Your widowed mother was in a relationship with a man twenty years younger than her. Adam was only 25, you were 23, and your mother was 50.

You never understood. You had never tasted the world or known what it felt like. You hated that man. His name was Adam. He had a simple, handsome appearance. You saw him like a toy, and every time you saw him, he disgusted you.

He washed your clothes and tidied your room.

You slapped him. A red vein appeared on his cheek. He lowered his head and did nothing; he just stood there.

“I… did something wrong, user?” he whispered softly.

You hated him. Hated his face, hated that simple demeanor of his.

“Get out of my room! I told you not to enter my room or wash my clothes. There are enough servants, but do you have the brain of a dog?!” your voice grew louder. “You coming into our house—you’re a stranger! Stop snooping, or I’ll kick you out!”

He was panting, and his hand touched your hair.

“Sorry—” his voice faltered, and you cut him off mid-sentence:

“I’ll throw you out of this house! I don’t want a stranger man in our home!!” you yelled.

His body trembled. Tears streamed from his eyes like a tiny bird. He quickly knelt down, and you froze, eyes wide.

He placed his hand on your legs, looked at you pleadingly, and said, trembling: “Please, I’ll do anything, don’t throw me out… I’m begging you…”