Sweet Hatred
Chapter 156: Not Blood

Chapter 156: Not Blood

My eyes scanned the paper again and again, but the words didn’t change.

Paternity Test Result: Ewan Roman – Not the biological father of Andrew Roman. The name was there in bold, printed clear and cold. No mistaking it.

I reached into the vault, pulled out the other envelopes, each bearing the same logo in the corner, same discreet clinic, same formality. Opened one.

Test Date: Four years ago.

Ewan Roman – Not the biological father.

Another. Three years ago. Same result. Same truth, over and over again.

I sat there for a second, letting the silence soak in, the paper shaking a little between my fingers as the realization clicked into place. My father... had known. He’d known for years.

Sabrina had duped him.

The cold bastard who could smell blood in boardrooms from miles away had been played like a fool inside his own home. And he’d found out the hard way.

A low, stunned laugh escaped me. Then another, sharper this time.

"Oh... fuck me," I whispered, shaking my head as the absurdity twisted deeper. "You poor, blind old man."

The amusement was still curling at the edges of my lips when the door creaked open behind me.

I didn’t turn. I didn’t have to. I could feel him. The weight of his presence. The calculated silence. I could only laugh harder.

"Wow," I said, not even looking back. "So this is what finally broke the devil."

Footsteps approached slowly, the sound measured, precise. I turned just enough to glance over my shoulder. And there he was.

Ewan Roman.

As cold as winter steel, dressed in charcoal gray and authority. His eyes flicked to the paper in my hand, and for a moment, just a flash, I saw it. The recognition. The flicker of something human.

I chuckled again, but this time it was darker, curling at the edges with something cruel.

"You knew," I said, turning fully to face him now, the envelope dangling from my fingers. "You fucking knew. And all those times you taunted me to take over XE... what was that? Desperation? Panic? Trying to make sure your legacy didn’t die with the bastard you couldn’t bear to call son?"

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

Just walked slowly toward his desk, face unreadable, posture calm. Like the truth didn’t mean anything at all.

"Always knew something was off," I muttered, stepping closer. "You never looked at me like a father looks at his son. You didn’t give a damn until it suited your narrative. But suddenly you were interested... obsessed, even. Now it makes sense."

Ewan reached his chair and sat down, steepling his fingers, his movements smooth. Rehearsed. Calculated.

He looked up at me with those empty, glassy eyes.

"It’s not what you think," he said simply.

I pressed my palm against the desk, leaning in, eyes burning into his.

"Then tell me, Dad," I whispered, voice sharp with mockery, "what is it?"

Ewan Roman’s fingers tapped once on the polished wood.

Then silence. Calculating. Empty.

"I see you’ve been digging," he said at last, tone smooth like the surface of a loaded gun.

I said nothing. I didn’t need to. My eyes did the talking, full of venom and disbelief, the paper still clenched between my fingers like proof of every unspoken wound.

He leaned back with a slow, deliberate exhale. "Well. You found the truth you were so hungry for. What more are you looking for?" His voice sharpened as he tilted his head, gaze cool and sharp. "An apology? Do you want me to coddle you now, Kael?"

That snapped something inside me.

My jaw ticked. I stepped forward, voice tight and vicious.

"No, Father—" I bit the word like it left a taste in my mouth. "I want you to tell me why, after years of treating me like I was nothing more than a failed prototype, you suddenly remembered I existed. What changed, huh? Was it the day you found out your golden boy wasn’t even yours?"

His eyes met mine, flat as glass. Not a single crack.

"You’re my son, Roman," he said slowly. "You’ve always been my son. And I’ve never forgotten that."

I scoffed, but he kept talking, voice low and deliberate. Like every word was doctrine.

"But I couldn’t be soft with you," he went on. "Because we’re Romans. We don’t survive on love or comfort. We survive because we’re feared. Respected. We built this empire not on good intentions, but on sacrifice. On bones. On silence. On broken men and spilled blood."

His eyes gleamed faintly now. Almost proud. "And I raised you the same way. I carved you out of fire and ash to be better than the rest. To survive. To win. That wasn’t cruelty, Kael. That was preparation."

A laugh broke out of me. Short. Hollow. Disbelieving.

"Preparation," I echoed, lips curling. "You think years of ripping me apart piece by piece was some noble fucking rite of passage?"

He didn’t even blink.

"You’re going to inherit all of it," he said coldly. "Every inch of what I bled for. It was always meant to be yours."

That was it. That was the last straw.

I stopped laughing.

In one swift move, I reached across the desk and yanked him by the collar, dragging him halfway toward me, his breath catching as I leaned in close.

"I don’t want your fucking empire," I snarled, eyes wild, voice a blade. "You and this entire blood-soaked kingdom of yours can rot in hell together."

I let go, shoved him back.

And I turned and walked out.

The door slammed behind me, echoing like a gunshot in the marble hall.

The storm had crept in while I was inside. Now it poured down like punishment. Thick sheets of rain hammered against the pavement as I stepped outside, barely noticing how fast my clothes clung to my skin.

I didn’t run. I didn’t flinch. I just walked into it, like I deserved to drown.

The moment I dropped into the driver’s seat, the silence inside the car felt too loud. The storm became muffled, but my mind wasn’t. My hands gripped the wheel, but they were trembling.

I wasn’t just angry. I was gutted. The kind of gutted that felt like being hollowed from the inside out. The kind of pain that didn’t roar but rather it echoed, like footsteps in an abandoned memory.

All those years of wondering. Of fighting. Of clawing my way up to prove I could survive the legacy of Ewan Roman.

And for what?

To find out I was never wanted. Not truly. Just needed. Just next in line. Because the chosen one... wasn’t even blood.

I sat there, dripping, staring through the windshield as the rain blurred everything into a smear of grey. My chest hurt. Not the kind of hurt I was used to, the kind you could drink or fuck or punch your way out of. This was different.

This was betrayal. This was grief. This was fucking heartbreak.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to shatter something. Break my own damn hands just to stop this pain from tearing through me. But I didn’t move. I just sat there and let it bleed.

The ache was so sharp it felt surgical. Precise. Every breath cut deeper. And the memories came, uninvited. Like knives, cutting me open without care.

My mother’s laugh. Her hands brushing back my hair. The scent of her perfume, always lavender. Then her face. Still. Cold. Zipped up in that black bag.

Gone. Just like that.

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