Six-Year-Old Devil Joins Rich Clan

"Drive. We're going home."

The moment the words left my mouth, hurried footsteps came rushing up outside the car. The orphanage director, Carol Willick, ran over, panting as she held out a faded canvas backpack that contained everything I owned.

She pulled open the car door with surprising ease and speed, as if she'd rehearsed this scene in her mind every day, waiting for this exact moment. Pulling me toward the doorway, her eyes reddened, and her voice trembled.

"Ethan, this is your real father. This time… This time, you won't be sent back again. You won't have to protect yourself by fighting anymore. You'll have a thousand times more love than before. Our little Ethan finally has a family…"

I looked into Carol's eyes. They were filled with worry and hesitance.

I didn't understand love. In my world, there was only right and wrong.

But Carol was the only person who'd ever seen me grind Marlon Briggs' face into the dirt for bullying me and, instead of calling me a monster, handed me an extra carton of milk.

Tilting my head, I frowned. Then, I raised my small fist and lightly tapped her over her heart.

"Take care," I said expressionlessly.

Carol froze. Covering her mouth, she burst into tears. She clearly hadn't expected this from the child every caretaker secretly called the cold-blooded little monster.

The car door closed, and the Maybach pulled away from the orphanage.

Francis Sterling stared at my face. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then spoke in a low voice, "You look… just like her. Ethan, I'm your dad. From now on, no one will ever hurt you again."

I didn't respond. But he seemed to have a lot of things he wanted to tell me.

"You should be six years old this year. If Wendy could see that I've finally found our son, she'd be so happy up in heaven. Oh, right. Your full name is Ethan Sterling. How's that sound?"

Bored, I stared at the stitching on the leather seat. My mind drifted through memories of me bouncing between orphanages and foster homes.

The families that adopted me never kept me for long. The longest record was three months. Every one of them was more than happy to pay the penalty to get rid of me.

When I was four years old, my first foster father got drunk and tried to whip me with a belt. I didn't cry or throw a tantrum. Instead, after he passed out, I dismantled his precious gold watch into a dozen tiny pieces and dumped them into the glass of water he was going to drink the next morning.

When I was five years old, my second foster mother locked me in a windowless room without food for an entire day because I broke a bowl. The next afternoon, while she was napping, I picked the lock with a piece of wire.

Then, I dragged her into the kennel she'd built for her Mastiff, locked the cage, and tossed the key down the drain. Afterward, I dragged over a stool and sat outside the kennel. Expressionless, I watched her spend the entire night trapped inside with the dog, crying hysterically.

They all called me a monster, saying I was the devil himself.

I never understood why people made relationships so complicated or why they had to pretend to be nice. If someone hurt me, I'd hurt them back. Wasn't that the most basic rule of survival?

Seeing that I hadn't spoken a word, Francis assumed I was afraid. He reached out and gently stroked my hair again, then began describing the family.

"You have a younger sister, Emily. You two are twins. A year ago, I remarried. Her name is Barbara Bush. She's very kind and gentle. She'll take good care of you and Emily…"

I remained silent and let him keep patting my head.