Dear Ex-Wife, the Apocalypse King Has No Mercy.

Chapter 3: A Son Who Was Never His

The front door slammed into the wall hard enough to leave a fresh dent as Rhys strode into the house.

Everything was exactly as he remembered.

The artificial flowers Britt, Lexi's mother, had arranged on the entry table. The staircase runner sitting slightly crooked because Michael, Lexi's father, had installed it himself and refused to let anyone fix it. And there was that distinct, lingering aroma of Lexi's perfume, a scent that had, year by suffocating year, entirely overwritten the smell of the home his parents had built.

Hearing the door, Michael marched out of the living room, wearing the grave expression he always adopted before issuing orders disguised as family advice.

“There you are,” he said. “Lexi called and told me about the scene you caused at the bank. What the fuck were you thinking? You need to call Lexi and Henry immediately and apologize!”

Rhys walked past him toward the staircase.

“I’m talking to you.”Michael stepped directly into his path.

“You will also sign the mortgage agreement again,” he continued. “Otherwise, I’ll tell Lexi to file for divorce.”

In his previous life, that threat had worked every time.

The word divorce had always stopped Rhys cold. He would retreat, reconsider, apologize, and do whatever was necessary to restore peace. Because he had believed that was what a man did to protect his marriage. Because he had believed their marriage was worth saving.

But now, the threat sounded almost laughable.

Rhys didn't stop. He tried to step around the older man.

Mistaking Rhys's dismissal for fear, Michael grew emboldened. He grabbed Rhys roughly by the shoulder and raised his right hand.

"How dare you act like this when I was talking to you!?" Micheal roared.

That was enough.

Rhys caught Michael’s wrist before the slap could land.

In one smooth motion, he twisted the arm downward, stepped behind him, and drove it up against his back. Michael stumbled forward, his chest striking the edge of the dining table before his cheek was forced flat against its polished surface.

Michael let out a muffled yelp of pain and sheer astonishment.

"Put your hands on me again," Rhys murmured, his voice deadly quiet, "and it won't end this easily."

Right at that moment, Britt emerged from the hallway, holding her grandson. Taking in the violent tableau at the dining table, she let out a series of sharp, hysterical shrieks. The sudden noise startled the child into loud, wailing tears.

Rhys released Michael and turned toward the crying child in Britt’s arms.

Chris was exactly who he had come here to see.

Once, this boy had been the center of Rhys’s universe, a son he loved above all else. But now, as Rhys looked at him, that love had curdled into something cold and bitter.

Chris had Lexi’s dark hair and pale skin. His eyes carried the same watchful, calculating quality Rhys had once mistaken for intelligence. The child bore absolutely no physical resemblance to Rhys, but he had never questioned it, assuming Lexi’s genes were simply dominant. Instead, he had spent eight years wearing the humiliation of a cuckold without ever knowing it.

There is nothing more dangerous than an honest man pushed entirely past his breaking point.

Rhys gently wiped a tear from Chris’s cheek. "I need to check something for you," he said evenly. "Open your mouth."

Britt immediately pulled the child closer. “What are you trying to do?”

"Because I'm checking for an ulcer, Britt." He looked at his mother-in-law. "Do you have cotton swabs?"

Britt, still processing the scene at the dining table, pointed wordlessly at the kitchen cabinet.

The swabbing took exactly thirty seconds. Chris submitted to it with the bored tolerance of a child who found adults incredibly tedious, before immediately turning back to Britt to whine about dinner.

Rhys slipped the sealed swab into his pocket and walked out the door.

The private DNA testing clinic on Millfield Road offered expedited, same-day processing for an exorbitant premium f*e. Rhys paid it without hesitation.

He provided his own cheek swab in the parking lot and spent the rest of the afternoon in the waiting area with a paper cup of water, left with nothing to do but think.

At exactly seven in the evening, his phone vibrated in his pocket. A new email, with a document attached.

The report was only a few pages long. He skipped directly to the conclusion.

Based on the genetic markers examined and the comparative DNA analysis performed, the probability that Rhys Darby is the biological father of Chris Darby is… 0.00%.

He read the sentence once. Then he read it again.

There was no violent explosion of grief. No sudden, primal urge to smash his fists into the dashboard. Instead, a sharp, terrifying clarity descended over his mind.

He closed his eyes and exhaled a long, slow breath, feeling the final piece of the man he had once been quietly died.

Suddenly, his phone rang. Lexi.

Rhys opened his eyes and answered.

“Michael said you attacked him!” she snapped. No greeting. "I don't know what the hell is wrong with you today, but this behavior is completely…"

"I have the DNA results."

"What?" She clearly hadn't seen that coming.

“Chris isn’t mine,” Rhys said, his voice completely stripped of emotion. “I know Chris is Curry’s son.”

Total silence on the other end.

Then, a wavering whisper: "Rhys..."

"It doesn’t matter anymore,” he continued calmly. "But you are going to meet me at the county clerk's office tomorrow morning at exactly eight o'clock. And you are going to cooperate with the divorce proceedings. Completely and without question."

"Rhys, please, you're not thinking clearly…"

"If you don't," Rhys interrupted smoothly, "I’ll send the DNA report and everything I know about you and Curry to everyone in our lives. Your mother’s book club. Your father’s golf partners. Henry’s investors. Your friends, your relatives, your business contacts.”

He paused.

“I’ll make sure no one ever looks at your family without remembering exactly what you did.”

For several seconds, he heard nothing but her breathing.

Then her voice changed. The panic disappeared, and what remained was hard, practical, and cold.

“Fine.”

She ended the call.