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

Even though Camila had spoken those words with all the judgment she could muster, deep down, a far more troubling thought had taken root in her mind.

Would I fall for it too?

The idea irritated her to no end. She had always been the kind of woman who held her head high, her pride unshaken even when her husband had insulted her. Words, no matter how sweet or cruel, had never swayed her.

And yet...

Here she was, watching Nina—feral, untouchable Nina—reduced to a love-drunk mess in Kafka's arms, and she hated the way it made her feel.

Not because she found Nina pathetic. No, it was worse than that.

Because a tiny, infuriating part of her was jealous.

She clenched her fists at her sides, biting the inside of her cheek as a wave of irritation—not at Kafka, not at Nina, but at herself—coursed through her.

How had she, Camila of all people, fallen to a point where her emotions could be toyed with by a man half her age? A man who had already taken so much from her and somehow kept taking more—her attention, her composure, her ability to brush things off like she always had.

And worst of all?

She wanted him to take more.

Camila closed her eyes for a brief moment, exhaling slowly.

Now that both Abigaille and Nina had openly fallen into Kafka's orbit, it was only natural that she would be next, right? He'd done something sweet for Abigaille, then for Nina, which meant—logically—it was her turn to be showered with attention.

As ridiculous and shameless as it was, she couldn't deny the anticipation building in her chest.

She wanted him to turn his focus onto her.

She wanted him to say something that would make her forget about how bitter she felt.

She wanted him to break through that last bit of resistance she was clinging to.

It's fine, she told herself. It's only fair.

But just as she was starting to get too comfortable with the idea, just as she was preparing herself for whatever sweet nonsense Kafka was about to throw her way—

Nina ruined everything.

"But it's not fair!" Nina suddenly whined, still snug in Kafka's arms but now peeking up at him with big, expectant eyes.

Camila's stomach dropped.

Don't do it, she thought.

"I mean…" Nina continued, her voice turning saccharine. "Abigaille got so many kisses from you...but I didn't get any yet."

Camila's jaw clenched.

Nina, I swear to God—

Nina, oblivious to Camila's impending breakdown, wiggled slightly, rubbing her cheek against Kafka's chest like an insufferable spoiled cat.

"It's only fair, right?" she added, pouting up at him. "I want them too~"

Kafka chuckled.

Camila's stomach twisted.

Don't encourage her. Ignore her. You were supposed to focus on me next, dammit.

But no.

Kafka, the menace, grinned.

"Well." he murmured, tilting Nina's chin up with a single finger. "If my precious Nina wants them…"

And before Camila could even begin to comprehend what was happening, Kafka started pressing kisses all over Nina's face.

One on her forehead.

One on her nose.

One on each cheek.

A slow trail down her jaw.

And every single time, Nina giggled—

Actually giggled—

And clung onto him tighter, wiggling happily in his embrace like she had just won a prize.

Camila felt her expression twitch.

Unbelievable.

She had just accepted the idea of Kafka pampering her next. She had mentally prepared herself for whatever play he was about to make to pull her over to his side—

And then, just like that, Nina stole the moment away from her.

Camila sat there, her arms crossed so tightly against her chest that she thought she might break a rib, watching as Nina basked in Kafka's attention, looking so pleased with herself that it made Camila want to throw something across the room.

She didn't even like acting cute.

She wasn't even into public displays of affection.

But when she saw Kafka holding Nina so tenderly, kissing her without restraint, whispering sweet things to her as if she were his entire world—

A wave of bitterness hit her so strong that she had to look away.

Camila sat there, quietly stewing in her own emotions, trying not to let her frustration show on her face.

It was fine.

It was only natural that Kafka would accept Nina's request first. After all, he wasn't the type of man to leave someone he cared about hanging, and Nina—desperate, shameless Nina—had practically thrown herself at him.

So, Camila waited.

She watched as he showered Nina in attention.

She watched as he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her nose—everywhere he could reach—while Nina clung to him like a lovesick fool.

She watched as he looked at Nina with that magnetic gaze of his, the same one that had stolen her breath more times than she wanted to admit.

She watched their happiness, their little moment of bliss, and she told herself—just a little longer.

Because after this...it would be her turn.

Kafka would have to turn his attention to her next. He'd have to do something to pull her over, to make her succumb to whatever game he was playing.

And whatever trick he used, whatever words he said, whatever touch he gave—she would welcome it.

Because that was the thing about Kafka.

No matter what he did, it always made her happier.

So she waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And then finally...finally—

Kafka stopped.

And then…

He looked at her.

Camila felt her heart leap before she could stop it.

Here it comes.

She straightened ever so slightly, anticipation curling in her stomach.

Would he pull her in the way he had with Abigaille? Would he tease her the way he had with Nina? Would he whisper something in that low, tempting voice of his?

She braced herself, prepared for anything—

But then…

Kafka sighed.

Not a soft, teasing sigh. Not an amused one.

But one of defeat.

"…You really are one tough cookie to crack, huh?"

Camila blinked.

Before she could process what was happening, Kafka gave her one last look, and then—

"I guess it's impossible to break through your borders."

Her stomach twisted.

"I should probably just accept it now." he added, almost shrugging as if it didn't matter. "Camila's unwinnable."

Camila's breath caught in her throat.

"And since that's the case…"

She waited for him to say something else—anything else—but instead…

He just turned away.

Just like that.

And went back to Nina.

Like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn't been sitting there, waiting for him.

Like she wasn't right there, just within his reach.

Her chest clenched, something sharp and ugly twisting deep inside her.

She told herself she shouldn't feel this way.

She told herself it was fine.

She told herself this was exactly what she wanted—to stay out of his reach, to remain unaffected by his games.

But then…

Why did it feel like she was suffocating?

Camila sat there, frozen, as a storm of emotions raged inside her.

She shouldn't care.

She shouldn't want him to try harder.

She shouldn't feel this twisting, suffocating ache in her chest.

And yet—

She did.

Even though she acted untouchable, she wanted him to fight for her.

Even though she pretended his words didn't affect her, she wanted him to prove her wrong.

Because that's the kind of love they had nurtured—one that didn't back down, one that didn't accept defeat, one that refused to let go, no matter what.

So when he gave up on her so easily—when he just turned away without a second thought—

She couldn't bear it.

A hollow, unbearable feeling clawed at her insides, spreading like poison.

And before she knew it—before she could stop herself—

She moved.

"Kafka!"

His name tore from her lips—a desperate, raw plea.

Nina, who had been lost in her own bliss just seconds ago, flinched at the sharpness in Camila's voice.

She turned, startled, eyes widening as she saw Camila rushing forward.

And then—

Before Kafka could react—before anyone could react—

Camila threw herself at him.

Her arms wrapped around his torso in a tight, desperate grip, pressing herself into his warmth like she needed to anchor herself to reality.

Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might break through her ribs.

Kafka stiffened, completely caught off guard.

Nina, still in his arms just moments ago, backed away, stunned into silence.

For the first time since this whole game had started, Camila had broken her own rules.

For the first time, she had reached for him—without teasing, without restraint, without pride holding her back.

And it wasn't graceful.

It wasn't controlled.

It was messy, raw, desperate.

She felt Kafka's body beneath her fingertips, solid and warm, the one thing that had remained constant in her life, and she hated—hated that he could just let go of her so easily when she couldn't do the same.

Her fingers dug into his back, gripping him tightly, as if holding on any looser would let him slip through her grasp entirely.

"…You idiot." she murmured, her voice trembling.

Kafka didn't move. Didn't say anything.

He simply stood there, completely still, waiting.

Camila pressed her forehead into his shoulder, her grip tightening just a little more.

"Don't say things like that." Her voice was quieter this time, but no less intense.

Nina, watching from the side, felt a strange mix of emotions bubbling inside her.

She had just been about to scold Kafka for being too cruel—just about to tell him that even she thought his words were unfair.

But then…

Then this happened.

And for the first time in her life, Nina—loud, boisterous, fearless Nina—had nothing to say.

She stepped back, giving them space.

Because she understood.

This wasn't something she could interfere with.

Not this time.

Not when Camila—her best friend, the woman who never let herself be vulnerable—was holding onto him like she needed him to breathe.

Camila clung to Kafka, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if letting go would send her spiraling into the abyss. Her face was pressed firmly against his chest, her warm breath fanning against him, but she couldn't bring herself to lift her head. She wasn't brave enough. Not now. Not when she was this vulnerable.

Her voice came out in a soft, pleading murmur. "Why…?"

Kafka remained still, his body tense, his expression unreadable.

"Why did you give up on me so easily?" Her grip tightened, her nails lightly digging into his back. "No matter what I said...no matter how hard I pushed you away...you should have kept trying."

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Her words wavered, the frustration—no, the pain—in them seeping into the space between them like an unshakable weight.

She took a shaky breath, nestling further into his warmth, as if she was afraid he might pull away. "Do you know...how long I waited?"

Her voice trembled, cracking slightly. "How long I imagined you would try to win me over…? How I pictured the things you'd do, the ways you'd pull me back in even when I tried to act like I didn't care?"

She swallowed hard, pressing her forehead into his chest. "But instead...instead, you just scoffed and let me go—without even trying."

Her voice was barely above a whisper now, thick with unspoken sorrow. "Do you know how much that hurt?"

She felt Kafka's breath hitch, but he still didn't move.

"Why would you do that…?" She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to say the words that had been clawing at her heart since the moment he turned away.

"Why didn't you fight for me?"

Her chest ached with the weight of her own emotions.

Her pride, her walls, her carefully constructed indifference—all of it—came crumbling down in that single, heart-wrenching moment.

And then, with a hesitant, almost pitiful waver in her voice, she lifted her head just enough to glance up at him. Her eyes, usually so sharp and unwavering, were now searching, pleading, desperate for an answer.

"…Was it because…" She hesitated, her lips trembling.

Then, in the smallest, most fragile voice she had ever spoken in, she whispered,

"Was it because I wasn't worth fighting for?"

Camila braced herself, expecting to see Kafka with that same unreadable, cocky expression—the one that always made her want to smack him. She was ready for indifference, for a teasing smirk, for a half-hearted response that would leave her feeling even more ridiculous for pouring her heart out like this.

But instead…

Her breath caught in her throat.

Kafka wasn't smirking. He wasn't looking at her with amusement.

He was crying.

Tears welled in his sharp, mischievous eyes, spilling down his cheeks in silent streaks, his lips trembling as he tried—and utterly failed—to keep himself together. His whole face was contorted with raw emotion, his usual confidence shattered in an instant.

Camila's mind went blank.

She was completely at a loss.

Kafka never cried.

Not like this.

Not with this much raw emotion, this much regret.