Chapter 202: Get Out Of My House!
The cool morning air carried the faint scent of damp earth and woodsmoke through the open window of the guest room. Sunbeams cut through the curtains, casting warm stripes across the wooden floorboards.
Jake stirred first, his eyes adjusting to the quiet, unfamiliar room. The peaceful hum of Darmin on a Sunday morning was a world away from the dull roar of highway traffic outside his capital high-rise. Beside him, Catharine was still fast asleep, her face relaxed, her head resting lightly against his chest. One of her arms was draped over his torso, her breathing steady and deep.
He didn’t move for a long time. He just lay there, watching the soft rhythm of her shoulders, letting the quiet sink in. Knowing what her early life had been like, seeing her this rested in her childhood home felt like a small, quiet victory.
Eventually, the faint sound of clinking cookware from down the hallway signaled that her mother was already up. Catharine shifted, letting out a soft sigh as her eyelashes fluttered open. She blinked up at him, a lazy, contented smile slowly spreading across her face.
"Morning," she murmured, her voice thick with sleep.
"Morning," Jake smiled, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Sleep okay?"
"Too well," she stretched, burying her face into his neck for a second before sitting up. "My mom’s probably already making enough food to feed a small army. We should get up before she comes knocking."
Twenty minutes later, washed up and refreshed, they walked out into the sunlit kitchen.
The dining table was already stacked with a spread: scrambled eggs, fried sausages, toasted bread, and a massive pot of steaming tea. Catharine’s mother was bustling between the stove and the table, looking entirely in her element, while Melissa sat in her pajamas, sleepily scrolling through her new tablet with one hand and reaching for a piece of toast with the other.
"Ah, you’re up! Sit down, sit down," her mother said, beaming as she set down a plate of sliced butter. "I hope the bed was comfortable, Jake?"
"It was great, ma’am. Thank you," Jake said, pulling out a chair for Catharine before sitting down beside her.
"Don’t encourage her, Jake," Melissa mumbled around a mouthful of toast, not looking up from her screen. "She’s going to use you as an excuse to make three different types of breakfast every time you visit."
"Be quiet and eat your eggs, Melissa," her mother scolded light-heartedly, tapping the back of Melissa’s hand with a wooden spoon. "And put that screen away while we’re at the table."
Laughter filled the small room, easy and comfortable. For almost an hour, breakfast felt completely normal. They joked about Melissa’s terrible morning hair, talked about the best route to take back to Veyra, and enjoyed the quiet warmth of a family morning.
Jake wiped his hands with a napkin, pushing his chair back slightly. "Excuse me for a second, I’m just going to use the bathroom to wash up."
"Okay dear," Catharine’s mother said with a warm smile.
Jake stepped out of the kitchen, closing the bathroom door behind him. He turned on the tap, splashing cold water over his face and running his wet hands through his hair.
He was just reaching for the towel when the front door slammed open.
The loud, violent rattle echoed right down the narrow corridor. It wasn’t the sound of someone returning home; it was the sound of a frame being kicked in.
In the kitchen, the easy atmosphere vanished instantly.
Heavy, uneven footsteps scuffed against the floorboards. An old man stumbled into the doorway of the kitchen, reeking heavily of cheap, sour alcohol and stale tobacco. His eyes were bloodshot and watery, his clothes rumpled and filthy. He clutched an empty glass bottle by the neck, swaying heavily as he leaned his shoulder against the doorframe for support.
"What... what is all this?" the man rasped, his speech slurred, thick with liquor. He didn’t even look at the table yet; his head turned toward the front yard. "Who owns those damn cars outside? A big wagon... a black sedan... who did you let park in my yard?"
Catharine’s mother went dead white. The teapot in her hand trembled so violently the porcelain lid rattled against the rim. She set it down with a sharp clack, her hands immediately dropping to her apron, gripping the fabric until her knuckles turned yellow. Her eyes darted toward the hallway, a look of pure, agonizing horror washing over her face.
’Not today,’ her mind screamed. ’Not in front of him.’
She had spent the entire previous evening feeling proud, watching her daughter sit beside a respectable, good looking man who treated their family with quiet dignity. And now, the exact nightmare she had prayed would stay buried in the dusty streets of the village had just walked through the front door.
Before anyone could answer him, the old man’s unfocused gaze finally shifted from the window to the dining table. It landed straight on Catharine.
His bleary eyes widened, a slow, ugly grin stretching across his cracked lips. "Cathy?"
He took two heavy, unsteady steps forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. "You... you’re here? The cars... those are your cars, aren’t they?"
Catharine froze. The color drained from her face so fast she looked translucent. Her hand, which had been reaching for her tea glass, hovered in mid-air, trembling violently.
The old man let out a wet, raspy laugh, slapping his own thigh. "I knew it! I knew you made it big in the city! Look at you... driving capital cars, living like a queen while your old man suffers in the dirt!"
"Philip, please," Catharine’s mother cut in, her voice desperate, cracked with shame. She hurriedly stepped between him and the table, digging into her apron pocket with shaking fingers. She pulled out a crumpled wad of bills—the small allowance Catharine had given her the night before—and tried to shove it into his chest. "Just take this. Take it and go to the tavern. Please. Just leave."
The old man didn’t even look at the money. With an irritated growl, he swung his heavy arm, shoving his wife back.
She stumbled, her hip cracking painfully against the edge of the kitchen counter, dropping the bills. They scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.
"Get out of my face, woman!" he barked, his focus entirely locked on Catharine. He stepped right over the money, staring at her like a man who had just found a winning lottery ticket buried in the mud. "Forget your small change! My daughter is rich! She’s a big woman now!"
He leaned over the table, his rank, alcohol-soaked breath filling the space between them. "Cathy... you have to give your father a capital loan. A real one this time. I found a guy down at the venue... a real game. High stakes. If you back me with a little capital money, I can turn it into a fortune for us! I can double it by tonight!"
Catharine’s mouth opened, but her throat felt completely dry. The instinct to shrink, to hide under a table, to give him whatever he wanted just to make the shouting stop—the same terror that had haunted her university days—threatened to paralyze her.
She looked at his bloated, expectant face, forcing herself to draw a ragged breath.
"No..." she managed to whisper, her voice barely audible. "No, Dad... it’s not—"
The word had barely left her lips when his expression twisted into a mask of sudden, violent rage.
"NO?!" he roared, his fist slamming down onto the dining table so hard the teacups jumped, spilling hot liquid across the tablecloth.
Melissa flinched, letting out a tiny, stifled squeak. She immediately pulled her legs up onto her chair, shrinking back into the darkest corner between the fridge and the wall. Her face was buried in her knees, her shoulders shaking silently as she curled into a tight ball—a muscle-memory defense mechanism built over a decade of surviving her father’s rages.
"You say NO to me?!" the old man screamed, his face turning a dark, mottled red. "I raised you! I fed you! You think because you wear fancy city clothes you can look down on me? You think you’re too big for your own father?!"
He raised his heavy, calloused hand, pulling it back to strike her across the face.
Catharine squeezed her eyes shut, flinching naturally as she waited for the blow.
It never landed.
A hand shot out from the doorway, catching the old man’s wrist in mid-air with a force that stopped his arm dead. The grip was like an iron vise, locking his bones in place.
The old man blinked, startled, his head swinging around.
Jake stood right beside him. His face was completely devoid of emotion, his dark eyes cold, sharp, and terrifyingly calm. He didn’t look angry; he looked like a man evaluating trash on the bottom of his shoe.
To the old man’s alcohol-addled brain, Jake had literally materialized out of thin air. He stared at the younger, impeccably dressed man holding his arm, unable to process who he was. He had been completely blind-drunk every time they had ever crossed paths in the capital.
His eyes flicked from Jake to his wife, who was cowering by the counter, then back to Jake. A sick, ugly assumption formed in his mind.
"Who the hell are you?" the old man sneered, trying to yank his arm free, only to find Jake’s grip didn’t budge an inch. He turned his head and spit toward the counter. "Is this your new boy toy, woman? You brought a young man into my house while I was out?!"
The sheer disgust in his voice was thick, but it was the breaking point for Catharine.
Seeing Jake standing there—seeing him hold back the physical threat that had terrified her for years—something inside her shattered, replaced by a sudden, hot surge of fury. The timid girl who used to hide in library stacks vanished.
"STOP IT!" Catharine screamed, standing up so fast her chair fell backward, crashing onto the floor.
The sound shattered the heavy air of the kitchen.
Her mother gasped. Melissa peeked out from behind her knees, her wet eyes wide with absolute shock. Catharine had never, in her entire life, raised her voice to her father.
The old man froze, staring at her in genuine disbelief. The shock quickly morphed into pure, unadulterated humiliation. His own daughter had just yelled at him in his own home, in front of a stranger.
"You..." he growled, his veins bulging against his neck as he tried to pull his wrist out of Jake’s grip again. "You dare shout at me in my house?! You ungrateful little—"
"How many times do I have to call the police on you before you learn to stay away from her?" Jake’s voice cut through his shouting. It wasn’t loud, but it possessed a heavy, dangerous authority that quieted the entire room.
The old man’s jaw worked silently for a second. The tone... the specific phrasing...
A hazy, blurred memory surfaced through the fog of alcohol. A dark street outside a gate... a high-end sports car... a tall man pulling out a phone and threatening to lock him in a cell.
The city boy.
Recognizing him didn’t make him back down; it pushed his wounded ego over the edge. "You!" he spat, glaring at Jake. "You’re that bastard from the capital! This is my house! You can’t threaten me in my own damn home! Get the hell out of here before I—"
"You aren’t doing anything," Jake interrupted flatly.
Over by the counter, Catharine’s mother covered her face with her trembling hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. The shame was suffocating. This wealthy, good looking young man—a boyfriend her daughter was clearly proud of—was seeing the absolute worst, most disgusting reality of their broken family. She was utterly convinced that after this humiliation, Jake would walk out the door and never look back at Catharine again.
"I told you to get out!" the old man shrieked, trying to use his free hand to grab the neck of the empty bottle he had set on the table.
Jake didn’t move an inch. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply raised his left hand, tapped two fingers against the small black earpiece tucked into his ear, and spoke one word.
"Elias."
A split second later, the front door—already hanging loose—was pushed open completely.
Elias stepped into the kitchen. He didn’t draw a weapon. He didn’t scream. He simply walked into the room, his massive six-foot-four frame clad in a sharp, dark suit, completely blocking the light from the hallway. His eyes were cold, professional, and entirely focused on the old man.
Jake hadn’t ordered Elias to attack. Bringing a tactical security guard to physically beat an old, drunken father in his family’s kitchen would have been an unbearable humiliation for Catharine and her mother. He didn’t need force. He just needed the wall.
The old man’s breath caught in his throat.
He looked at Elias’s broad shoulders, the dark suit, the absolute lack of fear in the giant’s eyes, and then back at Jake, who hadn’t even stepped back. The sheer physical presence of the two men made the small kitchen feel microscopic.
The old man tried to hold his ground, his mouth opening to shout another insult, but his body completely betrayed him. He took an involuntary step back. Then another. His boots scraped against the floorboards as his knees wobbled.
"You... you think you’re tough, huh?" the old man stammered, his voice cracking, the false bravery draining out of him like water from a cracked bucket. "You bring hired muscle into a man’s home?!"
Jake didn’t answer. He just released the man’s wrist, stepping back beside Catharine, his arm sliding around her waist, holding her firm against his side. Elias took one slow, deliberate step forward into the kitchen.
That single step broke whatever resolve the old man had left.
His eyes darted frantically around the room, landing on the crumpled bills his wife had dropped earlier. He dropped to one knee, frantically scooping up the money with shaking, greedy fingers, before scrambling back toward the front door.
"This isn’t over!" he yelled over his shoulder, his voice high-pitched and breathless as he backed into the hallway. "You hear me?! This is my house!"
The front door slammed shut behind him, followed by the rapid, frantic sound of his boots staggering down the gravel driveway until total silence returned to the house.
The silence in the kitchen was heavy, almost suffocating.
Elias gave Jake a short, silent nod before stepping back out into the hallway, pulling the front door closed as best he could to give the family privacy.
For a long moment, nobody moved. The smell of spilt tea and stale alcohol hung thick in the air.
Catharine stood frozen against Jake’s side, her chest heaving as she stared at the empty doorway. Beside them, her mother was slumped against the counter, silently weeping into her apron. In the corner, Melissa was still curled in a tight ball, her small shoulders shaking with quiet, exhausted sobs.
Jake didn’t say a word. He simply turned, pulling Catharine fully into his arms, burying his face in her hair as her trembling hands gripped the back of his shirt for dear life.
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