Villain Hiring: Help! Author Wants Me Dead-Chapter 88: Dragneel D. Romero
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The dark room smelled of aged wine, expensive perfume, and burning incense.
A chandelier of gold and crystal hung from the ceiling, casting a dim, wavering glow across the antique furniture.
Every piece in this chamber—each chair, each table—was carved from the finest wood, draped in silken covers, adorned with the most lavish embroidery.
And yet, none of it could calm the rage seething inside me.
Crack!
The delicate wine glass flew from my hand, smashing against the far wall.
Scarlet liquid splattered across the room, staining the floor like fresh blood.
My breath came in quick, shallow bursts as I stared at the broken shards, my fingers digging into the arms of my chair.
"Again… AGAIN?!" My voice cut through the silence, shaking with fury. "That damn brat refuses to die!"
I shot up from my seat, my golden rings clinking as I ran a manicured hand through my hair.
The weight of the jewelry on my fingers—thick bands of gold encrusted with diamonds and sapphires—did little to ease the trembling.
I should have been celebrating right now.
I should have been raising a toast to my success.
After all, I had spent an astronomical amount of money, called in favors that would take years to repay, and used every connection I had—all for one simple goal.
To snuff out my brother’s son.
Noah D. Romero.
A cockroach that refused to die.
No matter what I did, no matter how many assassins I sent, he survived. Every single time.
I had bribed mercenaries, manipulated guards, infiltrated the Romero estate with my own men. And yet—
That boy slipped through every attempt like an untouchable curse.
This time, I had gone further than ever before. I had pulled strings within the palace itself, placing an assassin in the very heart of the estate. This time, there had been no escape.
And yet…
He was alive.
And the assassin? Dead.
Killed by Noah.
My lips curled into a snarl.
How? HOW?!
I gripped the edge of a table, my nails scraping against the polished surface.
The flickering candlelight reflected off the golden embroidery of my robe—a regal blue gown, custom-made, draped in wealth.
Every inch of me screamed power.
From the rings adorning my fingers to the golden hairpins holding up my neatly styled curls—wealth, status, control.
Yet none of it meant anything if I couldn’t erase that boy from existence.
A sudden creak of the door made me snap my head up.
My son, Lucas D. Romero, stood at the entrance.
Seventeen years old, tall for his age, his dark hair slightly tousled as if he had just woken from restless sleep.
He had my husband’s sharp jawline, but his eyes—those deep, unreadable eyes… they were entirely his own.
Lucas glanced at the shattered glass, the spilled wine, and my shaking hands.
Then, without a word, he stepped inside.
He knelt by the broken glass, carefully picking up each jagged shard with practiced precision.
I watched him, my chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
He said nothing.
Not a single word.
The quiet stretched between us as he methodically cleaned the mess I had made. The only sounds were the soft clinking of glass being placed onto a silver tray, the rustling of cloth as he dabbed at the wine-stained carpet.
Time slowed.
When he finally stood, dusting his hands off, his gaze locked onto mine.
"Ma," he said, voice steady. "Why are you doing all this?"
I stiffened.
"First of all," I clenched my fists.
"You know I don’t want power."
I clenched my fists.
"Second," Lucas continued, his tone unwavering, "I would fight the entire world just for you… just for your sake."
His expression remained stoic. But his eyes…
They saw too much.
"Then why do you not trust me?"
My breath caught.
"If it’s the throne Grandpa Venus has," Lucas said, his voice growing firmer, "then I’ll win it."
The boy took a step closer, his presence suddenly too.
"Just please… trust me."
Something in my chest twisted.
I wanted to.
Oh, how I wanted to.
But every time I even thought about it—every time I closed my eyes, every time I let my guard down—he was there.
Dragneel.
My brother.
The one who had once ruled this house with an iron grip.
The one who had held absolute control.
His laughter still echoed in my ears—wild, unhinged, unstoppable.
The Laughing Demon.
That was what they had called him.
And Noah…
If the boy had even half the spark my brother carried—
I turned away from Lucas, squeezing my eyes shut.
I had tried. I had tried to live normally.
To push away the past.
But it never left me.
Every time I closed my eyes—Dragneel was there.
Mocking me.
Laughing.
When I opened them again, Lucas was still watching me, waiting for an answer.
But I had none to give.
"Go to bed, Lucas," I murmured.
He hesitated, but after a long moment, the boy sighed and nodded. "Alright, Ma."
He turned, walking toward the door.
Just before he left, the boy glanced back at me.
His voice softer this time. "I mean it, Ma. Whatever it takes—I’ll win."
Then, he was gone.
Silence returned.
I stared at the empty space where he had stood, my fingers curling around the heavy fabric of my gown.
A long breath escaped my lips as I let my head tilt back, staring at the dark ceiling.
"It is not that I don’t trust you, son… It’s just that if Noah is even half like his father, then this world is in for a surprise—"
For Dragneel D. Romero had many names.
But the one that struck fear in the hearts of all was…
"The Laughing Demon."
I saw the candlelight beside me flicker, casting restless shadows across the room. But even in the dim glow, I could still see him.
Dragneel.
His presence was everywhere.
In the calm of the night, in the depths of my mind, in the echoes of laughter that no longer existed.
I could see his back, tall and strong, as he walked through the halls of this house like he was its rightful ruler.
The bastard son.
The unwanted child.
The one our mother despised.
And yet, despite it all, he had loved this house.
That was the worst part, wasn’t it?
Dragneel had never turned his blade against our family.
He never sought to burn down the home that had once treated him like filth.
No, that would have been too easy.
Instead, he rose—stronger, sharper, more terrifying than anyone could have predicted.
They called him the Laughing Demon.
A name whispered in fear.
A name that carried legends of battlefields soaked in blood.
But I…
I had only ever known him as my older brother.
The one who ruffled my hair when I was little. The one who sat at the grand piano, his fingers gliding over the keys as he played soft melodies late into the night.
The one who looked at me with amusement, always knowing I despised him.
I could still hear his voice—smooth, teasing, just a little cruel.
"Little sister, are you going to glare at me forever? I think it’s starting to become a bad habit."
"You may sit on a golden throne one day, Ana, but never forget—the throne is built on bones."
"Don’t look at me like that, sister. You think I don’t see the way you watch me? The way you hate me? Good. Hate is powerful. But tell me—do you have the guts to do it?"
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He had always known.
He had always known how much I resented him.
Our mother had made sure of it.
Her whispers had poisoned my ears from the moment I could walk.
He is not your true brother, Ana.
He is an embarrassment.
A disgrace.
A stain on our bloodline.
And so, I had hated him.
Even as he carved his name into history. Even as he built his legend. Even as he sat on the patriarch’s seat—laughing.
I closed my eyes, but the memories kept clawing their way back.
The night it happened.
The night the Laughing Demon fell.
I had not been the one to swing the blade.
But the right words, the right whispers, the right strings pulled at the right time…
That was all it took—
A single moment of vulnerability.
A single, betrayal.
And just like that—Dragneel and his beloved wife were gone.
My fingers trembled as I reached for another glass of wine, pouring deep red liquid into the cup.
"Are you happy now, Ana?"
I jolted.
The voice was gone.
There was no one here.
But for a moment, I could swear I had heard his laughter—soft, distant, but unmistakable.
Like a ghost was still watching.
Still waiting.
And still laughing.
My grip on the glass wine tightened, and even when I hated him so much.
Even when all I had wanted in my younger years was for him to die…
All that and I still couldn’t stop missing that sweet melody he played at night to put me to sleep.
All that and I still couldn’t stop… missing him.
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