Scum Daddy Dreams Of Stealing My Mommy!
Chapter 312: Stabbed by Daughter

Chapter 312: Chapter 312: Stabbed by Daughter

He chuckled, "Don’t worry, I’m tough."

"Yeah, tough enough, so you can keep messing around all you want."

The man chuckled again, raised his hand, reaching for her face.

She tilted her head to avoid him, "What are you doing?"

Just woke up and you’re restless again?

"Your face... it got smushed while you were sleeping."

What? My face got smushed? This is the authentic original model, untouched by the surgeon’s knife—how could sleeping make it crooked?

"Really? How’s that even possible?" She quickly cupped her face, feeling it carefully, and then got up to check in the bathroom mirror.

Only then did she realize—it wasn’t her face that was crooked, but rather one side had a red imprint from being pressed, with the creases of her clothing visible too. It did look a bit off.

Staring at her reflection in the mirror, her hair was oily and sticking to her scalp, dark circles under her eyes heavy, eye crud in the corners, and her skin looking waxy pale...

The trials of these past days had left her radiating exhaustion and despair both inside and out.

She truly looked awful.

After washing her face in the bathroom, looking at her now damp and even greasier hair, she frowned in utter disgust.

Coming back out, Christopher was still staring unblinkingly at her.

"Well... Aunt Harper will be bringing the kids over later, along with some breakfast. Let the kids keep you company this morning. I’ll head back to freshen up, then go to the company, and come back this afternoon."

The business trip had left many affairs at headquarters that needed coordination with the local office.

The plane crash had already delayed things for several days.

He frowned upon hearing this. "Are you not going to rest for a few days? It’s okay to postpone work."

"It’s fine, I’m okay..."

Christopher stared at her, sensing that she had changed, though he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what.

The only thing evident was... she’d become much more patient and gentle with him.

"Amelia... is it because I was admitted to the hospital last night, and you’re feeling guilty, that you’ve decided to be so nice to me?" After some thought, he figured that was the most plausible explanation.

Amelia hadn’t realized her change in attitude was so noticeable that he could immediately tell.

Though deep down, she had indeed planned to let go of the past and try starting again.

But outwardly, she couldn’t just be that breezy and carefree about it.

People... they care about appearances.

"Have I been nice to you?" she asked back, perplexed, then examined herself, "Haven’t I always been this way with you?"

"No, you used to scoff at even looking me in the eye."

"..." That was indeed true.

But she had to find a way to smooth things over for herself.

"You also said it yourself: last night, you were admitted to the hospital, and I feel guilty and blame myself. Thankfully, you came out of it okay, or else the favor I’d owe you would be a debt I couldn’t repay in this lifetime."

Well okay, so it was that.

Christopher had thought she might have suddenly figured things out instead.

"Actually... you don’t have to feel guilty and blame yourself. I did all this willingly. Even if I lost my life, it wouldn’t be your fault." His face suddenly turned indifferent, his tone mixed with a bit of anger as he said this.

Amelia walked up to the bed, responding in the same indifferent manner, "You say that, but the outside world wouldn’t see it that way. If it really came to that, everyone would believe I was the one who killed you. Your parents would definitely come after me for vengeance."

The conversation went nowhere, and Christopher suddenly fell silent, even closing his eyes.

What he wanted wasn’t guilt, wasn’t blame, wasn’t charity driven by remorse...

Amelia saw and vaguely understood the reason behind his sudden anger. She opened her mouth, intending to explain something, but in the end, said nothing.

The awkward silence between them lasted until the kids arrived.

"Mommy!" Seeing their parents, the three little ones rushed forward excitedly.

Since she got back, Amelia hadn’t freshened up or changed her clothes, so she really didn’t want to hold the kids. But kids don’t understand such things—they threw themselves at her, surrounding and hugging her.

"Mommy, you’re finally back! I even dreamed about you last night!" Hope said with a pout.

Ethan: "Mommy, why didn’t you tell us you were coming back? That way, we could’ve picked you up from the airport!"

Noah: "Mommy, are you feeling better? Are you still unwell?"

Of course, the eldest was the most considerate and thoughtful.

"Don’t worry, sweetheart, Mommy’s feeling better now. I came back late last night, so I didn’t wake you up. Plus, Daddy came to the hospital, so I had to care for him, which meant disappearing on you again!"

Hope clung to her mom’s neck and said seriously, "Alright then, Mommy is forgiven!"

As soon as she said that, she turned toward the hospital bed and said in her little voice, full of exasperation, "Daddy, how come you’re in the hospital again? You’re in here more often than Hope is!"

Finally noticed by the kids, Mr. Hart gave a bitter smile, "I thought you only had eyes for Mommy and wouldn’t notice me."

"How could that be, Daddy? You’re huge—we’re not blind."

Speaking of "blind," the three little ones suddenly remembered something and ran over to the bed to wave at him.

Noah: "Daddy, can you really see us now?"

Ethan: "Daddy, do you know who I am?"

Hope: "Daddy, how many fingers?" She said this while cutely holding up one chubby finger.

Christopher wanted to laugh but the pain in his wound made him hold back, his insides vehemently protesting. Struggling, he grasped his daughter’s soft, pudgy little hand and looked at his two sons waiting eagerly too, speaking gently and warmly, "Just one. Daddy’s eyes are healed—I can see you all now. Hope is very pretty, very cute, more like Mommy. You’re the eldest, right? You look most like me. And the youngest—rounder, a blend of Mommy’s and Daddy’s features. Did Daddy get it right?"

Ethan shouted, "No! Daddy got it wrong!"

"Hm? Wrong?"

"I’m not round; I’m strong! I can protect Mommy in the future!" he stressed, flexing his raised fist.

Amelia heard her son’s heartwarming words and couldn’t help but lower her head with a small smile.

The eldest was mature and responsible, the youngest sweet and endearing—what more could she ask for?

While laughter and chatter filled this side of the room, at the other side, Aunt Harper was already setting up breakfast.

"Ma’am, please have your meal."

"Alright, thank you, Aunt Harper."

Amelia glanced toward the hospital bed where Christopher was joking around with the kids and asked him, "Aren’t you hungry? Have some porridge first."

Christopher looked at her, about to say something, but recalling their recent cold clash, his expression dimmed again. "You go ahead and eat. Don’t worry about me."

Amelia’s face stiffened a bit upon hearing this.

She had stayed by his side all night, and now, after just two lines he didn’t like, he was sulking?

Is he even a man? Doesn’t he have a shred of tolerance?

She swallowed her words, seeing the children present, and put on a placid smile instead. "Alright then, I’ll eat first."

And truth be told, she was starving, nearly faint with hunger.

Christopher had thought she might insist on coaxing him.

If she insisted, he would have relented, of course.

But who would’ve thought this woman really had no heart—she turned around and focused on her breakfast as soon as he said no.

Clearly, she wasn’t willing, and her care for him stemmed only from guilt, void of true compassion.

The children hadn’t realized yet that their mom and dad were giving each other the cold shoulder again. They were still caught up in the excitement of mommy and daddy finally being back, chattering non-stop.

Amelia, with her hunger finally satisfied, felt somewhat re-energized.

Without a phone, she was quite cut off from the outside world, and she had no idea what was happening at the company right now.

Feeling anxious, she checked the wall clock, then glanced over to the hospital bed where Christopher was chatting with the kids, and said, "So... since the caregiver is here now, I’m going to head out, and I’ll come back in the afternoon. The doctor mentioned earlier that you need a scan today to check on the bruising in your brain... Just have some food first and ask the caregiver to take you for it."

Seeing how eager she was to leave, Christopher’s temper flared even more. He pressed his lips tightly together, his expression frosty. "If you’re busy, then don’t bother coming this afternoon."

His words made the children realize their mom and dad seemed to be having one of their spats again.

"Mommy, you just recovered, and now you’re busy with work again? Can’t you rest at home for a few days?" Noah, ever sensible, immediately tried to mediate.

Hope whined and pleaded, "Mommy... just stay with us."

Amelia, of course, wanted to spend time with her children. But at the very least, she needed a phone, right? Even if she didn’t go to the office, she had to ensure she could be reachable by her team!

"Sweethearts, Mommy will go back to freshen up, handle a few urgent matters, and then come back to be with you—is that okay?"

This was meant to reassure the kids and indirectly address a certain someone.

But Christopher clearly wasn’t appeased.

"Aunt Harper, stay here and keep playing with the kids. I’ll head out now."

Aunt Harper nodded, whispering, "Ma’am, please come back soon."

"Okay."

She looked toward the hospital bed, feeling slightly awkward. "I’m leaving now. Take care and get some rest."

The man didn’t respond, waving his hand to his daughter instead, effectively ignoring her.

Feeling snubbed, Amelia turned and left.

"Daddy, why did you make Mommy angry again?" Hope climbed onto the bed, sitting on the edge and swinging her legs curiously.

The man tapped her little nose, grumbling, "Why does it have to be Daddy who made Mommy mad?"

"Of course! Mommy is so nice, but you have this stinky temper—if it’s not you making her mad, who else would it be?"

"..." The man felt a wave of frustration, utterly defeated.

Though he didn’t remember the past, he’d gathered from recent interactions and hearsay that he used to dotingly spoil this little girl.

And yet this cheeky little thing was now stabbing him straight in the heart.

His temper is stinky?

Can’t she tell he has tender, passionate moments too? It’s not his fault she doesn’t care!

The caregiver approached, asking if he wanted to eat.

He was indeed hungry, but with her gone, who was he supposed to act weak for?

Besides, his eyesight had recovered, and his self-sufficiency wasn’t impaired.

Getting spoon-fed by another man was just creepy. He frowned and ordered, "Raise the bed a bit for me—I’ll eat on my own."

"But your injuries..."

"It’s fine."

The caregiver, rather intimidated by his "stinky temper," didn’t dare argue and quickly complied.

Christopher sensed something and suddenly asked, "Do you also think I have a bad temper?"

The caregiver quickly shook his head. "No..."

Christopher’s expression softened somewhat.

But the caregiver hadn’t finished speaking, "Given your physical condition, mood swings are normal..."

Christopher: "..."