Afternoon, in a vast field studded with countless gravestones.
There he stood—a young man, about 175 cm tall—before the grave of his recently just departed father.
By his side, dressed in black mourning attire, were his stepmother and her daughters—the new family of this sixteen-year-old boy.
They sobbed quietly, while the young man merely bowed his head in silence.
In his hand, he held a short will written by his late father, who had left him behind after his mother's death.
On that brief piece of paper, it read:
"Vincent, I may have been a despicable man. I left you and your mother alone. But my reason for leaving was them—your stepmother and stepsisters—they can't take care of themselves. Without a father, they might've ended up in the red-light district. I ask only one thing from you: take care of them. I know you can do it, Vincent. You're my son. All my inheritance is in your hands, including their share.
Forgive your father, Virtus Fortis.
My son, Vincent Fortis."
Vincent furrowed his brow, glancing sideways at the five women his father had left behind—five women he now had to protect and care for.
He then read the tiniest scribble at the bottom of the letter:
"If you wish to marry all five of them, I'd be so proud. (≖ ͜ʖ≖)"
Vincent clenched the will in his hand, drawing curious stares from his stepmother and stepsisters toward the young man who had just inherited the duty to care for them.
That morning, Vincent received the heaviest task of his life.
***
Who said holding desire was easy?
That's what Vincent felt every single day—even starting from his very first morning in his stepmother's home.
After glancing toward the window where light pierced through the curtains, he froze at the sight of someone lying on top of him.
A cute girl with waist-length black hair, wearing an oversized white T-shirt, was hugging his body tightly. She had fallen asleep right on his chest, like cuddling a life-sized plush toy.
Vincent's face reddened as he felt the soft, warm weight pressing against his stomach. His "little brother" was already stiff from the usual morning urge—but the unexpected stimulation made it even harder and twitching.
Sensing something hot and twitching against her belly, the girl slowly opened her eyes.
They gazed at each other for a long moment, both equally puzzled about why they'd ended up like this.
"What are you doing on top of me, Vittoria?" Vincent asked, trying to sound firm and unbothered, keeping his expression flat.
The girl yawned before answering. She then shifted her position, practically straddling Vincent—right over his very stiff problem!
"Hooaam... Eh-eto, don't get the wrong idea! I just wanted to cover you up since you were sleeping without a blanket! Hmph!"
Vincent clenched his jaw, struggling to stay calm and look composed to hide any trace of embarrassment.
"I see. Get off me right now."
"Why?"
"What do you mean why? You're heavy."
"He-heavy? I'm not heavy! Eep—!"
Something twitched right at her lower lips. Vittoria instantly blushed bright red, like a crab thrown into boiling water.
Panicking, she tried to lift her hips away—but in doing so, she ended up rubbing herself against Vincent's painfully hard length, which only made things worse.
"Vittoria, stop!"
Feeling he was about to lose control, Vincent grabbed her by the waist to push her off.
Slap!
A loud slap echoed—it was Vittoria's hand, striking Vincent's cheek hard.
"Pervert brother!"
Her cheeks burning red, the girl quickly got off after slapping him, assuming Vincent had tried to grope her for something indecent.
She rushed out of Vincent's room and run into her own, just across the hallway.
Bang!
She slammed her door shut, leaving Vincent frozen, still processing what had just happened while touching his now-reddened cheek.
"Her slap really stings."
***
In the dining room.
Vincent came downstairs from his room on the second floor. From the mezzanine, the spacious room merged the kitchen and dining area into one. The delicious aroma of food reached his nose as he descended the spiral staircase framed with stylish cracked-glass railings.
Yet the moment his foot touched the last step, the smell changed to something burnt and acrid.
Turning to the kitchen, he saw a huge flame on the stove, smoke billowing black from a charred pot.
Seeing this, Vincent rushed over and turned off the stove. Meanwhile, the culprit—a woman holding the scorched pot and a spatula—was startled but then smiled warmly at the sight of her stepson.
"Ara! Good morning, my dear son~"
Vincent cast a sharp look at his stepmother's clothes, which were stained with splashes of food in all sorts of colors, covering her apron.
"Mom—No, I mean… stepmother. What exactly are you doing?"
"Eh? What am I doing? I'm trying to make breakfast for us to welcome you home, my sweet boy~"
Vincent shivered slightly at how she gently said the last part. He took a deep, very deep breath—because what she wore under that apron was absolutely nothing at all.
His stepmother, named Violet Hampshire, true to her name, had long violet hair tied into a neat mommy braid. A small mole dotted below her left cheek. According to family documents, she had just turned thirty-eight.
At eighteen, she had married a wealthy but short-tempered man and had given birth to a daughter that same year.
A year later, they divorced. Violet then married a college friend who loved her sincerely and accepted her daughter as his own. Though he wasn't rich, he was kind and caring, and together they had another daughter when Violet was twenty.
Financially, they were stable enough, with Violet working part-time at night in a restaurant and her new husband as a part-time worker at a company, earning decent pay. He was known to be quite intelligent and accomplished, though less handsome than Violet's first husband. But he had a far better heart.
By the time Violet was twenty-two and twenty-four, they had two more daughters.
At thirty-three, tragedy struck—her second husband died in an accident, and Violet became a widow once more.
That's when Vincent's father stepped in. Violet's second husband had worked at Vincent's father's company and, before he died, had asked for a promise—to look after his wife and daughters in case anything happen to them.
Out of guilt and a sense of responsibility, Vincent's father, Virtus Fortis, secretly married Violet Hampshire without telling his first wife or his then-eleven-year-old son.
Vincent now silently wondering why her first husband divorced such a beautiful, sensual woman—and why her second husband had been so eager to have children with her.
Probably first because she's so clumsy, and second because she's so naive.
Taking another deep breath, Vincent took the spatula and pot from Violet, who quietly watched her stepson's serious face.
"Stepmother, let me do the cooking. You should go wash up and put some proper clothes on."
"Ara, but I wanted to do something to make you like me…"
Vincent set the burnt pot aside and turned around, glancing over her entire figure from head to toe.
He swallowed hard. Standing before him was the image of an adult video model—so stunning and seductive, really. Despite nearly hitting forty, no one would believe it; Violet looked as young and lovely as a woman in her early twenties.
"There's no need. Stepmother, you're messy and smell like burnt food."
Hearing his somewhat cold words, Violet only smiled softly, glanced down at her apron, and sniffed it.
"Ara, you're right. In that case, I'll come back after changing to help you."
Please, don't help at all… Vincent thought, glancing at the kitchen disaster.
Remembering how they'd had dinner out the night before, Vincent finally understood why his father had asked him to look after this new family—they truly couldn't manage on their own!
Just like those aunts…
Vincent sighed for like the hundredth time that morning.
At the round wooden dining table, no dishes had been set yet, and the chairs were still empty. Likely, his stepsisters were still asleep since it was a holiday.
Rolling up his sleeves, Vincent braced himself to show his new family what he could do.
Ten minutes of cleaning erased the chaos his stepmother had left behind. Then he checked the fridge for ingredients.
All he found were eggs. A single dozen of them. The rest had already been wasted.
Vincent sighed deeply, torn between annoyance and despair.
"Vincent~ I'm back~"
His stepmother returned, smiling sweetly and now freshly showered—but wearing the exact same outfit: a clean white apron and absolutely nothing else underneath!
Annoyed, Vincent threw a kitchen glove at her face.
Plap!
"Put on some proper clothes!"
***