No Substitutes for the Bigshots' Dream Girl Anymore!-Chapter 1816: Jack Stewart Side Story (3)

He couldn’t possibly understand. Looking at the man in front of him—this man he was supposed to call father—he felt only fear.

If you truly love, why not cherish it properly?

Excuses.

They’re all excuses.

He didn’t even want to argue with him, merely assuming he was having another one of his insane episodes.

After all, it wasn’t the first time.

But today was different. The smile on the man’s face faded slowly. The pain in his eyes remained, yet there was more—stubbornness intertwined with madness.

In that instant, the pressure on his neck made him almost believe death was imminent.

Yet the man was still roaring furiously, veins bulging on the back of his hand, "I’m speaking to you calmly—why won’t you listen?"

Mad. Completely mad.

His face turned red, but his eyes never stopped glaring.

Within those resentful eyes, the man seemed to catch a glimpse of his deranged self. He snapped back to reality, his hands slowly releasing while trembling, reaching out to touch his face.

He turned his head away, coughing violently, his lips pale.

"I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it, Jack. I didn’t mean it. Don’t blame me."

In the past, the man would say the same thing to his mother.

"Don’t blame me. I didn’t want to. I just lost my mind for a moment. It won’t happen again."

He pushed the man away and struggled to stand, but in the next moment, his wrist was grabbed by the man.

The man’s lips twitched into a stiff, distorted smile. "Jack, you forgot your dress."

He was locked in the underground room, the one they called Black.

There was only a small window set high on the wall, too small to even poke his head through. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

It was raining outside. The sky was gloomy, and the deafening sound of thunder seemed to crash directly into his ears. The raging wind howled as if it intended to tear everything apart.

The dead branches in the yard swayed, their shadows resembling the grasping hands of demons.

The cold and hunger slowly ate away at his consciousness. The rain outside persisted endlessly, while inside the cellar, the damp stench of mold lingered heavily.

The rain continued for days, but even when it stopped, the sky didn’t brighten. Outside remained a pitch-black void with no signs of sunlight.

Eventually, he came out of Black. His wardrobe suddenly included many dresses.

To outsiders, his father was seen as a hopelessly devoted man who mourned his mother for years and singlehandedly raised him.

By middle school, his features started taking shape—pale, fair skin, slightly elongated phoenix eyes, thin lips, delicate and striking. His appearance became so refined and beautiful that it blurred the lines between masculine and feminine.

For the school play, someone recommended he perform as the female lead in drag.

It was a trend among boys at recent school events—everyone treated it as nothing more than a joke, never thinking too much about it.

But he declined. He felt resistant—disgusted, even—deep inside.

The next day, he shaved his hair short again. Predictably, the man went insane once more.

Even though it meant getting hurt, he felt as if he’d found a weapon to fight back, resorting to this tactic from time to time.

Life under such suffocating oppression continued until he was nearly in high school.

His grandparents, who came to visit, noticed something wrong and called the police.

After that, he went to live in another city with his grandparents.

It should have been liberating, but some scars are etched into the bone, making him doubt whether he was just like that man—diseased.

After all, they were father and son. Genetic inheritance wasn’t entirely implausible.

Perhaps because of his face, quite a few people were drawn to him. But not many dared to approach—maybe because they couldn’t figure out what kind of... type he truly liked?