Spiked for Revenge: Bull Heat in a Bottle

The weekend afternoon sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, warming the rug. However, it couldn't quite touch the chill that hung in the room.

William Johnson, our family doctor, had already packed away his stethoscope, but his brow remained furrowed. In his hands was the freshly printed blood report.

He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses again and again, as if weighing whether to speak.

"Well, Dr. Johnson? Has Dad's condition worsened again?" I asked, setting down my cup, despite my sinking heart.

William exhaled slowly and lowered his voice. "Ms. Lawson, some things I shouldn't say, but I watched you grow up, and your father has been an old friend. This data just… doesn't make sense."

"It doesn't? How?"

He pointed to the red arrows on the report. "Look at the albumin levels and the electrolytes. These are classic signs of severe malnutrition and chronic dehydration.

"With all the high-grade herbs you've been giving him, even if absorption were poor, he shouldn't be this weak. It doesn't look like a worsening illness, but… It looks like he's been starving."

"Starving?"

My head buzzed, and the suspicion that had been gnawing at me suddenly screamed for action. To confirm it, I asked a friend to get me a box of top-grade deer antlers. This time, I was careful.

When I brought the deer antlers home, I deliberately put the box on the liquor cabinet right in front of Susan and said, "Ms. Miller, I spent 1.2 million dollars to get these deer antlers from East Albern. It's specially made for royalty.

"But since Dad is too weak to take any supplements now, don't touch it. Wait until I check with the doctor, alright?"

Susan nodded eagerly, and her eyes stayed glued to the box. That look was pure greed, like a starving wolf staring at meat while pretending to be harmless.

The next evening, when I got home from work and glanced at the liquor cabinet out of habit, the box remained, though slightly moved. I hurried over and opened it, and sure enough, more than half the antlers were gone, leaving only a few scraps.

Before I even had a chance to get angry, my phone buzzed. It was an Instagram live notification. The title read, "Employer's Million-Dollar Deer Antlers All-Nighter Challenge!"

On a whim, I tapped it. Soon, a shirtless man, muscles popping everywhere, was shouting at me from the screen. In his hands were the very deer antlers I had just bought.

He was chomping on it like corn, crunching it loudly, looking completely arrogant and out of control.

Someone in the live chat asked, "Where did you get them from? Are they real?"

Roman Cox laughed and winked at the camera. "Of course, they're real! My mom swiped it from her idiot boss.

"That woman is a clueless rich kid. She only knows how to buy them without checking if her dad has taken them. My mom just had to put on a little act, and she totally fell for it!"

My hand tightened into a fist, and my polished nails dug into my palm.

When the camera panned, I saw a familiar figure—Susan. The same top-tier caregiver who had knelt and slapped herself in front of me was now holding a plate of sliced fruit and grinning obsequiously as she offered it to her son.

Roman impatiently pushed her hand away, even shoved her a little. "Go away! Don't block the camera! And where's that wine you were supposed to bring? I've been asking for it!"

Susan stumbled but didn't get angry. Instead, she smiled even wider. "I'm trying! The wine's locked in the cabinet, and I've been figuring out how to open it…"

Blood rushed to my head, and my temples throbbed.

So, this was it. Dad had become nothing more than a "food supplier" in their eyes. My restraint had turned me into a sucker to be milked.

I stared at the laughing face on the screen, then glanced toward Dad's bedroom. He was lying on the bed, unconscious from malnutrition. Meanwhile, these parasites were siphoning his life away, celebrating it online.

After the anger came an eerie calm. I didn't rush out to confront them or call the police. What good would that do?

Stealing things like this would, at most, mean brief detention and some compensation. For shameless leeches like them, that would barely sting.

What I wanted was more than compensation. I wanted them disgraced, destroyed, and wishing they were dead.

I looked at the man on the screen, still shouting about wanting good wine, and a cold smile spread onto my face.

Was that what he wanted? Fine. I would make sure he drank his fill.