My Daughter Called Me Uncle

Chapter 002

The air outside the GoodFortune Mart was thick with the smell of wet asphalt and the casual cruelty of men who felt powerful only when standing over the weak.

"Director Yates, this little brat isn't listening," one of the thugs sneered. He was a thick-necked man in a cheap polyester jacket, his face flushed with a mixture of cold rain and malice. "How do you want us to handle a thief who won't confess?"

Peter Yates adjusted his silk tie, his eyes flickering with a bored, s******c light. "How do you handle them? You handle them the way you handle any pest. You don't coddle a spoiled child. You break them until they know their place."

His underlings erupted into a chorus of gravelly laughter, their breath smelling of stale cigarettes and cheap coffee. They circled Lemon Faulkner, their shadows stretching long and menacing under the flickering fluorescent lights of the mart's awning. To them, this girl wasn't a child; she was an underclass 'stray,' a byproduct of a fallen highborn lady’s disgrace. She was a 'lowborn' who shouldn't have been born at all.

Peter Yates stepped forward, the heels of his Italian leather shoes clicking sharply against the wet pavement. He leaned down, hovering over Lemon like a vulture over a dying lamb. He held his phone out, the red recording light blinking like a malevolent eye.

"Listen to me, you little parasite," Peter hissed, his voice a low crawl. "I’ll give you a way out. All you have to do is say it. Say it a hundred times into this camera: 'My father is a dog without a home.' Say it loud, say it clear, and maybe I’ll let you go. Otherwise, I’m calling the police, and you can spend the night in a cold cell. Do you think your mother can afford to bail you out? She can barely afford your medicine, you little drain on society."

Lemon’s small, pale lips trembled violently. The rain had plastered her hair to her forehead, and her eyes—wide and glassy with a mix of fever and terror—searched the faces of the crowd. She found no mercy. But deep within her, beneath the leukemia and the exhaustion, there was a spark of something ancient and unyielding.

"My daddy..." she choked out, her voice small but piercing. "My daddy is a hero! He’s an empire hero, not... not what you said!"

She squeezed her eyes shut, her tiny hands flying up to cover her ears as if she could block out his poison. "You’re a bad man! I don't want to talk to you! I hate you!"

She began to shake her head frantically, a desperate, rhythmic motion to keep the world away. The humiliation of being labeled a thief, of having her father’s name dragged through the gutter, was a pain sharper than any needle the nurses at Riverbend General Hospital had ever used on her.

Peter Yates felt a vein throb in his temple. He was a man used to getting what he wanted—whether it was a business deal or a woman. Being defied by a seven-year-old in front of his men was an insult he couldn't stomach. His face contorted into a mask of rage.

"You little b***h! Giving me attitude?" Peter roared, his hand snapping back, fingers coiled into a heavy palm. "Since your father isn't here to teach you manners, I’ll do it for him!"

The thugs grinned, leaning in to watch the blow land. They felt no shame; they were hollow men who had long ago traded their consciences for a paycheck from the nouveau riche.

"Bastard!"

The word didn't come from the crowd. It came from the shadows of the rain.

Before Peter’s hand could even begin its descent, a blur of motion cut through the grey curtain of the storm. Derek Faulkner, having just vaulted from the taxi, didn't run—he soared. He moved with the practiced, lethal grace of the Reaper of the Northern Front, a man who had forgotten how to feel fear but had rediscovered the meaning of hate.

Derek’s boot connected with Peter Yates’ midsection with the force of a battering ram. The sound—a dull, sickening thud of leather against flesh—echoed under the awning.

"I dare you to try," Derek’s voice was a low, terrifying growl that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of everyone present.

Peter Yates didn't just fall; he was launched. He flew back several feet, his body skipping across the wet pavement like a stone across a pond, before he slammed into a row of metal shopping carts. The carts shrieked and tangled together, a chaotic symphony of steel.

Derek didn't look at him. He didn't care if the man was breathing. He turned, his heart shattering into a million jagged pieces, and looked at the little girl on the ground.

This was his daughter.

His Lemon.

She looked so small. So fragile. The purple bruises on her skin, the symptomatic signs of her blood failing her, were like daggers in his eyes. He didn't need to ask what had happened. To see a dozen grown men surrounding a crying child was all the evidence a Supreme Warlord needed.

"Argh... ugh..." Peter Yates coughed, a spray of crimson staining the rainwater as he clutched his stomach. He rolled onto his side, his expensive suit ruined, gasping for air that wouldn't come. "Who... who the hell... don't you know who I am? Don't meddle in things you don't understand!"

Peter glared at the stranger. He saw a man in a plain shirt, soaked to the bone, but there was an aura around him—a suffocating, mountainous pressure that made it hard to breathe. Peter was a man of the working class who had made it big, but he knew enough about the privileged elite to recognize a dangerous man when he saw one. Yet, his arrogance blinded him. He couldn't imagine anyone truly important caring about this 'lowborn' girl.

"Director Yates! Are you okay?"

The thugs finally snapped out of their shock and rushed to Peter’s side, hauling him up. Peter spat a glob of b****y phlegm onto the ground, his eyes fixed on Derek.

"This matter is mine to settle now," Derek said. He didn't raise his voice, yet it carried over the roar of the downpour with chilling clarity. He opened a large, sturdy black umbrella he had grabbed from the taxi and stepped toward the girl.

The world seemed to slow down as he reached her. The Reaper of the Northern Front, the man who had commanded the Five Warlords, knelt in the mud. He didn't care about his clothes or his dignity. He reached out, his hand trembling—the same hand that had held the Dragon Standard against an army of a hundred thousand—and gently brushed a wet strand of hair from Lemon’s face.

The girl looked up. Her eyes were wide, filled with a heartbreaking mix of confusion and hope. She saw a man with a face like iron but eyes that were swimming with a deep, bottomless sorrow.

"Uncle..." she whispered, her voice a fragile thread. "Thank you... thank you for helping me."

Uncle.

The word was a bullet to Derek’s chest. His own daughter was thanking him as a stranger. The agony of it was almost physical, a cold blade twisting in his energy center. He wanted to scream, to tell her he was her father, to beg for her forgiveness for the eight years of silence. But the rain was heavy, and the time was wrong. He suppressed the sob rising in his throat, his eyes shimmering with tears that he let the rain wash away.

"You're welcome," he managed to say, his voice thick. "No need to thank me. I'm going to deal with these bad men, and then I'm going to take you home."

He stood up, the umbrella held firmly over Lemon, creating a small, dry sanctuary in a world of storms. He looked at her not just as a father, but as a protector. Even if she were a total stranger, he could not have stood by. The compassion of a true healer and the honor of a soldier demanded justice.

"Uncle... please, don't," Lemon said suddenly, her voice trembling with a new kind of fear. She reached out and tugged at his sleeve with her tiny, cold fingers. "He... he’s the owner of the Blue Horizon Club. He’s my mommy’s boss."

The name of the club hit Derek like a physical blow. The Blue Horizon Club. The place where Serena Ashford, the most coveted woman in Riverbend, was reportedly wasting her life while her daughter died. His jaw tightened until the muscles corded like steel cables.

He looked up, and the warmth he had shown the girl vanished. What remained was a frost that could freeze the blood in a man's veins. He looked at Peter Yates.

"Apologize," Derek commanded.

"Apologize? To this little thief?" Peter sneered, emboldened by the presence of his men. He straightened his jacket, trying to regain his dignity. "You must be as delusional as she is. She stole from my store. If you want to play the hero, why don't you pay for the damages and get out of my sight before I have the Riverbend Garrison's Military Police Division pick you up?"

If Derek had known this was the man his wife worked for, he might have ended him right there. But he had to stay in control. He couldn't let Lemon see the c*****e he was capable of. He had to be the man her mother told her about—a hero, not a monster.

"I didn't steal!" Lemon cried out again, desperate for the 'Uncle' to believe her. She fumbled with the pocket of her wet school uniform and pulled out a piece of paper. It was soaked, the ink beginning to run, but the gold seal was still visible. "See? It’s my Good Student certificate! My teacher gave me the lollipop as a prize! I was just waiting here for my grandmother! I didn't go inside!"

Derek looked at the soggy paper. It was a simple thing, a 'Good Student' award, but to Lemon, it was her honor. He felt a wave of pride so intense it burned. Even in the face of death and poverty, his daughter was a child of integrity.

He looked back at the group of adults. "You have heard her. You have seen the proof. I will say it one last time. Apologize to her. Now."

Peter Yates looked at the certificate and then at Derek. He knew the girl was telling the truth. He had known the moment he walked out of the store. But a man like him didn't apologize to 'lowborns.'

"I don't care about a piece of paper," Peter spat. "In my world, if I say she’s a thief, she’s a thief. Now get out of my way, you lunatic."

He signaled to his men to move toward their cars. He had seen enough. He would find out who this man was later. In Riverbend, money and connections were the only laws that mattered, and he had plenty of both.

Derek watched them, his body perfectly still. The focused force within him was screaming to be released, but he held it back for the sake of the child trembling under his umbrella.

"You can leave," Derek said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow louder than the thunder above. "But know this. If you do not apologize before the sun rises tomorrow, you will never see the sun again."

It wasn't a threat. It was a prophecy.

Peter Yates paused, a shiver running down his spine despite himself. He climbed into his black Toyota, slamming the door. "You've got guts, I'll give you that," he yelled through the cracked window as the engine roared to life. "But in this city, guts just get you buried faster. This isn't over!"

The cars peeled away, splashing muddy water into the street as they sped off toward the neon glow of the downtown district.

Derek remained standing in the rain, the umbrella held steady over his daughter. He looked down at her, seeing her small face looking up at him with awe and a lingering, profound sadness.

"Don't worry, Lemon," he said softly, using her name for the first time. "The bad men are gone. No one is ever going to hurt you again. I promise."

He knelt again and gently picked her up. She was so light—frighteningly light, like a bird made of glass. As she leaned her head against his shoulder, Derek felt a warmth he hadn't felt in eight years. He would move heaven and earth to save her. He would tear down the Ashford family, he would burn the Blue Horizon Club to the ground, and he would find out exactly what had happened to the woman he once called his wife.