Lucas sat in the seat of honor, cradling a bowl of freshly cooked, steaming dumpling soup.
A cold smirk tugged at his lips. His wrist jerked—deliberately unnatural.
The bubbling soup traced a perfect arc, flying straight at my face.
The old Peter Harding would've panicked and dodged, then gotten mocked by the whole family for having no manners.
But I wasn't him anymore.
I was Peter Harding—a man who'd sell his soul to acting for $50 million in alimony.
I didn't retreat. I advanced.
Gasps erupted around me. I spun, threw my arms wide, and clamped Lucas's head against my chest like a mother hen shielding her chick.
Sizzle—
The scalding soup hit my back dead-on.
For a second, I swear I could smell my own flesh cooking.
It hurt.
It hurt like hell.
My whole body seized up, but I bit down hard and didn't make a sound.
I even reached out, hand trembling, and touched Lucas's meticulously maintained face.
"Son, you didn't get burned, did you?"
Dead silence.
Lucas froze solid.
His eyes went wide, locked onto my face from inches away.
Cold sweat drenched my forehead. I was pale as death. But I still forced out a smile—so tender it was almost grotesque.