Ten years after the divorce, Brock Kingston showed up at our door with his three brats, asking my mom, Veronica, to take him back. The first thing out of his mouth was a demand for our suburban mansion, a claim on Ivy’s Smokehouse, and on top of that, he wanted me to hand over my 2-million-follower Instagram account to my stepsister, Paige. Veronica, my mom, wasn’t having any of it. She scoffed and said, “An old cucumber painted green, trying to look fresh. Nice try.” Brock turned up just as Mom and I got home from the restaurant after a long night of work. “It’s past midnight, and you two are still out messing around?” His face was twisted in anger, barking orders as soon as he saw us. Mom and I exchanged an eye roll, almost in unison. Ten years ago, we agreed we’d never see him again, so why was he suddenly back, trying to act like he still had a say in our lives? Like he had the right to question us? “Sweetie,” my mom suddenly said, her voice raised so I could hear, “do you know why Mr. Thompson’s granddad lived to be a hundred?” I replied, “Because he minded his own business.” Mom gave a satisfied nod, took my hand, and we walked right past Brock without another glance. “We need to talk, Veronica,” Brock growled, his tone commanding as if he had any right to. He even reached out to grab her arm. Without thinking, I stepped between them, glaring. “Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll make sure your head spins backward.” Ten years ago, I couldn’t stop him from hitting my mom, but now? Now I’ve got a black belt in Muay Thai. One good hook aimed near his head would make him see stars for weeks. I wasn’t bluffing. Brock flinched, shocked at how fast I moved. But then he got mad. “Adults are talking here, Ivy. Stay out of it. Where are your manners?” Coldly, I shot back, “My dad died young, so cut me some slack.” “You little—” he raised his hand, ready to slap me, but Mom caught his wrist in a tight grip. Years of boozing and partying had left him weak. We all heard the crack as she twisted his arm, making him yelp in pain. Still, her expression didn’t change. “Unless you want a beating, get lost. Don’t stand here barking like a dog and disturbing the peace.” “You’re still so crude,” Brock sneered, but we could see how much he despised us. Finally, he hissed, “Fine, I won’t argue with you.” “Tomorrow, I’ll be free. We’re going to the County Registrar’s Office to get remarried.”
Mom stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Are you out of your damn mind?” I didn’t even hesitate. I pulled out a business card and shoved it at him. “Top mental health specialist. Mention my name for a discount. No need to thank me.” Brock’s face turned red, then blue, but finally, he scoffed and looked back at Mom. “Back then, you were begging not to get divorced, and now that I’m offering to come back, you’re still not happy? What more do you want?” See, my mom had been naive back then. She had married Brock with no dowry, no wedding. Two months after they tied the knot, he left to “manage a project.” For the next decade, he barely came home, leaving Mom to deal with everything on her own. When she was pregnant with twins, she had to borrow money from friends to pay for the hospital bills. During postpartum, she didn’t even have a bowl of hot soup. And Brock? He made every excuse not to come back, but in reality, he was living a double life with his new girlfriend. Mom looked him up and down, then burst out laughing. “And why should I remarry you? For your beer gut? Your thinning hair? Or maybe for the extra fat on your face—you could probably fry two pounds of lard from it.” “Don’t you have a mirror at home? Or even a toilet? Try looking at yourself next time you pee.” Brock, who always thought so highly of himself, turned red with fury. His gut was already bulging out, and two shirt buttons popped off under the pressure. I, ever the helpful daughter, handed him another business card. “Consider a gym membership. Mention my name for three free spin class sessions.” Then, while he was still fuming, I grabbed Mom’s hand, and we slipped into the building, slamming the door shut behind us. Brock started kicking the door in frustration. “Open this door!” I wasn’t about to indulge him. Instead, I called Westfield Gated Community Security right in front of him. “Hi, yes, there’s a flasher outside Building 7, Unit 3. Oh no, he’s still kicking the door. Can you send someone over, please?” Hanging up, I smirked at Brock, still standing there, raging. “Hey, Uncle, you think security’s not enough? Should I call the cops too?” “Ivy, I’m your father!” Brock was furious now, his face turning purple. “You must have me confused, sir. I’m Ivy Hayes—daughter of Veronica, whose real father is long gone,” I said with a wink.
Later that night, I paid triple to have someone run a thorough check on Brock’s life these past few years. Not long after, Mom came into my room, clutching a pillow to her chest. You’d never guess she was now a successful businesswoman, co-owning a multimillion-dollar restaurant group. But when things got tough, she still came to me for comfort. My heart sank. No way she was falling for Brock again, right? Was she really going to let an old loser like him back into her life? “Mom, don’t even think about it. I’d rather you and Aunt Julia get married in Vegas and make me call her mom than ever accept Brock as my father again!” I yelled, diving under my blanket. Out of sight, out of mind. “Stop with the nonsense.” Mom dragged me out from under the covers and showed me a text on her phone. Somehow, Brock had gotten her number and sent her a message. It was an ultrasound. Captioned: “This is Luke’s child. He’s five months along. It’s a boy. Can you really let your grandson grow up without a grandmother?” I stared at the message, speechless. Luke was my twin brother. Mom raised us both on her own. Our grandparents never liked Mom, and they treated us horribly. They barely gave Luke, their “precious grandson,” any better treatment than me. When Mom and Brock divorced, my grandma had shoved me toward Mom: “Luke stays. You can take Ivy. We don’t need a granddaughter.” My grandpa had the nerve to threaten her: “You brought nothing valuable into this family. Take Ivy and nothing more, or we’ll have you arrested.” Mom walked away with nothing but me, and still, she fought in court to take Luke with us. But on the day of the ruling, Luke chose Brock. Even when Brock slapped Mom in front of everyone and threw me at the feet of Tiffany Reynolds and her daughter, Luke did nothing. He just turned his face away, cold and distant. I don’t hate Brock or the rest of his disgusting crew anymore, but Luke? I still hate him. He used to protect me, promise he’d always take care of me and Mom. But he broke that promise. “So,” I said, rolling my eyes, “excited about your shiny new grandson?” Mom flicked my forehead. “Stop it!” she said, but then, in a thoughtful tone, she muttered, “I don’t know, there’s something off about this. Brock is never this persistent unless there’s something else he wants.” “Even when the whole internet roasted him over Tiffany, he stuck with her, so why now?” “Do you think it’s because Hunter brought so much attention to Ivy’s Smokehouse that he wants in on it?” Hunter Brooks, Aunt Julia’s son, had become an overnight sensation thanks to a new show, and his fame had turned our little BBQ joint into a hotspot. We were trending all over social media, and business was booming. It made sense. Brock was after more than just a reunion.
A few hours later, we had our answer. Money talks, and the private investigator I hired spilled everything. Brock’s been desperate to remarry because he’s flat broke. A few months ago, his business collapsed, leaving him drowning in debt. Tiffany divorced him and took everything—the house, the car. He signed it all over to her. It wasn’t a real breakup, though. They just faked the divorce to protect her assets. Now, Brock, Luke, and his wife Madison were renting a place, scraping by on Luke’s income alone. Even then, Brock still sent Tiffany and her daughter monthly payments. He’d even taken out tens of thousands in high-interest loans under Luke’s name. But that money wouldn’t last long for Tiffany and Paige. To crawl his way out of this hole, Brock got involved in an underground factory scheme and needed capital fast to start manufacturing cheap, shady products. By the time I finished reading, I was seething. “Mom, this isn’t just about money. He’s planning to drag us down with him when it all goes south.” Mom slammed her mouse on the table and cursed. “That conniving bastard! We’ll see if he can swindle money from me, or if I’ll be the one sending him to prison!” She promptly unblocked Brock’s number and sent out a Facebook status to bait him: “💖💋 Thanks, sweetie! This year’s birthday gift is my dream car, a Candy Pink Maserati!!! 🎉🎉 In three days, we’re throwing a party at The Crystal Palace. Come celebrate!” The photo attached was of her brand-new, bubblegum-pink Maserati—a gift from Aunt Julia for Girls’ Day this year. Not long after, Brock left a sneaky like on the post and even commented: “Can’t wait to celebrate with you, babe! I’ll bring the kids!” Mom snorted. “Oh, he’s coming. Let’s see if he leaves in one piece.”
Early the next morning, Brock called, pretending to be concerned. Mom put him on speakerphone and responded lazily to his small talk. Brock was practically giddy, “Your birthday is a big deal! I’m bringing the kids to celebrate with you. We’re not getting any younger, and family matters most. It’d be sad if your son and daughter-in-law weren’t there, right?” “Surprised you even remember my birthday,” Mom sneered. “Of course I do! After all, we were married for so long. I still care about you.” Hearing that made my blood boil. That liar never cared about Mom. Three days from now wasn’t even her birthday—it was the anniversary of their divorce. Every year, we’d have a quiet celebration with Aunt Julia and Hunter, marking the day Mom got her freedom back. But this year, we’d be throwing a huge party for one reason only: to set a trap. Still, Brock was all sweetness over the phone, asking what kind of gift Mom wanted. With a dismissive wave, she replied, “If you’re serious about a gift, make it a brand-new Hermes bag. Anything less would be embarrassing in front of my girlfriends.” “…Alright,” Brock said, but I could hear him suck in a breath through the phone. He had no choice. After all, you have to spend money to make money.
Three days later, the “birthday party” was on. Halfway there, Brock called again, this time with a ridiculous level of affection. “Ronnie,” he cooed. Mom recoiled in disgust, nearly throwing her phone out the window. I was next to her, trying not to laugh. That sugary tone was so nauseating it almost made me puke up my lunch. “Ronnie, why aren’t you answering?” Brock pressed. Mom cleared her throat. “Do you have something to say, or can I hang up?” “Of course, of course, I’ve got something!” Brock stammered. “Paige is so excited about your birthday. She’s learned a song on the piano just for you!” He really had the nerve. Was he seriously trying to guilt-trip her? Paige was his daughter with Tiffany Reynolds, the same girl who sneered down at me after Brock threw me at their feet outside the courthouse years ago. Back then, she’d rubbed her expensive shoes against my face, saying, “Keep your filthy self away from me. You’ll ruin my shoes.” She’d smirked as she added, “Dad only wants Luke. He doesn’t care about you. He’s going to leave everything to me.” After a moment, Mom broke her silence, “Don’t bring any of that filth into my life.” Brock didn’t like that, but he still played along, putting on his most charming voice. “What are you talking about? Paige said if we get back together, she’d love for you to be her one and only mother. Plus, she’s so talented at the piano…” Mom laughed coldly. “Oh, is that so? Well, bring her along. I suppose one more place at the table won’t hurt.” Brock sounded pleased as he hung up the phone.
We arrived at The Crystal Palace first, but Brock and his little entourage showed up soon after. He was decked out in a flashy suit with a bright red rose pinned to his chest, while Paige clung to his arm in a designer off-the-shoulder dress, her makeup flawless. They were clearly prepared for a show. Behind them was a woman, pale as her dress, with her hands resting on her slightly swollen belly. She walked carefully, like a delicate flower. Luke walked by her side, practically glowing with fatherly pride, but little did he know that the baby wasn’t even his. The poor fool was nothing but a pawn in their game. I glanced over at Luke’s head, studying him for a moment. He didn’t notice. He was too focused on his new wife. “Ivy!” Brock greeted me enthusiastically. “Happy Birthday, Mom!” Paige chimed in sweetly, her smile too wide to be sincere. Mom didn’t even try to hide her disdain, but Paige didn’t seem to care. She turned to me, throwing her arms around me like we were best friends. “Sis! It’s been so long!” I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Not long enough, honestly. You haven’t changed at all.” Her skin was as thick as ever—just like her mother’s. Brock, always the showman, pulled Luke and his wife, Madison, up next. “And this is Luke’s wife, Madison.” Madison, the fragile-looking flower, pulled out a small box from her handbag and held it out to Mom. “Mom, I embroidered this keychain for you by hand. I hope you like it…” She was almost trembling, her bloodied fingers exposed to show how much effort she’d put into it. Her pitiful expression begged for approval, as if Mom refusing the gift would be a crime. It was… unsettling. I took the box from her and handed it to the staff at the reception desk. “Make a note: Brock Kingston’s family brought a keychain as a gift.” The receptionist repeated it loudly: “Thank you, Mr. Brock Kingston, for the generous keychain!”
Brock’s smile froze instantly. Luke’s face darkened too. Only Paige rushed to support Madison, who looked ready to faint, shaking her head in disapproval at me. “Sis, just because you don’t like her gift doesn’t mean you should humiliate her like this! She’s pregnant with your nephew!” “Alright, alright, let’s get inside,” Mom interrupted, clearly fed up. She grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the scene. Paige wasn’t about to let go, though. She practically skipped after us, chirping, “Mom, where’s the piano? Can I go warm up? There are going to be so many important people here, and I want to make sure I put on a good show!” I pointed toward the stage, and she floated away like a butterfly. It wasn’t long before the opening chords of “Wedding in a Dream” filled the room, drawing all eyes to the stage. As Paige played, Brock stepped onto the platform, holding a microphone and launching into a dramatic monologue. He poured his heart out, claiming he’d never stopped loving Mom and wanted to rekindle their relationship. “Veronica, I still love you.” “Twe”Twenty years ago, I didn’t give you the proposal you deserved. But today, I’m going to fix that.” With those words, Brock dropped to one knee, holding out a ring box toward Mom. “Please, marry me again!
🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “NovelMaster” app 🔍 search for “294759”, and watch the full series ✨! #NovelMaster #现实主义Realistic #惊悚Thriller
Leave a Reply