Kiss the Scumbag

Prologue

“Whose kid is it?”

A chilling voice suddenly pierced his ears. Yu-jin flinched, snapping back to reality.

The gun was still pointed at him. Winston’s cold, unyielding face, the eyes filled with contempt staring down at him—none of it had changed. Realizing he had been caught up in an absurd delusion, Yu-jin felt a wave of panic wash over him, momentarily unsure of what to do. He couldn’t even find the words to respond, and Winston sneered as if he’d expected as much.

“Of course, you wouldn’t be able to answer.”

A breath of laughter slipped from the corner of Winston’s twisted lips, barely more than a sharp exhale.

“A filthy whore like you wouldn’t have a clue who the father is.”

It felt as if something razor-sharp had been driven straight into his heart. Yu-jin, his face drained of all color, could only stare at Winston in shock.

It’s you.

He tried to speak, but no sound came out. The desperate truth was trapped in his throat, lost in the tangled mess of his choked voice.

It’s you, Winston.

Yu-jin stood frozen in the aftermath of the shock, unable to utter a word. Winston smirked, his voice laced with mockery.

“Baby, no one in this world knows better than I do just how much of a filthy whore you really are.”

***

Cough, cough.

The harsh, body-shaking coughs echoed through the room, but the lawyer remained standing, his back straight and expression unreadable. The man gasped for breath, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants before his body slumped in exhaustion. A faint, lingering trace of his pheromones still clung to the air—a scent that had elevated him to this position, granted him everything, yet cruelly withheld the one thing he had desired most.

But now, that scent was neither intoxicating nor overwhelming. It merely hovered, barely perceptible, a faint whisper of its former power. It was the scent of impending death.

A wet, rattling sound escaped the man’s throat as he gasped. Grrk, grrk. His breath was labored, his voice hoarse when he finally spoke.

“Not… much time left, is there?”

A bubbling rasp followed his words. The physician standing by the bedside merely gazed down at him in silence. The lawyer, who had been waiting for the fit of coughing to subside, finally spoke after a pause.

“Are you ready?”

At the quiet question, the man coughed twice more before nodding. As if taking that as a signal, the physician began asking him a series of questions. After listening to the man’s responses, he turned toward the lawyer and spoke.

“Mr. Campbell is fully conscious. His pheromone levels are lower than usual.”

Extreme Alphas were known to occasionally succumb to the overwhelming intensity of their own pheromones, their minds dissolving under the strain. But despite his frail body, Harold Campbell’s mind remained clear.

“Of course,” he rasped, a sharp-edged chuckle in his voice. “This is the first time in my life my head has ever felt this clear.”

Both the lawyer and the doctor remained silent, watching the master of the estate. Harold Campbell was only in his early seventies, yet his time was running out.

For an Extreme Alpha—a being with enhanced immunity, slowed aging, and a lifespan far exceeding that of ordinary humans—his condition was a rare anomaly. Perhaps this was the price for being the only one in his bloodline born with a near-mutation of the Extreme Alpha trait. The pheromones that had ruled him for decades had, at last, bent the knee to their dying host. And for the first time in his life, Harold felt a sense of liberation. Soon, he would be free from this diseased, burdensome flesh as well.

Another coughing fit wracked his body. The lawyer, after confirming that everything—including the physician’s statements—was being properly recorded, began to speak.

“This will has been prepared in accordance with Mr. Harold Campbell’s explicit wishes. Dr. Wilson has confirmed that Mr. Campbell is of sound mind. To further verify the validity of this will, two additional physicians have conducted psychiatric evaluations and provided official documentation of their findings. These verification certificates are attached to the will. Now, Mr. Harold Campbell, please proceed with reading your will aloud.”

The lawyer delivered the formal script with machine-like precision, altering only the name and a few minor details, just as he had done countless times before with different clients. Handing Harold the pre-written will, he stepped aside.

Harold gathered what little strength he had left, exhaled slowly, then struggled to sit up, sinking back against the large pillows. And finally, with great effort, he opened his mouth to speak.

“I, Harold Campbell, have written this will in full possession of my faculties as I stand at the threshold of death. This document will be executed without issue through the legal oversight of Attorney McCoy.”

Having spoken at such length, he was overtaken by another fit of shallow, rapid coughing. After struggling to regain his breath, he resumed reading.

“Camilia, my lifelong companion—you gave me four precious children, a gift beyond measure.”

With a firm, resolute voice, Harold began listing the inheritance he would leave behind. His wife, Camilia, would receive a monthly payment of one million dollars until her death—unless she remarried, in which case the payments would cease. His only daughter and eldest child, Catherine, would receive ten million dollars in cash along with ownership of all the family’s horses. His eldest son and second child, Gordon, would inherit ten million dollars in cash, as well as the Malibu estate and its surrounding land. His third son, Jason, would receive a monthly allowance of one hundred thousand dollars, contingent upon continued medical treatment. If he discontinued treatment or resumed the use of illicit substances, the payments would be suspended, and he would be forcibly admitted to a specialized rehabilitation center for intensive care, with payments withheld until his release.

Harold barely managed to deliver these words, his speech interrupted by harsh coughing. He gestured weakly toward the physician, signaling for water. The doctor swiftly handed him a glass, which Harold drank down to the last drop before exhaling in exhaustion. Only then did he speak again, his voice rasping.

“And Winston, my beloved youngest son.”

The son he cherished most. The one who resembled him the most. Among all his children, Winston was by far the most exceptional—the only one to inherit the same genetic trait as Harold himself. As he envisioned those piercing violet eyes, identical to his own, his voice trembled ever so slightly.

“For you, I leave…”

***

“Yu-jin is coming back.”

The moment the news broke, the Campbell household was thrown into chaos. Lady Catherine, who was prone to fainting spells, lost consciousness for exactly 34 seconds. Her husband, George, who had been fanning her with a handkerchief, barely managed to suppress the string of expletives rising to his lips, settling instead for a single, gritted, “Damn it!”

Camilia Campbell, always composed and coldly pragmatic, kept her back straight and maintained an appearance of calm. But deep down, she wished she could simply faint like her fragile daughter. That was how thoroughly this news ruined her mood.

Catherine’s teenage daughter, Georgina, sat apart from the commotion, sipping her tea with keen interest as she observed the adults unravel. Predictably, it was her eldest uncle, Gordon, who spoke up first, raising his voice as he always did in moments like these.

“Why the hell is that filthy delinquent coming back here? After disgracing the family, now he decides to crawl back?”

From the couch, Lady Catherine, still pressing a hand to her forehead in dramatic distress, added her own bitter remark.

“That thing has been a disgrace from the moment he existed.”

Frankly, the real disgrace was their grandfather, who, at his age, had taken in a much younger Asian man as his lover.

Georgina, wisely, kept that particular thought to herself and took another sip of tea instead. It had been years since she last heard the name “Yu-jin.” Had it been five years since he left? Six? She wasn’t even sure. To her, he had always been nothing more than the strange man who lived in the guesthouse. At some point, when she was old enough to understand, she learned that he was supposedly some distant relative. But the truth was, no one in this family had ever considered him one of their own.

Even the claim that he was a distant relative was just a convenient lie Harold Campbell had concocted to save face.

The reality was far more scandalous—Yu-jin had been Harold Campbell’s hidden lover.

From the moment he set foot in the estate, he had been an unwelcome presence, and when he finally left, the entire household had celebrated his departure like a long-awaited victory.

And now, he was coming back.

Of course, no one was pleased. Having finally rid themselves of that scumbag, now he dared to reappear? Every single person in the room shared the same disgust.

Georgina, feigning indifference, quietly continued sipping her tea, all the while watching the adults with fascination as their disdain boiled over. Even in front of his teenage daughter, George could no longer contain his rage.