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

Bella's father had no idea what he had just done.

Kafka turned his head slowly, the corners of his lips curling into a sharp, mocking smile—the kind someone gives when they're staring at something insignificant, something beneath them.

It was the kind of look that made her swallow hard, instinctively bracing herself for what was coming next.

Her father had stepped into a battlefield he wasn't prepared for, and even though Kafka wasn't going to lay a finger on him, Bella knew—she just knew that the words he was about to say would cut deeper than any physical blow.

But when Kafka spoke, his tone was calm, even casual. "Ignore my true intentions with your daughter for now, sir." He said politely, waving a hand like he was brushing off the accusation. "Let's simply talk hypothetically. If I were to say that I was interested in Bella...If I wanted to be with her, to spend the rest of my life with her...Would you accept it?"

Bella's pretty blue eyes widened, and they sparkled like uncut sapphires.

Her ears turned bright red, and her breath hastened as the words settled in her mind.

'If he wanted to be with her...If he wanted to spend his life with her.' Her thoughts spiralled before she could stop them, her mind conjuring images she had never dared to imagine before.

A wedding...A quiet, beautiful moment where she stood beside Kafka, slipping a ring onto his finger.

The warmth of his hand around hers...The sound of vows spoken softly between them.

Without realising it, she glanced down at her fingers, as if expecting to see an engagement ring already there.

But before she could get lost in the dream completely, reality came crashing back when her father let out a snicker.

"What kind of question is that?" He scoffed. "Of course, I wouldn't accept it. There's no way I'd allow my daughter to be with someone like you."

Bella's momentary daze shattered, and anger flared in her chest. Her father's words struck a nerve, an immediate indignation rising within her.

'Allow? Give permission? Who was he to decide who she could and couldn't be with?'

She was just about to snap back when Kafka subtly raised a hand, gesturing for her to stay calm. It was small, almost imperceptible, but the message was clear: Let me handle this.

Bella clenched her fists, biting her tongue as she forced herself to stay quiet.

Kafka, still smiling, tilted his head slightly. "Oh?" He said, his tone light, unbothered. "And why is that? Is there something possibly wrong with our union?"

His voice was steady, unshaken, but Bella could tell—this wasn't a simple question. This was a trap. A carefully laid one.

And her father had just walked straight into it.

Her father scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief, his earlier anger shifting into something sharper—contempt. He leaned forward slightly, pointing a finger directly at Bella as he spoke.

"What kind of question is that...I mean, just look at her." He said, his voice laced with derision, as if the very idea of Kafka being with Bella was laughable. "Look at my daughter and tell me how you could possibly think you deserve her."

Bella stiffened, the weight of his words sinking into her skin like needles. She knew what was coming, could feel it in the way he was looking at her—not like a father admiring his child, but like a man listing off the specifications of a prize he had acquired.

Her father straightened, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice filled with smugness as he began his tirade.

"My daughter...She's brilliant." He said. "Top of her class all throughout school. She got admitted into one of the most prestigious universities in the country, something people twice as smart as her couldn't even dream of. And she didn't just get in—she excelled. Professors talk about her, admire her."

"...Do you have any idea how hard that is to achieve?"

Bella's gut twisted.

"And she's not just smart—she's talented." Her father continued, as if reciting from a list. "Athletic. Always at the top of her game. She competed and several won medals in so many different sports. Every teacher, every coach, always said she was the best at whatever she did. She can hold her own anywhere, whether it's on the field or in a debate."

Bella's fingers curled into her lap, a deep discomfort creeping up her spine.

"She's got presence as well." He went on, his voice practically glowing with self-satisfaction. "Social, even with random strangers, well-spoken enough to even win an award for her speeches and debates, and charming when she needs to grab the attention of the people around her."

"She literally walks into a room, and people immediately notice her. She commands respect, and she's got class, the kind of grace and refinement you can't just learn overnight."

The more he spoke, the more detached Bella felt from his words.

"And look at her." He gestured toward her, his tone shifting into something bordering on indulgent. "She's beautiful. Not just pretty, but striking. She could walk into any high-class event and turn heads. She's the kind of woman men aspire to have by their side."

Bella's stomach churned with disgust.

He wasn't praising her. He wasn't talking about her with the pride of a father who loved his daughter for who she was.

He was listing her off like she was some trophy. An asset. A perfectly polished gem he could show off to the world as proof of his status.

The way he spoke about her achievements—her intelligence, her skills, her beauty—none of it felt real. Discover stories with My Virtual Library Empire

It wasn't her he was proud of...It was the image of her. The perfect daughter. The one that made him look good.

Bella swallowed, bile rising in her throat.

Her father turned back to Kafka, his expression smug. "Now, tell me." He said, his voice dripping with condescension. "How could someone like you ever think you're worthy of her?"

The words echoed in the room, thick with arrogance. He truly believed what he was saying.

Truly believed that Bella was his creation, something he had moulded into perfection, and that no one—especially not Kafka—was good enough to touch something he had made.

Bella's hands trembled slightly in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.

She wanted to speak. Wanted to scream. Wanted to tell him that she wasn't his to show off, that all of her accomplishments weren't for him, that everything she had worked for wasn't about making him proud.

But she didn't get the chance.

Before she could even open her mouth, her father's attention shifted, his gaze snapping back to Kafka like a predator setting its sights on weaker prey.

"And you, little boy." He sneered, his tone laced with unfiltered contempt. "What exactly do you have to offer? What do you have that makes you think you can even breathe the same air as my daughter?"

Kafka said nothing. He simply watched him, that same infuriatingly calm smile still resting on his lips, like a cat toying with a mouse that didn't realise it had already lost.

Her father mistook that silence for submission.

It only emboldened him.

"You think a little bit of looks is enough?" He scoffed, waving a dismissive hand in Kafka's direction. "I'll admit, you're not completely unfortunate-looking. But what does that even matter?"

"A face won't feed you. A face won't get you anywhere in life. And judging by how you carry yourself, you don't have anything else."

Bella's fingers twitched.

Her father smirked, leaning forward slightly, his confidence growing. "You look like someone who barely made it out of school." He said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Like some dropout who wasted his life running around with a bunch of ruffians, scraping by, doing God knows what just to get through the day."

Bella stiffened, her neck twitching like she was holding back an outburst.

"You have no class whatsoever." Her father continued, shaking his head. "No manners. The way you sit, the way you talk, the way you look at me—it's obvious you don't belong anywhere near this kind of life."

"...You probably don't even belong to a decent family, do you?"

Bella sucked in a sharp breath, her chest tightening.

Her father let out a cruel chuckle, shaking his head again. "I'd bet good money that you can't even get through the ABC without stumbling." He said, his tone filled with mockery. "Tell me, boy—do you even know what the alphabet is?"

He leaned back, laughing to himself like he had just delivered the ultimate insult. He thought he was winning, thought he was stripping Kafka down, humiliating him, exposing him for the "nothing" he assumed he was.

And yet—Kafka didn't flinch.

He didn't tense.

He didn't glare.

He didn't so much as blink.

He just sat there...Smiling.

Not a forced, clenched smile. Not a bitter, restrained one.

But a slow, deliberate smile that was genuine in its amusement, like he was watching something truly entertaining unfold before his eyes.

And that was the moment Bella realised—her father wasn't humiliating Kafka.

No.

Kafka was letting him talk.

Letting him dig his own grave.

Letting him build himself up, higher and higher, just so he could rip it all away in one swift, brutal moment.

Bella swallowed hard.

Her father had no idea...He had no idea what was coming next, and neither did she.

But what she did know was that her father wasn't going to be the same man he was after this fateful night that was about to change his life for the worse...