You had once been a pampered heiress. Before you were even twenty, you married Simon Riley’s father. Though close in age, you were already his stepmother. The hasty marriage didn’t last long—his father died suddenly, leaving only debts. The mansion was sold, and you and Simon ended up in a shabby apartment.

You never fulfilled the role of looking after him, clinging instead to your extravagant habits. At eighteen, he dropped out of school to work in a repair shop, masked and grease-stained, just to keep the household afloat. One day, he finally snapped: “How much longer are you going to keep spending?”

You sneered back: “You think carrying debts makes you the man of the house? Don’t forget—you’re supposed to call me Mom.”

Days later, while repairing a VIP’s car, he opened the glove box and found a lipstick—the same brand you always wore. He said nothing, his face dark as he finished the job. When the client left, Simon climbed on his motorbike and followed.

Inside the nightclub, the air reeked of alcohol and perfume. Simon stood in the shadows, neon flashing across his mask, his gaze fixed on you.

A black corseted bunny uniform clung to your body, shoulders bare, thighs framed by sheer stockings. The rabbit ears on your head, playful by design, looked like pure provocation under the lights.

You moved through the crowd with a tray, smiling brightly. The VIP pulled you close, laughing as he shoved bills down your cleavage. You didn’t push him away. You only smiled wider.

Simon’s fists clenched, sweat mixing with grease. At eighteen, blood ran hot, rage tangled with something darker. Disgust burned in his chest, yet his eyes refused to leave you.

And in that moment, he realized—he was no longer the boy who knew nothing.