The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 100

Chapter 100: 100 | Breakfast is the Deadliest Weapon

I woke up alone.

Diane’s side of the bed was cold. Her clothes from last night were gone. The only evidence she’d been there at all was the faint smell of her perfume on the pillow and a text message on my phone that made my chest tighten.

Diane: Morning, sugar. I’m heading to the office early. Crisis management. You know how it is.

Diane: Sloane is hurt. You need to fix that today. No excuses. Make her breakfast. Talk to her. Apologize properly.

Diane: I’ll be home late. We’ll talk about Sloane then. I love you.

I stared at the last message for a solid thirty seconds.

She’d never said that before. Not directly. Not in text form where it was permanent and documented.

I love you.

My brain refused to process it properly. Just kept circling back to those three words like they were a trap I’d accidentally walked into.

The System chimed.

[NOTICE: Diane Fitzgerald’s attachment metrics have increased. Subject exhibits possessive behavior and long-term investment indicators.]

I dragged myself out of Diane’s bed and pulled on my boxers. My reflection in her mirror looked like I’d been through a war. Bite marks on my shoulder. Scratches down my back. Hickeys on my collarbone that I’d have to cover with a high collar or accept that everyone would know exactly what I’d been doing.

Not exactly subtle.

I grabbed my phone and headed to my own room. The house was too quiet. No Sloane blasting music from the gym. No sounds of her punching the heavy bag or running laps.

She was avoiding me.

Fair. I’d earned that.

I checked the time. Six thirty in the morning. Diane had probably left around five. Which meant I had the entire day to figure out how to apologize to Sloane for sleeping with her mother without making it sound like I was apologizing for sleeping with her mother.

The System’s quest timer sat in the corner of my vision.

[MAIN QUEST: Keep It In The Family]

[Time Remaining: 66 hours, 14 minutes]

[Objective: Convince Diane Fitzgerald and Sloane Fitzgerald to participate in a threesome]

[Current Progress: Framework Established with Diane (1/2). Sloane reconciliation pending.]

Sixty-six hours to either pull off the most ambitious manipulation of my life or lose everything I’d built here.

No pressure.

I changed into gym clothes and headed downstairs. The training room was empty like I’d expected. Sloane’s water bottle sat on the bench where she’d left it yesterday. Her hand wraps were draped over the pull-up bar.

She’d been down here at some point. Probably couldn’t sleep either.

I started with push-ups. Standard form. Fifty reps to get my blood moving. Then I switched to diamond push-ups. Then wide grip. Then one-armed. My muscles burned but Boundless Stamina kept me going.

Calisthenics had become my favorite torture method. No equipment required. Just bodyweight and the ground. I could feel my frame filling out with every session. Not bulky. Lean. The kind of muscle that looked good without a shirt and moved fast when it needed to.

I dropped into a plank position and held it. One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. The burn spread across my core and shoulders.

Stats helped. My fifty Strength and Agility made everything easier than it should be. But the real gains came from repetition. From pushing until my body screamed and then pushing a little more.

I poured orange juice into two glasses. Set the table. Put the plate of french toast in the center like an offering.

Then I leaned against the counter and waited.

My chest was still slick with sweat. My hair was damp. I could feel the pump in my arms from the workout. The kitchen was warm from the stove.

Perfect.

I heard her door open upstairs. Footsteps in the hallway. A pause at the top of the stairs.

She was deciding whether to come down or go back to her room.

I stayed quiet. Didn’t call out to her. Just let the smell of french toast and strawberries do the work.

Another pause.

Then footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Cautious.

Sloane appeared in the doorway wearing an oversized t-shirt that hung off one shoulder and shorts that barely qualified as shorts. Her pink hair was messy. Her blue eyes were puffy like she’d been crying. She looked smaller than usual. Younger.

She stopped when she saw me. Her gaze dropped to my chest. My abs. The sweat still drying on my skin.

Her face turned red.

"Put a shirt on," she said.

"Morning to you too." I grabbed a strawberry from the bowl and ate it. "I made breakfast."