My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 212

Chapter 212 Her Mom Makes Him Stew

He reached into the bag. He bypassed the folded dark jeans and the spare black t-shirts. He dug his hand into the bottom corner of the

canvas sack. He pulled out a small, rectangular cardboard shoebox. The edges looked worn.

He removed the cardboard lid.

He tipped the box forward, showing me the contents.

A chewed yellow pencil rested inside. Beside the pencil sat a small, blue ink star eraser.

My breath caught in my throat. The sting of fresh tears burned my eyes. He possessed ten minutes to pack his belongings before the corporate security team changed the gate codes at the estate. He left the expensive watches in their glass cases. He left the designer shoes in his closet. He packed my discarded school supplies. He chose the physical proof of his quiet devotion.

“I kept the things with value, Ryder told me. He placed the lid back on the box. He set the cardboard on the floor, right next to his flat

pillow.

He did not care about the money. He cared about the connection. He fought the affluent elite to stand in this cramped living room with

I shifted my weight. I closed the distance between us. I wrapped my arms around his neck. I buried my face in his damp shoulder. He smelled like the cold storm and cedar wood. He wrapped his massive arms around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest. We kneeled on the hard floorboards, holding each other in the silence of the East Side house.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

I pulled back. I turned my head.

My mother stood in the arched entryway connecting the hall to the living room. She wore her faded flannel robe over her nightgown. Her graying hair sat in a loose braid over her shoulder.

She watched us.

Ryder let go of my waist. He pushed himself to his feet. He stood tall in the cramped room. He kept his hands at his sides. He braced himself for rejection. He knew he brought the wrath of a billionaire to her doorstep. He knew his presence threatened her safety. He expected her to demand his exit.

My mother did not yell. She did not point to the door.

She looked at the scuffed combat boots. She looked at the damp t-shirt. She looked at the makeshift bed of frayed quilts spread across the faded rug. She saw a boy who stripped himself of immense privilege to protect her job. She recognized honor. She valued actions over

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13:58 Fri, Jul 10

Chapter 212 Her Mom Makes Him Stew

She turned around and walked into the kitchen.

Ryder remained frozen. He looked at me, unsure of the silent interaction.

“Wait, I told him.

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The sounds of the kitchen filled the quiet house. A metal spoon scraped against a metal pot. The hiss of the gas stove igniting echoed down the hall. A few minutes passed. The rich, savory smell of beef broth, cooked carrots, and beavy spices drifted into the living room.

My mother returned.

She held a large ceramic bowl in her hands. Steam rose from the hot stew. She carried a silver spoon. She walked across the faded rug.

She stopped in front of Ryder.

She held the bowl out.

Ryder looked at the food. He looked at my mother’s face. The harsh, protective armor he wore for the entire day cracked. A raw, profound gratitude softened his features. He reached out with both hands and took the warm ceramic bowl.

“Eat the stew,” my mother instructed. Her voice held the firm, undeniable authority of a matriarch. You are freezing cold. You need to

warm your blood.”

Thank you, Mrs. Petrova, Ryder said. His voice sounded thick.

“You fought your own blood to save my kitchen,” my mother stated. She reached out and patted his damp shoulder. “You sacrificed your bed. You sleep on my floor tonight. Tomorrow, we figure out the rest. Eat your food. You are family now.

She turned and walked back down the hallway, leaving us alone in the quiet room.

Ryder stood holding the steaming bowl. He stared at the dark hallway. He found the acceptance he lacked his entire life in a cramped house on the wrong side of the city limits.

He looked down at the hot stew. He took the metal spoon. He took a bite. The warmth brought a flush of color back to his pale skin.

He lowered the spoon. He looked at me. The gratitude in his eyes shifted, replaced by a cold, practical reality.

“We possess a roof tonight,” Ryder said. His tone turned sharp. The delinquent returned, calculating the odds of survival. “But I emptied my pockets on the mahogany table. I hold zero cash. Your mother relies on the diner shifts to pay the rent. If I do not contribute, 1

become a burden on this household.”

‘You are not a burden, I argued.

“I am an extra mouth to feed,” Ryder countered. He set the ceramic bowl on the television stand. He looked at the dark window. The rain battered the glass. The affluent elite use money as a weapon. They think poverty will break my spirit. They expect me to starve. I refuse

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Chapter 212 Her Mom Makes Him Stew

to give them the victory.”

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