God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 498

Chapter 498: Don’t Call Her Your Wife
“What did you just call him?” She hissed, her voice laced with disbelief. Her hands trembled, but her anger pushed her forward.

Her anger even affected her husband who was shocked when he saw his wife who was always silent and easy going with him no matter how much he ignored her or how much money he asked from her.

He thought that she would always be like that in front of me even though he knew that she had a reputation of beating up people who disrespect her. But to his surprise she was currently looking like some kind of hooligan she wanted to beat and that to, for the sake of some boy she was having some ‘fun’ with.

“If you’ve got a problem, you can take it up with me! Leave Kafka out of—”

But before Nina could go on a full rant and maybe even lift her husband up by his collar because of her mean temper, she stopped mid-sentence because something in the air changed.

The warmth of the lobby seemed to drain away in an instant, replaced by an oppressive chill that made her shiver. The atmosphere grew heavy, thick with a tension she couldn’t explain. It was as though the room itself was holding its breath.

Nina’s heart thudded against her chest as she turned her head slowly toward Kafka, drawn by the ominous weight that seemed to radiate from his direction.

He hadn’t moved from his relaxed position, but the change in him was undeniable.

The teasing smile that had always been a hallmark of his expression was gone, replaced by something cold and unyielding. His eyes, which were usually warm and playful, were now dark—abysmal pools of shadow that seemed to swallow all the light in the room. His expression was calm, but it carried the weight of something ancient, something terrifying.

It was as if death itself had taken form, staring down her husband with an intensity that sent shivers up Nina’s spine. Her breath caught, and her hands gripped the chair she was sitting on for support.

Her husband also visibly flinched, taking an involuntary step back. The colour drained from his face, his earlier bravado faltering under Kafka’s unrelenting gaze. His lips parted to speak, but no sound came out.

The silence in the room stretched out, heavy and oppressive. Nina held her breath, unsure of what Kafka would do next. He remained seated, still leaning casually against the counter, but there was something about the look in his eyes—calm yet chilling, like a predator deciding whether to strike.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and even, but carrying an edge sharp enough to cut through steel.

“First of all.” He began, his dark gaze fixed on the trembling man in front of him. “I’m not a big fan of being looked down upon or being cursed out.” He paused for effect, his words hanging in the air like a loaded threat. “In fact, usually, if someone does that, I make it a point to scrape their face across the floor.”

The man visibly paled, his eyes widening in shock as he instinctively took a step back. The confidence and anger he had displayed moments earlier were rapidly dissolving into fear.

“But,” Kafka continued, his tone softening slightly, though his eyes remained cold, “since Nina is here, I’ll let it slide. Just this once.” His gaze flickered briefly toward Nina, his expression warming ever so slightly. The gesture, subtle as it was, made her chest tighten. Her lips parted in surprise, her heart skipping a beat at the thought that he was reigning himself in—for her.

Kafka’s focus shifted back to the man, his voice growing harder again. “Secondly.” He said, leaning forward slightly, “I don’t like hearing you call Nina, your wife.”

The man blinked, his confusion mingling with fear as he exclaimed in frustration, “What are you talking about? She is my wife!”

Kafka’s eyes narrowed, his voice taking on a sharper edge. “No, she’s Nina.” He said firmly. “If you want to refer to her, call her by her name. Not ‘my wife.’ Because let’s be honest—you haven’t done a damn thing that a husband is supposed to do.”

The man’s lips twitched as though he wanted to argue, but the weight of Kafka’s words and the cold intensity of his stare seemed to paralyse him. He glanced at Nina briefly, as though searching for some support, but her gaze was fixed on the floor, her expression unreadable.

“I mean it.” Kafka continued, his voice calm but unyielding. “From now on, it’s Nina. Not ‘my wife.’…Do you understand?”

Nina’s breath hitched as she looked up, her heart racing. There was no way her husband would agree to such a demand. No matter how distant their relationship was, he would surely draw the line here—surely, he would fight back.

But to her shock, he said nothing. His shoulders slumped slightly, and he simply averted his gaze, his lips pressing into a thin line. It wasn’t an agreement, but it wasn’t a refusal either.

It was silence—cowardice.

Her heart sank. She had expected anger, defiance, something to show that he cared enough to fight for her, even if it was misguided. But this…This was worse. This was resignation. Fear…A complete lack of effort.

She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into fists in her lap. The realisation hit her like a punch to the gut—he wasn’t even willing to stand up for her. Not even to challenge Kafka’s words.

A pang of guilt twisted in her chest. She had wanted her husband to fight for her, to show her she mattered, even if only a little. But instead, the man she had spent years with stood there, silent and defeated, while another man—the one she wasn’t supposed to lean on—spoke and acted as if he were her true protector.

Kafka tilted his head in an amused manner, his smile returning as though the confrontation had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.

“Glad we’re on the same page.” He said casually, even though the dark gleam in his eyes hadn’t entirely disappeared.

Nina looked at him, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions.

Gratitude, guilt, frustration, and a deep, growing admiration for Kafka all tangled together, leaving her unsure of what to say. All she knew was that in this moment, she felt more valued by the man sitting calmly beside her than she had ever felt with the one standing before her.

But the man’s silence wasn’t just surprising to Nina—it was baffling to Kafka as well.

Kafka tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes as he studied the trembling figure before him. To be honest, he had expected some resistance, maybe even a half-hearted attempt at bravado.

After all, even under the weight of his aura as the ‘Incarnate of Lust’, most men managed to summon at least a token effort to fight back.

Sure, they were wary of him—Kafka had long since learnt that his presence made other men instinctively uncomfortable, a primal fear of something they couldn’t quite place—but not to the point of complete submission.

Yet here he was, watching as the man lowered his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. It wasn’t just fear—though Kafka could see that clearly in the way his hands trembled at his sides—it was apathy.

A complete unwillingness to even attempt to stand his ground for his wife.

Nina’s husband wasn’t scared for her. He wasn’t even scared because of her. He was scared for himself, unwilling to put himself in harm’s way, even if it meant defending her.

Kafka’s eyes darkened, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips. ‘So that’s how it is.’ He thought, a mixture of disdain and amusement curling in his chest. ‘You can’t even be bothered to fight for her, can you?’

The realisation only made his desire to steal her away burn brighter.

If this man couldn’t value Nina—couldn’t even muster the effort to claim her properly—then why should he get to keep her?

Kafka’s calm smile returned, slow and deliberate. He relaxed himself against the chair, his gaze shifting momentarily to Nina, who was staring at the floor with a mix of sadness and disbelief. Her usual fierce demeanour replaced by a quiet, vulnerable stillness.

The sight tugged at something deep within Kafka, a possessive edge sharpening in his chest.

‘She deserves better than this’ He thought, his jaw tightening slightly. ‘And if he won’t fight for her, then I will.’

He turned his attention back to the man, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “That’s it, then?” He asked, his tone calm but carrying an undertone of mockery. “You’re just going to stand there, bow your head, and give up?”

The man flinched but said nothing, his gaze firmly fixed on the ground.

Kafka chuckled again, though there was no humour in the sound. “You know…” He continued, his voice smooth and deliberate. “I expected at least a little fight from you. A spark of something—pride, anger, anything. But I guess I was giving you too much credit.”

The man’s jaw tightened, but he still didn’t look up. The sight only deepened Kafka’s disdain.

“Pathetic.” Kafka muttered under his breath, the word more for himself than anyone else. Then, louder, he added, “If you can’t even stand up for her, what makes you think you deserve to call her your wife?”

The man’s silence was damning, and Kafka could see Nina shift slightly in his peripheral vision, her shoulders tensing as the weight of Kafka’s words hit her.

He softened his gaze slightly, glancing at her as if to remind her he was still there for her. And in that moment, Kafka made a silent decision: he wouldn’t just protect Nina—he’d make sure she never had to feel this kind of neglect or insignificance again and would make her feel like the most cherished woman to ever exist…