Owned By The Psychotic Billionaire (Mafia BL)

PAST ADRIEN’S POV

Inside the small sitting room on the second floor of the Dubois manor, fourteen-year-old Adrien sits on the edge of a stiff stool, staring at his shoes.

His knees touch, his hands resting flat against his thighs. His fingers twitch slightly, but he keeps his posture rigid, exactly as he was instructed an hour ago.

Outside the closed door, the hallway is quiet, but it is not empty. Adrien can hear the muffled, soft steps of the house servants walking past.

None of them ever knock. None of them ever offer a warm word. Whenever they look at him, their eyes are heavy with a cold, judging silence.

They know who holds the power in this house.

They know that standing up for Adrien or showing him an ounce of pity is the quickest way to lose their jobs. To them, Adrien is just an inconvenience lingering in the shadows of the estate.

The floors outside the door creak sharply.

Adrien’s shoulders tighten. He does not look up immediately, but his eyes shift toward the bottom of the doorway, watching the shadow block the strip of yellow light from the hallway.

The door opens quietly. Alice Dubois steps into the room.

She wears a crisp, high-necked black silk dress that clings to her frame like a shadow. She always wears black— sharp and utterly spotless.

Her dark hair is pulled back into a tight bun, not a single strand out of place. She carries a silver tray with a porcelain teapot, two small cups, and a thin binder.

Behind her, Henri Dubois follows with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers. His face carries its usual cold, detached expression.

Henri used to be a different man years ago, many years ago, but Alice’s quiet manipulation over the years has reshaped him entirely.

He genuinely dislikes Adrien, seeing his own son through Alice’s twisted lens— as an embarrassing, unwanted creature that ruins the Dubois family image she wants to see.

Henri does not look directly at Adrien. His eyes linger on the rain outside before he shuts the door behind them.

”You are slouching, Adrien,” Alice says. Her voice is soft and smooth like silk.

Adrien instantly pulls his spine straight, pressing his shoulder blades together until they ache. ”Sorry, Mother.”

”Quiet,” she interrupts gently, setting the tray down on the low table between them. She does not raise her voice. She never raises her voice. ”We have a long evening ahead of us, and excuses only waste time.”

She pours a cup of tea, the steam rising in a thin thread. She does not offer it to Adrien. She takes a small sip, sets the cup back on its saucer with a delicate click, and opens the binder.

”Your father and I have been discussing your future,” Alice begins, turning a page. ”Specifically, your place in this family. And your place in society once you turn fifteen next month.”

Henri shifts his weight near the fireplace, taking a heavy brass lighter from his pocket and flicking it open and shut. He gazes at the empty hearth, his jaw set in a hard, disgusted line as he glances at his son.

”He doesn’t have a place if he keeps acting the way he does, Alice,” Henri says coldly, his tone dripping with distaste. ”Look at him. He can barely sit straight without looking like he is about to burst into tears.”

Adrien keeps his gaze fixed on Alice’s knuckles, swallowing the lump in his throat. ”Father... I am sitting straight.”

”Do not talk back to your father,” Alice says, her dress rustling as she tilts her head. ”He is only pointing out the truth. You are fourteen, Adrien. Louise is exactly your age and, yet she already understands how to hold a room. She knows how to smile when spoken to, how to move, and how to make people feel that the Dubois name carries weight. You, on the other hand...”

She pauses, letting the silence fill the small room.

Adrien swallows hard. His throat feels dry, like sand. ”I am trying, Mother.”

”I know you are,” she says, and for a second, her tone sounds almost sympathetic. Almost kind. ”That is precisely the problem, Adrien. You try so hard, yet the result is always... embarrassing.”

Just then, the door handle turns, and fourteen-year-old Louise steps into the room without knocking. She is wearing a green dress, her long hair brushed to perfection.

She holds a small porcelain doll in her arm, her eyes sharp and bright as she looks at Adrien sitting on the stool.

”Mother,” Louise says, her voice high. ”Are you still dealing with him? The driver said we are leaving in an hour.”

”We will be done soon, darling,” Alice says gently, offering Louise a rare, genuine smile. ”Go wait downstairs with the house staff.”

Louise does not leave immediately. She walks over to the mahogany table, looking down at Adrien with a smug, mocking curl of her lips.

”He looks stupid like that,” Louise remarks casually, kicking the leg of Adrien’s stool with the toe of her shiny shoe. ”Why does he always look like he’s going to cry?”

Adrien pulls his feet back, flinching slightly. ”Stop it, Louise.”

”Louise, sweetie, let your brother focus,” Alice says softly, though she makes zero effort to reprimand her daughter. In fact, her eyes gleam with quiet approval at Louise’s cruelty. ”He needs to learn his lesson today.”

Louise smirks, turning on her heel and skipping toward the door. Before she leaves, she looks back over her shoulder, sticking her tongue out at Adrien before stepping into the hallway, leaving the door slightly ajar.

Through the crack in the door, Adrien catches the eye of one of the senior maids standing near the closet. The maid catches his gaze, quickly turns her head away, and walks off without a word.

No one will help him. No one ever does.

Alice turns back to the binder and pulls out a set of crisp white papers covered in fine handwriting. She lays them side by side on the table.

”Do you know what these are?” she asks softly.

Adrien looks down at the papers. He recognizes his own handwriting on the left page— a set of essays and practice speeches his private tutor had assigned him last week for the upcoming autumn gala.

On the right page is a different handwriting.

”My speech,” Adrien whispers.

”Your speech,” Alice repeats, nodding once. ”Or rather, what you thought was acceptable for a boy of your standing to say in front of the city’s elites.”

She reaches out and gently taps the left paper with her index finger.

”Your father read this yesterday,” Alice says. She glances toward Henri. ”He was so disappointed he could barely finish his dinner. Weren’t you, Henri?”

Henri stops flicking the lighter. He turns his head, glaring at Adrien with genuine malice.

”It was embarrassing,” Henri says flatly, his voice filled with venom. ”You sound like a pathetic child begging for scraps. Alice had to rewrite the entire thing because you don’t possess a single brain cell for business or diplomacy. You are a disgrace to my name.”

The harsh words cut deeper than physical blows. Adrien’s chest grows painfully tight. ”I wrote what Mr. Miller told me to write. He said I should talk about my interest in literature and— ”

”Mr. Miller is a hired tutor who is paid to be gentle with you because you are weak,” Alice says smoothly. She picks up the paper Adrien wrote, holds it between two manicured fingers, and brings it close to the flame of a small candle resting on the tray.

Adrien’s breath hitches. He makes a small movement to reach out, but his hands freeze in mid-air. He pulls them back to his lap, his knuckles turning pale as he grips his own trousers.

The edge of the paper catches fire. The flame eats through the ink, curling the white sheet into black ash that flakes off onto the tray.

Alice watches the fire consume his work with a placid, calm expression, her black dress absorbing the light of the small flame. When the fire nears her fingers, she drops the burning corner onto the tray, letting it burn out into nothing.

”We cannot have you speaking your own thoughts at the gala, Adrien,” she says softly, wiping a speck of ash from her thumb with a napkin. ”Your thoughts are unrefined. They reveal how soft you are. How easily broken you would be if anyone pushed you.”

She slides the second paper— the one written in clean, unfamiliar handwriting— across the table, stopping it right in front of his knees.

”This is what you will memorize,” Alice says. ”Word for word. Every pause. Every breath.”

Adrien looks down at the text. His eyes skim the sentences.

”I am humbled to stand before you tonight under the guidance of my mother, Alice Dubois, whose grace and wisdom steer our household...”

Adrien’s stomach twists into a tight, sickening knot. He looks up at Alice, his voice barely audible. ”This... this says I am handing over my trust fund management to you when I turn fifteen.”

****

I apologize for the mistake with the last Chapter. I only realized it after publishing this one.

— TheLovePoet