Chapter 3

Wilbur stubbornly believed that Mom and Dad still loved us and that they were only temporarily deceived by Corbin. He thought that if we just worked harder to be better, they would eventually see our worth and welcome us back into the family.

But this trip to Kampland had ultimately cost Wilbur his life. It wasn't until then that I finally saw how foolish his yearning for their affection truly was.

I blamed myself for not being stronger, for not dragging Wilbur away with me when I had the chance. If I had, he might still be alive.

But it was all too late.

Mom and Dad had known that both their biological sons were trapped in a violent foreign riot with our lives hanging by a thread, yet they had cruelly and heartlessly canceled our flights home.

Meanwhile, they had panicked over their adopted son being in an entirely safe country, going so far as to dispatch ten planes just to escort him back.

I wanted nothing more to do with this family.

…

When I finally reached home, the facial recognition lock didn't recognize me. I had to pound loudly on the door, the wound on my arm aching and throbbing with every beat, but nobody answered.

After what felt like an eternity, Mom, Dad, and Corbin pulled up in their luxury car, dressed to the nines and looking radiant. They were a stark contrast to my dusty, disheveled appearance.

Nobody said anything when they saw me. I trailed after them, but the moment the door slammed shut inside, a hot cup of coffee was thrown directly into my face.

I instinctively tried to duck, but it still hit me squarely on the forehead. The scalding liquid splashed across my face and dripped down my hair.

With the outside world shut out, Dad finally unleashed his fury.

"You're really something, aren't you? To think that even my explicit orders couldn't stop you and Wilbur from sneaking back! You abused your power and connections again, didn't you?

"When will the two of you learn to behave like Corbin and stop constantly causing trouble for me?"

I held a hand to my throbbing forehead and burst out laughing. If I had the kind of power and connections he accused me of, I would have thrown the three of them straight into the chaotic riots of Kampland so they could finally experience the desperation Wilbur and I felt.

And if I had truly been as powerful as they claimed, Wilbur would never have died in the first place.

They had known Corbin was entirely safe, yet they pulled every string to bring him home via the VIP channel and spent a fortune "praying" for his safe return.

As for Wilbur and me, all we wanted were two flight tickets to escape the warzone in Kampland, and they had actively sabotaged us at every turn.

Now that Wilbur was gone, I had no reason left to harbor any hope for Mom and Dad.

"Are you alright, William?" Corbin asked, stepping forward with a worried expression. Yet, as he got close, he "accidentally" brushed his hand against my raw arm wound and pressed down hard. The sharp agony made me shove him away immediately.

He staggered backward and hit the floor, his eyes instantly welling with tears.

"I was just worried about you, William. I know I'm worth less than you or Wilbur. I know you hate me and find me repulsive, but I was only trying to care. I just want us to be a real family…

"I… I can't breathe…"

He clutched his chest, putting on a convincing show of medical emergency. Yet, I clearly caught the corners of his lips curling upward.

Mom, who'd initially picked up a rag to clean up the spilled coffee, dropped it immediately and rushed to Corbin's side. She stroked his back to steady his breathing while glaring daggers at me.

"Cory was only worried about you! How dare you treat him like this, you ungrateful little brat! Take your things and go to your room to reflect on yourself right now!"

Exhausted from my injuries and the harrowing journey, I had no energy left to argue. I just wanted to go to my room and rest.

However, the moment I pushed my bedroom door open, a chill ran down my spine.

The room was in shambles, and Wilbur's belongings were scattered everywhere.

On the floor lay a shattered photo frame—the smiling faces of our family of four now broken into jagged shards.

Even worse, the clay sculpture of the four of us sitting happily around a dinner table had been smashed to pieces and dumped in the corner.

Wilbur had cherished that sculpture, holding it so often that the edges had worn smooth over the years.