I found myself as the stepmother to the future "New York Monk Prince." A troubled child who would grow up cold and unpredictable, sending his father to a mental institution and erasing my memories of him. He’d torment the girl who loved him, physically and mentally, only to realize too late and drown in the ocean, clutching her remains. The good news is that the Prince is still young—only seven years old—and hasn't turned into the whirlwind of emotions and mind games yet. The bad news is that I'm stuck with the wicked stepmother script, and it seems like his father might actually be unwell.

I pinched his chubby cheeks and said sternly, "Done playing with those beads? Planning to start juggling already? You have to finish, as I intend to give them away." I added, "In the future, you'll be someone who holds a serious demeanor. I'll tell you a joke now, and you must keep a straight face."

When I first entered this world, I had just married his father, Zechariah Ryan. Right after the wedding, Zechariah rushed to the airport, leaving for a three-month business trip, leaving me and young Moises Ryan staring at each other. He merely snorted, glanced at me indifferently, and began counting the beads of his rosary with precision. So young yet so old in spirit.

I reviewed the plot. The good news is Moises was only seven and hadn't turned dark. The bad news is I'm stuck playing the villain. Originally, the previous stepmother had mistreated Moises until he developed a mood disorder and then accused him of being possessed. She forced him into a monastery for over a decade, and upon his return, she would meet a gruesome fate.

Growing up, Moises was a legal enthusiast. If it weren't for the protagonist aura, he’d have already gotten his revenge. Now that I'm here, I'm determined to change our fates. My advantage is my resemblance to Moises’s real mom, which I plan to use to strengthen our bond.

I decided to change out of my wedding dress into something more comfortable. Moises suddenly barged in, his tone icy. "You're not allowed to touch my mom's wardrobe."

In the original plot, the previous stepmother not only touched the clothes but shredded them, throwing away his mom’s sentimental items while keeping or selling the valuable ones. The only remaining relic was the rosary Moises wore, his mother's last untouched keepsake. Later, anyone who dared to touch this rosary risked his wrath, even the female lead.

I hadn’t thought about it before, but I quickly closed the wardrobe and quietly asked, "This wedding dress is too heavy. Is there anything in my size I could wear? My feet hurt from standing all day. Can you help me, kiddo?"

Moises blushed slightly, but his voice remained firm. "Don't call me kiddo. There are clothes in the guest room."

"Alright, Moises. Can you show me?"

He turned to lead the way, still trying to keep up his serious demeanor. "Don't call me Moises."

"What should I call you then? We’ll be living together for a long time; I can't just call you 'hey,' can I?"

"Call me by my name. I’m Moises Ryan."

"Oh, right, but—usually only certain kids are called by their full names."

"What kind of kids?" Moises asked, curious.

I cleared my throat, feigning hesitancy. "Nothing. You’re surely not one of those kids."

I went into the guest room to change clothes, leaving him outside the door.

Ha! You've got much to learn to outwit me. I'm sure you'll spend the whole night wondering which kind of kid you are.

The next day, Moises was sitting at the breakfast table bright and early. When he saw me, he wore a conflicted expression—wanting to talk but unwilling to lower himself.

What a stubborn kid; no wonder he’d go through endless challenges in the future.

I smiled and sat down for breakfast. Suddenly, Moises frowned deeply. "I said I don't eat veggies or green peas."

Housekeeper Mrs. Carter seemed unfazed, delivering the lines as if rehearsed, "Mr. Zechariah insisted that your meals have balanced nutrition with variety. Twelve different foods per meal are a must; you cannot be picky."

Moises was furious and felt humiliated at being seen like this by an outsider. He grabbed his bowl and smashed it onto the floor. "I told you, I don’t eat them."

Mrs. Carter’s eyes flashed briefly with a hint of satisfaction before returning to their cold gaze. "Samuel!"

Moises recoiled slightly. Butler Samuel immediately came over, scooped Moises up, and carried him away, despite his struggles, like a little lion cub desperate to fight, diminishing his already minute dignity even further.

I was stunned. I hurriedly stood up and blocked Samuel. "What's going on?"

Uncle Zack wore a polite but distant smile. "I'll take the young master to the time-out room. It's a rule set by Master Zechariah; he needs to learn from his mistakes."

I was taken aback. "He's only seven!"

"Ma'am, it's a Ryan family tradition. You're new here, but you'll get used to it eventually."

I couldn't ever see myself getting used to this. "Put him down!"

Uncle Zack gave me a complex look. "Ma'am, it's the master's orders. You should wait for him to return and discuss it. Otherwise, if he gets upset, we’ll have a hard time explaining."

"Put him down, or you can pack your things and leave."

Uncle Zack chuckled, “I've been with the Ryan family for over twenty years, and these rules have been around even longer. The master grew up with them. It wouldn't be wise for you to try and change everything on your first day. Focus on earning the master's trust to secure your place."

He marched off, taking Moises Ryan with him, ignoring his struggles and cries, not even considering if he was hungry or scared.

I felt a surge of anger.

Maybe I misunderstood Moises' previous guardian. The cold and detached behavior Moises showed as he got older wasn't entirely their fault. Zechariah's house rules and the indifferent staff were also to blame.

I followed them to the time-out room.

It was a small, dark chamber without windows. Uncle Zack opened the door, put Moises inside, and I slipped in as well.

Uncle Zack seemed annoyed but snorted and shut the door with force.

I turned on my phone's flashlight; Moises had been crying but went silent when he saw me. I reached out for his little hand.

He pulled away.

I tried again.

He pulled away again.

Softly, I said, "Can I hold your hand? It's really dark in here, and I'm scared."

Moises was silent.

This time, when I reached for his hand, he didn't pull away but turned his head to avoid looking at me.

"Why did you follow me?"

"I was worried about you."

"You're lying. I'm a bad kid; nobody likes me."

"Who told you that? I like you. On my first day here, none of the staff talked to me, but you did. You even showed me around and helped me find my things. I've never met such a kind and thoughtful kid."

"But... I'm picky with my food. I broke dishes, cursed, and even hit people."

His voice was filled with resignation, but I sensed a plea for affirmation.

My heart softened. What kind of criticism had he faced to see himself this way?

"I'm picky with food too. Everyone has foods they don't like, but adults simply avoid them. Kids get labeled as picky just because they don't cook or shop yet. If it were me, I’d throw dishes too, shout, and fight. It shows you have spirit, and I admire that so much."

"Re... really? Adults are picky eaters too?"

"Of course! I don't eat Brussels sprouts. Have you ever noticed anything Mrs. Wilson or Uncle Zack avoids? Think carefully, I'm sure you have. If there's a dish that never shows up, they probably don’t like it."

I showed him a grocery shopping app on my phone, scrolling through various vegetables.

His small fingers began to scroll through the list, and his eyes lit up instantly. "Brussels sprouts and endive never appear."

Now I understood. "Once we're out, we'll make them eat Brussels sprouts every day."

"Okay."

He brightened up, moving closer to me.

I patted his little head. He paused momentarily, shyly turning away.

Suddenly, he said, "But you called me a bad kid yesterday. You said I was that kind of child."

Haha! This little rascal remembered until today.

I laughed. "Of course not. I said only kids who did something wrong get called that, and you haven’t done anything wrong. I’d never use your full name unless I had to. I'd rather call you by your nickname."

Moises's lips quickly curled into a smile before he tried to suppress it.

Casually, he said, "Mom used to call me Mo-Mo."

"Alright, Mo-Mo, my name is Aspen McDonald. You can call me Auntie Aspen or Sister Aspen."

We sat together for a while in the stuffy, oppressive room. I couldn't imagine how Moises endured being locked in here countless times.

Only those with skewed minds would confine a seven-year-old like this.

I dialed Zechariah's number, barely controlling my anger. No answer. When I tried again, I was met with a busy signal.

I stared at the phone as though seeing a ghost.

Had Zechariah blocked me?

Moises snorted, "It's useless. Mom couldn't reach him either, not even when she was sick."