The Ex-Con Who Conquered the World novel Chapter 3

A collective gasp rippled through the hall.

Every pair of eyes swiveled towards Stefan, filled with shock, disbelief, and thinly veiled contempt.

Even Hewitt and Celeste, who had been trying to stay neutral, couldn't help but look up, their expressions guarded.

Micah's face went slack with astonishment. His gaze flickered between the composed young man and his eldest son. "Hewitt!" he thundered. "Mr. Bryant is Mr. Moss' disciple! How could he possibly have just been released? Stop talking nonsense!"

"Father, it's the truth," Hewitt insisted, his eyes fixed accusingly on Stefan. "I've already sent the report to the family group. You can all see for yourselves. A man with a criminal record, morally compromised, thinks he can waltz out of prison and marry my daughter? I will never agree to this!"

"Hmph. So you're an ex-convict," Zoey sneered, scrolling through her phone. A look of dawning recognition crossed her face. "Oh... so you're that Margery's boyfriend? The whole circle knows her man went to jail. And it was you!"

"An ex-con, fresh out of prison, dares to step into the Stewart Mansion?" Hank's voice dripped with disgust. "How disgraceful!" He turned to Micah, his tone turning sharp. "Grandfather, we should have security throw him out. He's obviously a fraud trying to cash in on some old rumor. He can't possibly be Mr. Moss' disciple!"

His words even gave Micah pause. Doubt flickered in his eyes.

"To be precise," Stefan's lazy, unhurried voice cut through the tension, a faint smile playing on his lips as he met the collective stare of the Stewart family, "it was about three hours ago."

Given the Stewart family's reach and connections, digging up his background was child's play. His recent release was no secret, and Stefan seemed utterly unfazed by the label "ex-convict", his demeanor almost defiantly nonchalant.

"Prisons are full of all sorts of people," Zoey analyzed with cold logic, her beautiful eyes full of scorn. "You must have heard some rumor about this old pact in there, and went to the trouble of forging this document to pull a fast one on us, right?" She tilted her chin. "Putting the fraud aside, you had a girlfriend before you went in. And the first thing you do upon release is come here to claim a Stewart bride? What does that make you? A two-timer? Is this some kind of insult to our family?"

"Ms. Stewart, you suffer from uterine cold," Stefan stated matter-of-factly, his gaze sweeping over her with clinical detachment. "I'd advise against getting too worked up. Aggravating your condition will only intensify the abdominal cramps and cold pain."

Zoey was undeniably attractive. Her delicate features were complemented by a striking figure—a narrow waist, pronounced curves, and an overall silhouette that turned heads. It was a shame, Stefan noted clinically, that such a vibrant exterior was likely plagued by the persistent, debilitating chill of a gynecological imbalance.

Zoey's face paled. "You—" she began, fury rising, but then a wave of searing pain lanced through her lower abdomen. She gasped, clutching her stomach as cold sweat broke out on her forehead, her legs threatening to buckle.

"You b*stard! How dare you curse my sister?!" Hank roared, leaping to his feet and pointing a trembling finger at Stefan. "You looking to die?!"

"Looking to die?" Stefan chuckled softly, took a sip of coffee, and leaned back. "You should worry about your own problems. Puffy eyes, weak legs, essence leakage, body depleted... classic signs of overindulgence. You've drained your primal energy. I'd wager you're already experiencing... performance issues? Relying on little pills to get by?" He shook his head slowly, a pitying smirk on his face. "Such a shame. Not a sustainable solution."

Hank's face froze, then flushed a deep, mottled red. "I... I have not!" he blustered.

"Whether you have or not, you know the truth. A grown man, still lying to himself?" Stefan's gaze dropped.

Exposed and humiliated, feeling the weight of his family's sudden, knowing scrutiny, Hank's shame curdled into rage. "You f*cking ex-con! How dare you slander me to my face? I'll beat you to a pulp!" He charged forward.

"Who gave you the nerve," Stefan's voice dropped to a low, dangerous timbre as he finally looked up, "to show off in front of me?" In that instant, a palpable, mountainous pressure seemed to emanate from him, filling the space. His eyes, when they met Hank's, were utterly devoid of warmth—cold, dismissive, like a predator observing insignificant prey.

"You—" Hank stumbled, his breath catching. An invisible, crushing weight seemed to bear down on him, the sensation of being pinned by the gaze of a waking dragon.

"Enough!" Micah's sharp command sliced through the moment. "Hank, stand down!"

Gritting his teeth, Hank retreated, shooting Stefan a venomous glare.

The oppressive aura vanished as if it had never been. Stefan slumped back into his chair, the picture of casual indifference once more. To Hank, the terrifying pressure he'd felt moments ago now seemed like a bizarre illusion. The man before him looked utterly ordinary again.

What was that just now? Weird... Must have been my imagination. How could an ex-con possibly have an aura like a martial artist?

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