God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem

Her father leaned back in his chair, a smug smile still plastered across his face as he continued his obnoxious monologue.

"I just closed a big deal with a university." He said, his tone oozing self-satisfaction. "They've been looking for someone who can deliver results, and naturally, they came to me. It's going to bring in major profits for the company."

He then paused, his smile faltering slightly as his sharp eyes turned toward Bella. "Speaking of university..." He began, his tone shifting. "I heard something interesting."

Bella stiffened, her forced smile fading as she met his gaze.

"I heard you've decided to stay home for the rest of the semester instead of going back." He continued, his voice calm but with a pointed edge. His expression grew solemn, as though the very idea displeased him deeply. "Is that true?"

Bella hesitated, glancing at Camila for a moment as if searching for reassurance. She knew her father hated anything that didn't align with his expectations, and staying home was definitely one of those things...But there was no point in lying.

"Yes." She admitted softly. "It's true."

She opened her mouth to explain, to tell him that she had a valid reason for her decision, but before she could finish, he raised a hand to cut her off.

"There's no reason for it." He said firmly, his voice growing colder. "None at all!"

Bella blinked, stunned by how quickly he dismissed her. "But Dad-"

"You're an adult now, Bella." He interrupted, his tone growing stern. "You can't afford to be so childish anymore. Whatever your reasons are, they don't matter...You need to face your problems, not run away from them."

Bella's lips parted in protest, her feet pattering in a restless manner as she argued, saying, "B-But I'm not running away...I-I—"

But before she finished her sentence, her father slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair, his voice rising. "Enough! I don't want to hear any more excuses!"

Both Bella and Camila flinched slightly at the sharpness of his tone. Camila's eyes narrowed, but she remained silent, watching the exchange carefully.

Her father leaned forward, pointing at Bella as if scolding a child.

"Do you have any idea how this makes me look, Bella? My daughter, staying home, refusing to go back to university? What will people think? They'll think I raised a failure, that I couldn't even keep my own daughter on track!"

Bella's heart sank, her chest tightening as the weight of his words hit her. She had expected him to be disappointed, maybe even angry, but hearing him reduce her struggles to nothing more than an embarrassment to his image made her stomach churn.

"I-Is that all you care about?" Bella asked quietly, her voice trembling.

Her father didn't seem to hear her, or if he did, he ignored it.

"I've worked hard to build a reputation, Bella. People look up to me. They respect me. And now you're putting all of that at risk because you're too scared to go back and face reality?"

Bella's hands trembled, her gaze dropping to the floor. The father she had once adored, the man she had looked up to as a child, now felt like a stranger.

Camila's jaw tightened, her patience fraying as she stepped forward. "Enough." She said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"What? What do you have to say?" Her husband turned to her, his frown deepening.

"She's not a child anymore. She can make her own decisions." Camila said, her tone steady but cold. "And this isn't about your reputation. Whatever Bella's reasons are, they're hers, and you don't get to belittle her for making a decision about her own life."

He scowled, clearly not expecting Camila to intervene. "You're not helping her by coddling her, Camila." He snapped. "She needs to grow up."

"And she will." Camila shot back. "But on her terms, not yours. You don't get to control her anymore."

Bella glanced at her mother, her eyes wide with a mix of gratitude and surprise. Her father, however, glared at Camila, his expression darkening as if he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words.

For a moment, the room was thick with tension, the silence broken only by the faint sound of Kafka's steady breathing from the sofa.

Bella let out a shaky breath, her heart still pounding. The man she had once idolised now felt like nothing more than a hollow shell of what she thought he was. And as she met her mother's gaze, she realised. Camila understood that feeling all too well.

Her husband then scoffed, leaning back in his chair with an air of arrogance. "You don't need to butt in, Camila." He said sternly, his voice dripping with disdain as he turned his gaze on Camila. "I was having a conversation with my daughter. A woman like you has no place in this discussion."

He looked down at her as if she were beneath him, his words carrying the same dismissive tone he'd used countless times before.

Camila's lips twitched violently, her fingers curling slightly at her sides, but before she could respond, Bella shot to her feet.

"Don't talk to Mom like that!" Bella exclaimed, her voice rising as she glared at her father. Her forced politeness was gone, replaced by genuine anger. "You have no right to speak to her that way!"

Her father's eyes snapped to her, his face darkening. The sight of Bella standing up to him seemed to ignite something in him, and he rose from his seat, his towering frame looming over her.

"Don't you dare take that tone with me, young lady!" He shouted, his voice booming in the small room. "I'm your father, and I'll decide what's right and wrong in this household! You don't get to tell me how to speak or act!"

His sudden aggressiveness made Bella take a step back, fear flickering across her face for a moment as his voice filled the room. The tension crackled like a live wire, and for a second, it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the space entirely.

But before he could say another word, he froze.

A cold, firm hand rested on his shoulder, gripping it with just enough pressure to make him aware of the strength behind it.

The touch wasn't just physical—it sent an icy shiver up his spine, the kind that made his instincts scream danger.

Then, he heard the whisper.

Low, calm, and chilling in its precision, it came from just behind him.

"You'd better sit down and relax..." The voice said, each word deliberate. "...That is unless, of course, you'd like to experience the feeling of your face going through that coffee table and the glass cutting all the way into your wrinkly skin."

The voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound real, but the weight behind it was undeniable.

He turned his head slightly, and his blood ran cold.

Out of nowhere and without him even noticing, Kafka was standing behind him, his usually relaxed demeanour replaced with something far more menacing.

His eyes, which had been closed just moments ago, were open now—and they were empty, devoid of warmth or humanity.

It was as if he were staring into an abyss, and the abyss was staring back.

Kafka's grip on his shoulder tightened ever so slightly, not enough to hurt but enough to make it clear that he wasn't bluffing.

Camila's husband swallowed hard, his throat dry as fear seeped into his veins. He had always prided himself on his authority, his ability to control situations and people with his presence alone.

But in that moment, standing in Kafka's shadow, he felt small.

The room was silent except for the sound of his shallow breathing. Bella stared at the scene, her fear of her father melting away as she watched Kafka. She had seen him like this before—calm, composed, but radiating a dangerous energy that made it clear he wasn't someone to trifle with, so she wasn't too taken aback.

Camila, on the other hand, who had been standing frozen near the edge of the room, watched with a mix of awe and unease. Kafka's intervention was unexpected, but the way he carried himself—the quiet dominance, the razor-sharp edge in his voice—was something she hadn't fully grasped until now.

"Sit." Kafka repeated, his voice even softer now, but somehow even more terrifying.

Bella's father froze for a moment, his pride bristling at being ordered around, especially in his own home. He snorted as he glared up at Kafka, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

"Just who do you think you are, you little brat!?" He said, his voice sharp but faltering slightly. "Coming into my house and ordering me around like you own the place—...!"

He cut himself off, not by choice but by instinct.

There was something about Kafka—something in his presence, in the way he looked at him without a hint of emotion—that made the rest of his words catch in his throat.

He wanted to fight back, to curse him, to say something that would put this boy in his place. But the cold, unyielding look in Kafka's eyes, the quiet power he exuded, made him hesitate.

For all his bravado, he couldn't summon the nerve to speak to Kafka the way he wanted to.

Instead, he scoffed, leaning back slightly as if to mask his discomfort. "Why should I listen to you?" He muttered, his tone dismissive.

Before he could finish the question, Kafka moved.

With a single, fluid motion, Kafka's hand on his shoulder pressed down. It wasn't aggressive, but it was firm—unyielding, like a weight he couldn't resist.
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His legs gave out beneath him, and he found himself seated again, his back hitting the chair with an audible thud.

The shock of being physically forced into submission left him momentarily speechless. He looked up at Kafka, his face a mix of disbelief and humiliation, but Kafka didn't even glance at him.

Instead, Kafka stepped away casually, his movements deliberate but relaxed, as though nothing unusual had happened.

"You shouldn't shout at your daughter like that." He said, his tone calm but with an edge of quiet. authority. "And you should try listening to her before jumping to conclusions."

His words hung in the air as he moved to the sofa, sitting down beside Bella with an air of complete indifference to the tension in the room. He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxed, as though he hadn't just brought the household's self-proclaimed patriarch to heel.

Bella's father, however, was seething, his face flushed with anger and humiliation as he asked in his mind who in the hell this boy was who was ruining his perfect family.