God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem

Chapter 537 Insignificance

Kafka stepped into the kitchen and dining room, where the table was already set, the rich aroma of freshly cooked pasta filling the air. The dishes had been plated beautifully, steam rising from them, the scent of garlic, herbs, and tomatoes mingling perfectly, making the entire space feel warm and inviting.

His eyes immediately landed on Camila, who was finishing up setting the table, carefully placing the last set of utensils down with practiced ease. The golden light from the dining room cast a soft glow on her, making her look effortlessly elegant despite the simple task.

"It smells wonderful." Kafka said, his voice carrying an unmistakable warmth. "Looks like you've outdone yourself again."

Camila glanced at him with a wry smile, shaking her head. "It's the same pasta I always make." She said, her tone dry but playful. "You shouldn't get your expectations too high."

Instead of answering, Kafka walked up behind her and, without warning, slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her into a sudden embrace.

Camila tensed at first, caught off guard, but before she could protest, he murmured against her ear. "No matter how many times I eat your cooking, I'll never get tired of it."

His voice was gentle and teasing, but there was a genuine warmth to it, a quiet appreciation that made Camila's heart skip for just a second.

"The recipe may be old." He continued, pressing his chin lightly against her shoulder. "But the love put into the dish is still fresh and pumping."

Camila rolled her eyes, but the faint pink dusting her cheeks betrayed her.

"Ugh." She scoffed, reaching back to push at his arms. "That was way too cheesy."

"But it made you a little happy, didn't it?" He countered, grinning against her shoulder.

She let out a small sigh, unable to hide the little smile tugging at her lips. He wasn't wrong.

But then, reality crashed back in.

She stiffened slightly, suddenly remembering who was just in the next room...Her husband.

The man she had spent years tied to, the man who still had his name written on her marriage certificate—no matter how little meaning it held now.

Her hands shot up to his, prying him off her as she took a quick step forward, putting some distance between them.

"Kafka." She whispered urgently, giving him a warning glare. "My husband is in the other room."

Kafka only chuckled, utterly unbothered. "So?" He asked with a lazy smile, leaning casually against the dining table. "Who cares if he's right next to us? I wouldn't even bother even if he were to watch me get a little touchy with his wife."

Camila stared at him, her lips parting slightly in disbelief.

'This man...He really wasn't scared of anything, was he?' Camila rubbed her temple, trying to shake off the conversation before it spiralled into something she wasn't ready for.

"Whatever." She muttered, shaking her head. "More importantly—what exactly happened in there?"@@@@

She gestured toward the living room with a frown, referring to her husband, who was still suspiciously silent after all the commotion earlier.

Kafka only gave a small shrug.

"Nothing much." He quickly said, brushing past her to grab a plate. "Just a little chat between men."

"While I..." she hesitated, her eyes turning limpid, unfocused, lost in thoughts she had buried for too long.

She took a shaky breath.

"I got stuck with a father who just—" Her voice caught slightly before she forced herself to say it. "—sold his own daughter off for the sake of his job and position."

The words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

Her lips twisted bitterly as she continued, her tone laced with something between disappointment and sheer exhaustion.

"I mean, I always knew." She admitted, shaking her head slightly, as if trying to convince herself. "Ever since that incident—the day I found out the truth about him—I realised he wasn't the man I thought he was. And after that, it just...everything started to change. I started seeing him for what he really was. And the more I understood, the more I despised him."

Her fingers clenched around the edge of her plate, her nails scraping against the porcelain.

"I used to look up to him." She confessed, her voice quieter now, like she was speaking to herself more than to him. "I used to think he was this strong, capable man—someone who always knew what was best. And because of that, I let him turn me against my own mother." She let out a shaky breath, her eyes flickering with something close to shame. "He made me treat her like an enemy. Like she was the problem, when in reality...he was the one ruining everything."

Her fork clattered softly against the ceramic as she let go of it.

"But even after all of that..." She said, her voice hollow. "Even after I stopped seeing him as my father, even after I realised what kind of man he really was...I never thought..." She swallowed thickly, blinking hard. "...I never thought he'd be that horrible."

Her lips trembled as her shoulders tensed.

"I never thought he'd just..." Her voice wavered, her hands tightening into fists in her lap. "...give me away like that. Just like that. No hesitation, no second thoughts. Just...gone."

She laughed softly, but there was no humour in it.

"For some reason." She murmured, shaking her head. "It actually hurts."

She scoffed, like she was angry at herself for feeling this way.

"I shouldn't care, right?" She whispered, biting her lower lip. "I don't even care about him anymore. I know he's worthless. I know that. But the fact that he did it so easily, like I didn't even matter—" She stopped, inhaling sharply, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It makes me feel so...insignificant."

Silence...Kafka didn't say anything.

His usual teasing smirk had faded, replaced with something far more solemn.

Bella kept her gaze lowered, her lips pressed into a tight line, her fingers still curled into her lap as if she were holding herself together by sheer will alone.

The silence between them lingered, thick and heavy, neither of them quite knowing how to break it.

Bella still had her gaze lowered, her mind reeling from the emotions she had just poured out. For the first time in a long while, she had spoken about how she truly felt, about the hollow ache that had settled inside her after what her father had done.

And for the first time since she had known him, Kafka wasn't teasing, wasn't smirking, or joking around.

He was simply listening to her with a reminiscent look in his gaze like he were thinking about his own past at this moment which he felt was similar in one way or another...