The Invincible son-inlaw's Secret Identity

The Thompson family dinner table glittered like a stage set for cruelty. Crystal chandeliers cast harsh light on fake smiles and condescending laughter. Ethan Reed, the live-in son-in-law, kept his head bowed exactly where they wanted it.

Three years. Three brutal, suffocating years of insults and relentless humiliation.

"Ethan," his mother-in-law Margaret cooed, her voice dripping with venom as she addressed the assembled family. "Did you manage to fix that leaky sink? Do try not to break anything this time. You know how fragile old pipes are when someone with your... limited experience handles them."

The entire table erupted in cruel laughter. His wife Clara shifted uncomfortably in her expensive silk dress, but she said nothing. Not this time.

Ethan stared at his untouched plate. They called him trash, called him a mooch, a useless man. They believed he was a poor orphan brought into the family as a walking, breathing burden. If only they knew the truth.

Margaret leaned closer, her suffocating perfume invading his space. "Still silent? Good. Just remember your place, Ethan. You eat our food, you live in our house, you endure this. That's the price for staying married to my daughter."

Ethan finally looked up, his eyes briefly flashing with a dangerous coldness that no one at the table, blinded by their own arrogance, could see. He forced his gaze back down, jaw clenched.

Tonight, Margaret was ready for the final attack.

"Clara, you will divorce this trash today!" Margaret screamed, pointing a trembling finger at Ethan. "Our family needs a powerful partner, not a servant who scrubs floors! You are an embarrassment to the Thompson name!"

She snatched a thick wad of cash from the table, about five thousand dollars, and threw it directly at Ethan's face. "Here! Take this and go to the market! Buy us more expensive wine, and while you're there, buy your own cheap drink so you'll remember where you belong in life!"

The money scattered like dead leaves across the marble floor.

Ethan slowly bent down and picked up the crumpled bills. As he stood, his cheap, cracked phone vibrated fiercely in his pocket. He quickly glanced at the screen, shielding it from their view. A message glowed on the display, but he said nothing.

It was past noon, and he was still running errands for the family. He had cooked breakfast and lunch without getting a share and was told to cook his own meal if he cared to eat at all.

Ethan drew a deep breath and went inside to continue with his duties. He scrubbed the floors and washed the dishes while his wife's family ate and laughed, always discussing how worthless he was.

After his second session of chores, Ethan stood in the huge front hall, polishing a thick silver serving tray. He always made sure every task was completed perfectly before leaving for the market. He rubbed the soft cloth across the metal again and again. Exhaustion pulled at his bones, but he couldn't afford mistakes. If there was even one spot left, Margaret would scream.

The tray became so polished that Ethan could see his own reflection. His face looked gaunt and tired. His gray shirt was old and threadbare, his jeans washed so many times they had faded to pale blue. He looked like a ghost in the mirror of the wealthy tray. His stomach twisted with hunger, but his time to eat had not yet come.

He quickly finished the tray and set it down gently. He never dropped things or made noise. In this house, silence was survival.

Sharp, staccato clicks echoed from the end of the hall. Margaret's high heels struck the marble like hammer blows. She wore a long, shimmering blue dress and looked both regal and furious.

"You're still wasting time, Ethan?" Margaret's voice cracked like ice. "I told you to check the ice cubes. If they're cloudy, our guests will think we're poor. Did you check them? Tell me the truth!"

"The ice is perfectly clear, Margaret," Ethan said, meeting her gaze steadily. He looked directly at the gold necklace circling her throat. He called her Margaret because her husband, the patriarch, had ordered him to. It was one small act of defiance he had left.

Margaret stepped closer, her expensive perfume overwhelming. She didn't actually care about the ice. She only cared about finding something, anything, wrong with Ethan.

"Look at your hands," she demanded.

Ethan showed her his hands. They were clean but rough from constant labor.

"They look like a gardener's hands," she said with disgust. "Do not touch anything delicate in the dining room again. Your filthy hands will ruin the crystal."

Ethan nodded. He knew the rules. Tonight, he would sit in a small chair in the corner of the dining room, out of the way, forbidden from joining the conversation. The big family dinner was supposed to be a celebration, but Ethan knew it was a trap Margaret was setting.

Clara entered first. She was beautiful, far more beautiful than anything in this cold house. She looked powerful in her smart blue business suit, but her eyes held nervousness, as if waiting for disaster to strike.

She paused beside Ethan. "Grandpa is running late," she whispered quickly. "He has a meeting. Please stay by the front door until he arrives, in case he needs help getting inside."

This was Clara's small way of protecting him. She gave him a task that kept him busy so he wouldn't just stand around and be mocked. Clara was the only kind one, but she too was exhausted. She was the only person who still cared about their marriage, even though she felt trapped by it.

Then Clara's best friend Leo arrived. Leo was Margaret's favorite, the man she believed should be Clara's "real" husband. Leo drove a sleek black sports car that cost more money than most people earned in years.

Leo spotted Ethan standing by the door. He stopped and raised one eyebrow, his lips curling into a practiced, cruel smile.

"Well, look who it is," Leo announced loudly enough for the servants to hear. "The famous butler, Ethan. Did you remember to buy that cheap cleaning spray I asked for? The one that smells like lemons?"

Ethan shook his head slightly. "I didn't buy anything for you, Leo."

Leo's expression darkened instantly. He was unaccustomed to Ethan talking back. Ethan was supposed to be silent and scared.

"You listen to me, trash," Leo hissed, stepping closer. "When you're asked to do something, you do it. Maybe you forgot where you stand in this family. Go polish my car after dinner. It's covered in dust."

Leo reached into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. They were heavy and expensive. He didn't throw them. Instead, he placed them slowly, deliberately, on a small wooden table, right where Ethan would have to walk over and pick them up like some forgotten object.

Leo turned and walked away, shoulders squared with arrogance.

Ethan stared at the keys. A deep, cold pressure built in his chest. Just wait, he thought. Wait a little longer, Leo. Your smug face will need far more than polishing soon.

Dinner began with Margaret launching her attack almost immediately. She took a large sip of water and set her glass down with a loud thump.

"The Thompson family," she announced to the entire table, "is about to rise. We are partnering with Everest Corporation, one of the most powerful companies in the country. This is a monumental step forward." She looked directly at Clara. "And this is thanks to Leo, a real businessman. Not my daughter, who still drags around this..." She pointed a manicured finger at Ethan with disgust.

Ethan sat far away in the corner, perched on a chair too small for him.

"Mom, please," Clara pleaded quietly. "Don't bring my marriage into business matters."

"It is business, Clara!" Margaret shouted, her voice rising. "It's about respect! Leo informed me that the Everest executives will not even sign the contract if they discover you're married to a man who cleans toilets! They think he's either a criminal, a spy, or a beggar stealing our money!"

Leo nodded, his cruel smile returning. "It's true, Clara. The deal is straightforward. I can deliver the contract tomorrow, but you must demonstrate to the world that you're serious about success. You must divorce Ethan before the contract signing. Marry someone who looks appropriate beside you. Someone like... well, someone like me."

Clara looked devastated. She loved her grandfather and knew this contract would save the family business. But she hated the price being demanded.

"Ethan is a kind man," Clara said, her voice trembling. "He helps us. He may not have money, but he isn't trash."

"He's worse than trash! He's a stain!" Margaret stood, leaning over the table. "He has no ambition! No family name! He's a shadow you're too foolish to cast away!"

Clara covered her face with her hands, defeated. She couldn't fight her mother and the entire greedy family alone.

Ethan watched Clara crumble. That was the moment the game ended. When they hurt Clara, they crossed the final line.

He stood slowly. The chair scraped loudly across the marble floor.

"I'll leave," Ethan said. His voice was calm, but it carried a coldness that made the room temperature seem to drop.

Margaret saw her victory. Her face shone with malicious triumph. "You'll leave forever! You'll sign the divorce papers on your way out and disappear! If I ever see your pathetic face near this house again, I'll tell the police you stole every silver tray you polished!"

She reached for the nearest glass. This time, it wasn't water. It was heavy crystal filled with dark, expensive red wine. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to leave a mark he couldn't wash away.

Margaret lifted the glass high, her eyes wild with hatred. "You hear me, scum? Get out! You're a disgusting stain on this family!"

She threw the wine with all her strength.

The crimson liquid arced through the air, aimed directly at Ethan's head and chest. The only decent shirt he owned, carefully ironed for this special day, was about to be ruined.

Ethan didn't move his feet. He didn't raise his hands to block. He simply stood there and let the wine splash across him.

The glass shattered on the floor.

"You made me waste expensive wine you could never afford!" Margaret shrieked.

Ethan stood motionless, dripping with wine, saying nothing. The room fell completely silent. Everyone stared at the wine pooling on the marble floor and the pitiful scene before them.

Margaret stood frozen, her arm still extended from the throw, the empty glass clattering near her feet. She blinked, confused, staring at the massive red stain she had created. She had hit her target, but she had also damaged her own pristine house.

Ethan didn't look at her. He didn't acknowledge the stain. He simply walked out of the dining room and into the kitchen. Behind him, worried whispers began to rise.

In the dark kitchen, he walked past the steel sink and the dishes he had washed earlier. He went to the corner where he kept his old, worn jacket and pulled out the cheap, cracked phone the Thompson family had given him three years ago.

The phone beeped with a single, powerful word: "BEGIN."

The moment he read it, warmth exploded through his body. Rushing heat surged through his stomach, up his chest, down his arms, and into his legs. The deep, constant ache in his back, the pain from years of scrubbing and labor, vanished instantly.

Ethan stared at the phone, his hands trembling.

He took a deep breath. "Three years... it was all real," he whispered, his voice raw and unfamiliar in his own ears.

He switched off the phone and headed out to buy the wine they had sent him for. Even though he had been ordered to sign divorce papers within forty-eight hours, Ethan Reed was done being the humiliated son-in-law.

The real Ethan was about to emerge, and the Thompson family had no idea what storm was coming.