My Father, the Villain

1
I was reborn as the daughter of a villainous, cannon-fodder character.
When I was one, I managed to give myself a raging fever, forcing him to abandon his plan to join the main antagonist in a bloody turf war.
When I was three, I orchestrated a fall that fractured my leg, making him miss his fated encounter with the story’s female lead.
When I was five, I used a local predator as a pawn to stop my father from helping the antagonist target the male lead, Ethan Reed.
And now?
My cannon-fodder father is screaming, his voice laced with pure terror, "Ethan, you son of a bitch, get your kid's hands off my daughter! Get them off her! NOW!"
Can you picture it? A man who lived for arson, murder, and every crime in the book, transformed overnight into a desperate single dad.
To be honest, calling him a villain is giving him too much credit.
After all, I’ve never heard of a villain who, right at the start of the story, ends up blinded in one eye, with a shattered leg, and dumped into the ocean by the male lead as shark bait.
The real antagonist of this novel was a different breed entirely. He was dangerously beautiful, fought the hero, coveted the heroine, and flew into unpredictable rages, lashing out at anyone in his path. He danced on the edge of a knife until the very end.
But my father? The moment he died, the main plot was barely 10% through. The remaining 90% was dedicated to the tempestuous, angsty romance between the main couple and their life-or-death struggles with the true villain.
So, “villainous cannon fodder” is the best he gets.
Right, Dad?

2
My father, Damian, leaned against the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The smoke veiled his sharp, handsome features, giving him an air of untamed arrogance.
He was only twenty, yet he possessed none of the lingering awkwardness of youth. Instead, he carried the cold, ruthless edge of a man forged in a world of blood and violence.
A hero's face with a side character's fate, I thought with a sigh.
Well, it’s standard procedure, the System chimed in my head. Any guy who pines for the female lead has to be hot, even the cannon fodder. It’s rule number one.
At one year old, I was practicing my first steps. A baby’s bones are soft, my body still a stranger to balance. Inevitably, my left foot tripped over my right, and I face-planted onto the plush carpet.
My worrywart of a father had already padded every sharp corner in the house with foam, terrified I’d stumble and crack my head open.
So, in a few days, I mused internally, he’s supposed to go to that shootout with the main villain and get a piece of shrapnel in his eye, turning him into a one-eyed monster?
The System’s tone turned grave. Correct. This is a prequel event, not detailed in the book. By the time he officially appears, he's already lost an eye. It's the catalyst for his descent into a twisted, violent rage. But remember, Host, you can't just reveal the plot. The universe will literally silence you if you try.
Just then, Damian noticed me waddling towards him. "Shit," he muttered, hastily extinguishing the cigarette in an ashtray and throwing the window wide open. He waved his hand, trying to dissipate the lingering smoke.
"I come to my own room for a damn smoke, and you follow me in here? Are you that clingy? Go on, get out! Don't breathe this crap in."
For a moment, I forgot I was a baby. The acrid smell of smoke stung my nose. I immediately spun around, covering my face. "Dada… stinky," I mumbled, making a break for the door.
Rejected by his own daughter. He had to change his shirt and rinse his mouth out three times before I finally let him pick me up.
He gave me a mock-stern look. "Next time you see me smoking, you stay away. Got it? Keep your distance."
I nodded, patting his handsome face with my tiny hands, nearly drooling. Say what you will about my dad being a cold-blooded bastard just like the main villain, but damn, he was gorgeous.
I managed to string a few words together. "Dada… stay with me. These days."
A one-year-old’s language skills are a work in progress, so words came out in clumsy bursts.
He cradled me against his chest, letting me touch his face as he sank into the sofa. A rare, gentle smile softened his features. "Alright, princess. I'll spend the next few days with you."
Then, his phone rang. He answered it with a single, clipped word. "Lucian?"
The main villain is calling? Oh no, don't tell me he's calling about...
A rich, melodious voice drifted from the phone. "Damian… day after tomorrow… the arms deal… You and me. If they try to pull a fast one… we’ll burn their whole operation to the ground."
I froze.
The prospect of action seemed to jolt my father from his languid state. "That old fox Vargas was never going to play fair," he said, his voice sharp with excitement. "You jacked up the price on him. You think he wasn't holding a grudge? This isn't a deal, it's an ambush."
I slapped my hand against his cheek. "Bah!"
He gently pulled my hand away, giving my fingers a squeeze. "Don't mess around, princess. Daddy's talking business."
I glared at him. Your business is getting yourself maimed, you idiot! You’re going to lose an eye!
But he couldn’t hear my silent screams. He just shifted my position on his lap to make me more comfortable.
"Ga-ga-goo!" I protested again.
Lucian chuckled on the other end, his voice a lazy purr. "Oh? Is the little piglet with you?"
A surge of fury shot through me. "You… pig! Your family… pigs!"
Just because I had a healthy baby appetite and was a little chubby, that asshole had branded me a pig. I remembered the first time I met him.
Lucian had been dressed in a wine-red suit, his exquisitely beautiful face looking like something straight out of a dark fairytale. His fox-like eyes held a cold, detached glimmer despite the smile on his lips. He was less a man and more like a blood-fed poppy blooming in the depths of hell—utterly stunning and lethally dangerous.
As a connoisseur of pretty faces, I was instantly mesmerized and reached out my arms for him to hold me.
Then the beautiful man opened his mouth. "Damian, are you raising a piglet? She's so fat, I'm surprised she hasn't broken her stroller."
My world shattered.
No girl, not even a baby, likes being called fat. Not even by someone that gorgeous.
So when he leaned in to get a closer look, my outstretched hands balled into fists, and I landed two solid punches right on his pretty face.
From that day on, I was "the Piglet."
"Your daughter can talk now?" Lucian teased.
Damian scratched under my chin. "Just started a few days ago. You know what her first words were? She said, 'Dada, I love you.' I nearly passed out from happiness."
"Come on, little one," Lucian cooed through the phone. "Say 'Uncle' for me."
"Piggy… pig," I babbled sweetly.
Damian sighed. "I told you she holds a grudge."
Lucian fell silent for a beat before smoothly changing the subject, steering the conversation back to bloody business—skinning their rivals, breaking legs, the usual gruesome topics. Fearing he’d scare me, Damian set me down on the floor to play and took the call out on the balcony, enthusiastically plotting mayhem with his best friend.
When they were done, he scooped me up with one arm and prepared my bottle, his movements now practiced and sure. "Sorry, princess, I have to break my promise. I have something really important to do for the next few days. You be a good girl and wait for me at home, okay? Tell Mrs. Gable if there's anything you want to eat."
I clutched my bottle, looking up at him with my most pathetic, wide-eyed expression. "Dada… you no go. Stay… with me."
He knelt, stroking my head. "I can't. This is important."
I stared at him, my gaze unwavering.
He met my eyes without flinching.
Wailing used to be my go-to trick for derailing his criminal enterprises. But as a one-year-old, it would look less like a baby's instinct and more like a temper tantrum. I had to be smarter.
"Okay," I whispered, defeated.
But secretly, I asked the System, Hey, you have an item in your shop that can induce a high fever, right?
We sure do, Host! Are you thinking…?
I'm not letting my dad get disabled. How long does it last?
Three days, the System replied cheerfully. And completely free of side effects!
Perfect.

3
Just as Damian was geared up and ready to ride into battle with Lucian, I swallowed the tiny pill from the System.
One minute later, I felt a wave of lethargy wash over me.
Five minutes later, my body felt like it was on fire.
Mrs. Gable, our housekeeper, had just finished making me a bowl of porridge. The moment she touched my skin to pick me up, her hand recoiled.
"Good heavens!"
She snatched me up, her face pale with panic, and rushed me to the car. The driver floored it, the tires screeching as we sped towards the hospital. On the way, she took my temperature, her hand trembling.
104°F!
My face was flushed, my entire body ached, and I whimpered for my father.
Mrs. Gable frantically dialed his number. "Sir, it's Chloe! She has a fever…"
The background on his end was noisy; I could faintly hear an airport announcement.
His voice was tight with confusion. "What did you say? Chloe has a fever?!"
"I was about to feed her," Mrs. Gable explained in a rush, "and she was burning up. I just checked—it's 104! We're on our way to Mercy General Hospital now!"
"What?!" he yelled.
I squirmed in her arms, my voice a pathetic whine. "Dada… hot… waaaah… Dada…"
"I'm coming back right now!" he shouted, his voice cracking with panic. "Chloe, don't cry, Daddy's on his way."
I could hear Lucian in the background. "What? You're just leaving? What about me?"
Damian's voice was ice. "My daughter is sick. I'm going to take care of her. You handle those bastards yourself. You're more than capable."
A dial tone was Lucian’s only reply.

4
My existence was the result of a scheme meant to trap Lucian, but his best friend, Damian, had walked into it instead. A one-night stand with my birth mother, and poof, I was conceived. Ten months later, she dumped me and a paternity test on the steps of the family mansion.
Lost in the haze of the fever, I dreamt of those early days.
Before I came along, my father’s motto was: There’s nothing money can’t solve.
He promptly hired three top-tier nannies, offering them an exorbitant salary, hoping to pawn me off so he could continue his life of crime with Lucian.
It didn’t work.
I cried. Constantly.
I cried when I wet the bed. I cried when I needed a diaper change. I cried even after I was clean. I cried when the nannies held me, and I cried when they didn't. I cried when I was hungry, and once I was fed, I used my newfound energy to cry even harder. My wails echoed through the entire villa, a relentless siren of infant misery.
The only time I was quiet was when my father was there, shaking a little rattle to distract me.
The experienced nannies were at their wits' end. They could only turn to me, the source of their torment, and my biological father, with pleading eyes.
Damian stared back, utterly lost.
Finally, unable to bear the noise any longer, he approached, letting the nannies guide him as he clumsily took me into his arms.
Like magic, the crying stopped. I gazed up at him, gurgling happily and reaching for his face.
"It seems the young miss is very fond of you, sir," one of the nannies offered, trying to flatter him.
Damian stared down at my tear-and-snot-streaked face, his expression pure disgust. "Don't smile. You're already ugly. Smiling just makes it worse."
I paused.
Then, with great effort, I filled my diaper. A pungent odor slowly wafted through the air.
Damian’s face turned a shade of green. The nannies’ smiles froze.
"You little brat," he seethed through clenched teeth. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?!"
I just blinked at him innocently. What? I'm just a baby. I can't control my bowels.
His obsessive need for cleanliness kicked in. He felt phantom filth crawling all over him and was about to shove me back into a nanny’s arms and run for the shower.
But I wrapped my tiny hand around his index finger and cooed.
"You want me to clean you up?" he asked, his voice dripping with disbelief. "To change your diaper?!"
I blinked again.
"Not a chance!" he snarled. "Who do you think you are? I hired professionals for this. Don't push your luck."
One minute later, Damian was grimly taking a lesson from a nanny on how to handle a baby’s messy diaper.
He laid me on the changing mat and peeled off the soiled diaper, tossing it away like a grenade. The same hands that could expertly disassemble a firearm were now gingerly wiping my bottom with warm, wet cloths.
After rinsing and drying me, he awkwardly applied diaper cream and fumbled with the tabs of a clean diaper.
He stared at me for a long moment, his face a mask of irritation. "You're the little queen of this castle, aren't you?"
I giggled, holding onto his finger.
Something shifted behind his eyes. That cold, cynical heart of his was struck by something impossibly soft. He poked my cheek, creating a small dimple. "You little monster," he chuckled.
"Ahhh," I replied.
"I guess you're not so bad," he admitted. "Almost cute."
And with that, my father began his long, grueling, and utterly transformative journey into fatherhood.

5
When Lucian video-called a few months later, he did a double-take.
"Damian… what the hell happened to you?" he asked, bewildered.
My father looked like a ghost. His face was pale and drawn, his usually sharp, arrogant eyes were shadowed with a half-dead exhaustion. His hair was a mess, stubble shadowed his jaw, and the designer shirt that had fit him perfectly before now hung loosely on his thinned frame.
Worse, he was multitasking—dangling a rattle with one hand to soothe me while reviewing a stack of corporate documents with the other.
The ruthless mobster had been transformed into a haggard, sleep-deprived dad.
Me, on the other hand? I was perched in my crib, plump and rosy-cheeked, babbling contentedly.
"The last time you looked this bad was after you took a bullet to the chest and spent three months in the hospital," Lucian mused. "Is raising a kid really that hard?"
"If I hadn't taken that bullet for you," Damian snapped, "I wouldn't be in this mess!"
Lucian just clicked his tongue, completely unrepentant. His gaze flickered to me, cold and dismissive. "If you really don't want to raise her, just dump her on a nanny. Or find a good family to adopt her out. She's just a little girl. Is she really worth all this effort?"
For men like them, who had walked in darkness their entire lives, who had betrayed family and spilled blood to survive, sentiment was a weakness. They were naturally cold-hearted, incapable of loving even themselves, let alone a troublesome infant.
Damian shot him a glare, annoyed by his attitude. He reached for a cigarette, then remembered I was there and stopped himself. "She's not 'just a little girl.' She's my daughter. And I'll raise her because I damn well want to."
"Fine, have it your way," Lucian said with a shrug. "Not my problem. Anyway, I came to talk about our joint venture. That project in the West End…"
"WAAAAAH!" My peaceful babbling instantly erupted into a deafening, house-shaking scream.
Damian panicked. "Oh, my little princess."
He dropped the documents, scooped me up with practiced ease, and gently patted my back. "Is my baby hungry? Daddy will go make you a bottle right now."
Lucian stared, dumbfounded, as his notoriously cold and intimidating best friend—a man who could probably kill a bull with his bare hands—was suddenly radiating the holy light of fatherhood.
"About the venture…" Lucian tried again.
"Didn't you hear my daughter crying?" Damian cut him off, his voice sharp with impatience. "She's crying! I have to make her bottle. I've been running on fumes for months, between her and work. We'll talk about business another time."
He hung up without another word.
Lucian just stared at his blank screen. "...The hell?"
The next day, Lucian showed up in person. He came bearing gifts—two cases of formula and a mountain of baby toys. Damian, who had just finished feeding me, decided to let his previous transgression slide and sat down to discuss business.
After they finalized their plans, Lucian finally deigned to look at me again. He reached out and gently pinched my cheek.
I gifted him a gummy, milky smile, my eyes wide and bright. I babbled sweetly and held up my arms, asking to be held.
Even a hardened killer like Lucian wasn't immune to a baby's charm. My smile seemed to momentarily daze him, and he instinctively lifted me into his arms. Maybe human infants aren't so bad after all, he probably thought, a flicker of warmth in his cold heart. "You…"
In the next second, Lucian’s body went rigid.
He felt a warm, wet sensation spreading across his hand and seeping into the fabric of his expensive suit.
I tilted my head, my expression one of pure, angelic innocence.
"OH, GODDAMMIT!" the villain shrieked.
…
Lucian’s obsession with cleanliness was even worse than my dad’s. He spent the next two hours scrubbing himself raw in the shower.
Meanwhile, I was back in my dad’s arms, happily blowing bubbles.
Take that, you big meanie. Serves you right for telling my dad to get rid of me.
Damian was trying hard to hide his amusement, but he still put on a show of scolding me. "That's your uncle, Chloe. You can't be so rude."
I just cooed in response.
When Lucian finally emerged, my dad had already changed me, fed me, and lulled me to sleep with a soft lullaby.
Lucian glared at my sleeping form. "That little brat did it on purpose!"
"Keep your voice down," Damian warned, his tone sharp. "Don't wake her up. It took me forever to get her to sleep."
Lucian extended a malicious finger towards my face, intending to poke me awake. "I don't care! She messes with me, she doesn't get to sleep."
"Go ahead," Damian said coldly. "If you want to be treated to the sound of a screaming baby for the rest of the night, be my guest."
Lucian froze. He glowered at me for another moment before begrudgingly admitting, "She's a good-looking kid. Takes after you." He paused. "What's her name, by the way?"
Damian went silent.
"You're kidding me," Lucian said, staring at him. "You still haven't named her?"
It was true. My dad usually just called me "princess," "little monster," "kiddo," or "sweetheart."
So, the two of them, a crime lord and his top enforcer, spent the next hour poring over a dictionary. Damian was incredibly picky. Nothing seemed good enough, grand enough, for his daughter.
Finally, tired of the debate, Lucian simply wrote a name on a piece of paper.
Chloe.
"It means 'blooming,'" he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Let her have a life that blooms in the sun, not in the shadows like us."

First, search for and download the MotoNovel app from Google. Then, open the app and use the code "259613" to read the entire book.