Evil MC's NTR Harem-Chapter 592 - Coding

Pregnant—with another man's child.

That moment was replayed daily. Sometimes in slow motion. Sometimes from different angles.

It wasn't just a show. It was a desecration.

And now, the man responsible stood before him, smug and composed.

"Cyril Fleming," Ross said, slowly stepping into the room, the door sealing shut behind him with a thud. "Did you enjoy the show? Was it everything you imagined? My little masterpiece."

He gestured toward the screen like a proud director after a premiere.

Cyril didn't respond.

He couldn't.

The gag in his mouth had silenced any screams, any cries for mercy or madness. His mind, however, had done all the screaming for him. His sanity had frayed like a rotting rope, holding together only by the weakest threads.

And Ross had planned for that too.

Any normal man would have died—whether from starvation, dehydration, or pure mental collapse. But Cyril remained alive. Strong, even. Ross had seen to it.

There were no food trays, no water bottles. No servants attending him. Yet his body never wasted away. He didn't know how. Only that the torment never ended.

And it wasn't meant to.

Ross crouched before him now, eye-level, his tone dropping to a near whisper. "You're stronger than I thought. Still breathing. Still sane… barely. But we can't have you snapping just yet."

Then, with a flick of his fingers—

Click.

A subtle ripple passed through the room like a breeze in a graveyard.

Cyril's pupils contracted. The fog of madness lifted—slowly, painfully—as if his mind were being rewound like a broken machine forced to function once more. Sanity returned, but with it came clarity. Memory. Pain.

All of it.

The gag fell with a soft clatter against the stone floor.

Cyril wheezed, chest rising and falling as if each breath burned. His throat was dry, but somehow he could speak.

And he did.

"Who are you…?" he whispered, his voice a mix of fear, anger, and confusion. "Why are you doing this…?"

Ross stood, letting out a soft chuckle.

"That's the question, isn't it?" he mused, hands clasped behind his back as he began pacing slowly around the room. "Who am I? A devil? A nightmare? A ghost from your past, maybe?"

He stopped behind Cyril, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"I prefer to think of myself as… the lesson life never taught you. You had everything, Cyril. A beautiful wife. A respected name. A boring, comfortable life. And yet, look at how easily it all crumbled."

He leaned closer, lips just beside Cyril's ear.

"And now… you're nothing."

Cyril flinched, his jaw trembling. "Ashley… she… she would never…"

"She did," Ross interrupted coldly. "Again and again. You saw it. Heard it. Felt every second of it tear you apart. And the best part? She doesn't even think about you anymore."

Silence.

Cyril closed his eyes, trying to shut it all out, but Ross wasn't done.

He walked back to face him again, crouching low. "You're asking why I did this?"

He smiled—cruel, triumphant.

"Because I could."

And that was the truth. Ross didn't need a grand reason. No revenge. No justice. Just a choice. A desire to show someone the depths of control and ruin one man could wield.

And Cyril… was the perfect canvas.

"You monster!" Cyril screamed, his voice hoarse from disuse and heavy with grief. The words tore from his throat as though they were the only things keeping him from shattering completely.

His entire body trembled in place, but the rope bindings kept him still—rigid, like a broken statue.

Tears welled in his eyes, streaming freely down cheeks that had once held pride and confidence. Now they bore only sorrow and defeat.

The sobs came next—violent, stuttering, ugly sounds of a man unraveling. His scream had been the last bit of resistance left in him. Now, all that remained was devastation.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

His life had been perfect. A beautiful wife. A family. Stability. Love. It was the kind of life people envied—the life he had fought so hard to protect and preserve. Yet here he was, watching the twisted ruins of that dream burn in front of him while the arsonist stood nearby, smiling.

Ross didn't flinch. He stood relaxed, amused, almost gentle—which somehow made everything worse. There was no rage in him. No gloating, no shouting. Just a calm satisfaction, like a man admiring the final stroke of a painting.

Cyril's blurred gaze landed on Ross again.

That face.

That same damn face.

It was his face. The same eyes. Same smile. Same voice. A perfect replica—down to the last feature. But behind those familiar eyes was something cold, alien, monstrous. An emptiness that didn't belong in any human being. And that smile... that smile was the smile of a devil.

If Cyril's limbs weren't shackled, if his body wasn't numb from weeks of motionless torment, he would have lunged at Ross with the fury of a man who had nothing left to lose. He would have sunk his teeth into his throat, clawed his eyes out, done anything—anything to end this nightmare.

But he couldn't.

He was still trapped in that damned chair.

Impotent.

Helpless.

Defeated.

Ross tilted his head, watching him with an air of curiosity, as if he were waiting to see how long it would take for Cyril to break again.

"Alright," Ross said at last, his voice low and smooth, like a serpent slipping between rocks. "I suppose I owe you an explanation."

He took a step closer. Then another. Slowly.

"I don't want to be cruel, Cyril. Not more than I have to be. That's not my nature."

The audacity of that lie stung.

Ross paused in front of Cyril, then lifted his hand and covered his own face.

"Let me remind you who I really am."

There was a shimmer in the air. A subtle ripple, like heat distortion over desert sand. Power pulsed in the room—unnatural and heavy.

When Ross pulled his hand away, his face was no longer Cyril's.

His skin darkened slightly. His jaw squared. His eyes turned colder—deeper. The smile twisted into something wider, crueler. His body changed too, broadening, swelling with raw strength. His frame became taller, more imposing, like a predator standing on two legs.

Cyril gasped.

"No…" he rasped. "It can't be. You…"

Recognition hit him like a hammer to the chest.

It wasn't just a face.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

It was someone he had personally met some time ago.

"You're… Ross Oakley," Cyril whispered, horror dawning in his eyes.

Ross smiled.

Ross leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with a cold, unrelenting satisfaction as he studied Cyril. The silence in the room felt suffocating, but Ross thrived in it, letting the weight of his words settle like a crushing burden.

"This is just a little reminder," Ross said softly, his voice smooth, almost casual, as if he were speaking to an old acquaintance. "A reminder that you should think twice about the words you choose next time. Because I've taken your daughter, Cyril. Your beautiful daughter. And now…" He dragged out the pause, allowing the words to linger like venom. "Now, I've taken your wife too."

He straightened up, his expression darkening into something almost indulgent, relishing the scene before him.

Cyril's eyes widened in disbelief, his pulse racing as he tried to digest the enormity of what was being said. But Ross showed no mercy, no hesitation. His gaze remained fixed on Cyril, unwavering and cruel.

"Consider this punishment enough," Ross continued, his tone unwavering as he walked slowly around Cyril, making sure to let the moment stretch out.

"This is the price for what you and your precious wife did and said. For the things you never bothered to acknowledge. For the insults, the disregard, the way you cast me aside, treating me like nothing more than a nuisance, a forgotten shadow. But no longer. Now, I'm in control."

Ross's voice took on a darker edge as he paused behind Cyril, close enough that Cyril could feel his presence like a cold draft against his skin.

"What excites me the most, though," Ross added, his voice dropping into a low, almost playful murmur, "is the thought of how she'll react when she finally discovers the real me. The truth behind all of this."

He let out a soft chuckle—one that sent chills down Cyril's spine. The sound was filled with malice, dripping with anticipation.

"I wonder, Cyril," Ross mused, a grin curling at the corners of his lips. "Will she weep? Beg me for mercy? Or will she lash out, cursing my name, her world crashing down around her? It doesn't matter. The moment she learns the truth, it'll all be over for her. Just like it was for you."

He took a step back, letting the implications of his words settle into the air, thick with cruel suspense.