime from you.

"Spreading your legs for the right doctors, perhaps? Following in your adopted son’s mother’s footsteps?"