Villain MMORPG: Almighty Devil Emperor and His Seven Demonic Wives - Chapter 2029

Chapter 2029: Not A Family

Villain Ch 2029. Not A Family

It wasn’t much. Not even close. But it was enough to push him to sit up, phone still loose in his hand, screen dimming.

He stared at the glow a little longer. Thought of Allen. Of how his brother smiled on the field. Of how his name echoed louder in arenas than it ever had in this house. Of how his name wasn’t said here at all.

Maybe it was stupid. Reckless. But he wanted to try.

The smell hit him before he made it to the stairs.

Meat pie. He hadn’t smelled that in a while. That particular blend of spiced beef, buttery crust, herbs, and something earthy that clung to your clothes.

Carla always made it when she had too much time and not enough energy to think of something new. It was comfort food. Familiar. Warm.

He took the stairs slowly, one hand brushing the smooth railing, wood worn down at the corners from years of habit. His heartbeat tapped a little too hard against his ribs, but he wasn’t going to run away now. Not before trying.

The kitchen lights were on, warm yellow pouring over the clean counters and polished stovetop. Carla was standing by the oven, bent slightly as she checked the crust on the meat pie through the glass. She wore her usual house apron, floral with a little lace, and her hair was tied up messily with a pencil jammed through it. A dish towel slung over one shoulder like it lived there permanently.

Evan stood at the entrance for a beat too long.

She noticed.

Her eyes didn’t soften, but they didn’t harden either. Neutral. That was better than most days.

“You’re down early,” she said, turning back to close the oven and set the timer. “Dinner’s still got fifteen minutes.”

He stepped in, hands in his hoodie pocket. “Yeah. Just smelled the pie. Thought I’d… check in.”

She arched a brow. “Check in?”

“Just saying hi,” he shrugged. “Smells amazing, by the way. Like, seriously… this crust smells like the one you used to make during holidays.”

Her laugh surprised him. It was short and dry, but real.

“Well. Guess I still have some of my touch,” she muttered, wiping her hands on the towel. “Even if no one in this house appreciates it.”

“I do,” he said quietly.

She glanced at him, then turned to the counter, picking up a knife and starting to slice cucumbers into a glass bowl. The rhythmic thwack-thwack of the blade filled the space for a while.

He walked further in. Slowly. Like if he moved too fast, the moment would shatter. “Need help?”

“You never offer to help,” she said flatly, still slicing.

“I’m offering now.”

“You want something.”

He blinked. “I just—”

She looked up. Her expression wasn’t angry. It was just… matter-of-fact. Like she was holding up a mirror and daring him to deny it.

“You don’t do light conversation, Evan,” she said, tone calm. “Never have. So whatever this is, just say it. Before your father gets home.”

That part landed heavier than he expected.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then let out a breath and leaned back against the counter.

“Allen’s getting married,” he said.

There. He’d said it.

Carla didn’t stop chopping. She didn’t blink. Didn’t freeze. Just kept cutting cucumbers like he’d said something about the weather.

“Oh,” she said.

Just that.

Evan frowned. “Oh?”

She placed the sliced cucumbers in the bowl, added some vinegar and salt, stirred, then finally turned to face him.

“Yes,” she said again, more clearly. “Oh. He’s a Goldborne, isn’t he? Better that way. He’s not our family anymore.”

He stared at her, unsure if he’d heard that right. But her face… it was calm. Dry. Not angry. Not bitter. Just… detached.

“That’s it?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

“He’s your son.”

She tilted her head. “He was.”

Evan felt something sharp in his chest. Like someone pressed down too hard on something that never fully healed.

“I know what happened in the past,” he said slowly. “How people used to look at you. Talk about you. Because he didn’t have a father. But that wasn’t his fault, Mom.”

She smiled. Not kindly.

“No,” she agreed. “It wasn’t his fault. But the scar remained.”

She moved to the sink and rinsed her hands under cold water, watching the suds swirl away like they meant something.

“For years,” she said quietly. “Years, I watched neighbors look at me like I was less. Like I was dirty. The whispers at church. The parents who pulled their children away from Allen like he was contagious. And you know what stung the most?”

Evan didn’t answer.

She did it for him. “It wasn’t their words. It was how no one stopped them. Not once. Not for me. Not for him.”

She wiped her hands again. “So no, Evan. I don’t care that he’s rich now. Or famous. Or throwing a fancy wedding. He found his family. That’s good. Let him stay there. Because we were never enough.”

Evan clenched his jaw. “That’s not true.”

She raised a brow. “Isn’t it?”

He couldn’t answer that. Because he knew. Deep down, he knew Allen never got to be a son in this house. Not really. He was a mistake that never got forgiven.

“I’m not saying he didn’t hurt you,” Evan said. “I’m just saying maybe he didn’t mean to.”

Carla didn’t respond.

He swallowed the tightness in his throat. “You might not want to see him as your son,” he said softly. “But I still want to see him as my half-brother.”

That was the first time he said it out loud. Half-brother.

Carla looked at him for a long time. Not judging. Not scolding. Just… looking.

The timer beeped.

She turned away.

Evan stood there, stomach tight, heart crawling up his throat.

The meat pie came out golden. Beautiful. The scent filled every corner of the kitchen, warm and rich and cruel. It smelled like family. Like holidays they never really had. Like something he wanted to go back to even if he’d never been there.

She cut into the crust, steam rising up in gentle curls.

“I hope it doesn’t burn your tongue,” she said, not looking at him.

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