THE CEO’S SECRET CONTRACT: RECLAIMING MY DOMESTICATED BROTHER

Ten years. A decade had bled away since the day I fled the wreckage of our family, leaving behind a trail of broken promises and a little brother who used to cling to my hem. Today, Chi Dayen stood before the towering iron gates of a sprawling villa, a stark contrast to the destitute woman I had become. I was penniless, my clothes worn thin by the winds of misfortune, my hair a tangled mess of “wild” elegance—or so I told myself to mask the reality of my poverty.

The only thing I carried was a flicker of hope that the bond of blood hadn’t curdled into resentment. But as I stared at the cold stone walls, a bizarre phenomenon flickered before my eyes. Shimmering lines of text—scrolling comments—began to dance in the air like a live-stream feed from another dimension.

“The female lead is about to go insane. Locked up for a month, she’s literally skin and bones.”

“Look at the male lead! He’s forcing her to eat, gripping her chin like a monster. He can’t even speak human, only threats.”

“The family doctor is on the verge of a breakdown. Preparing for a funeral every day? Someone save him!”

“Wait, who is this ‘wild woman’ at the door? Is she the new villainess? A homewrecker appearing just as the FL is about to reincarnate? Men are trash!”

I blinked. Wild woman? Villainess? I looked down at my scuffed shoes and tattered coat. Well, I certainly looked the part of a beggar, but “homewrecker” was a bit much.

Inside the villa, the air was thick with a suffocating tension. My little brother—no, the “Tyrant CEO”—was currently crushing the chin of a frail, ethereal girl. His eyes were those of a cornered beast, predatory and cruel.

“To Mong Tran,” his voice dropped to a lethal, raspy growl. “Your life belongs to me. Even the King of Hell wouldn’t dare touch what is mine. A few years of peace made you forget your place, didn’t it?”

I took a deep breath, pushed the heavy doors open, and marched in. My dusty boots left muddy streaks across the Persian rug—a sound that grated against the silence like a jagged blade. I flopped onto the designer sofa, crossed my legs, and let out a voice that hadn’t changed in a decade.

“Dog-Egg, I’m home. Go cut me some watermelon. Cubed, not sliced.”

The room froze. Qi Kaichen, the man who made the city tremble, stood paralyzed. His predatory aura vanished, replaced by a look of utter bewilderment. But before his brain could process the insult, his body reacted with terrifying muscle memory. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked straight toward the kitchen.

The comments in the air exploded:

“Is this his sister? Did she just call the Tyrant CEO ‘Dog-Egg’?”

“Look at him go! No shouting, no violence, just… obediently cutting fruit? This is peak bloodline suppression!”

I leaned back, ignoring the gasps of the servants. The villa was silent, save for the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of a knife against a cutting board. Kaichen emerged minutes later, carrying a plate of watermelon cut into perfect two-centimeter cubes, arranged with mathematical precision.

He placed the plate down, his eyes filled with a mix of resentment and longing. “Disappearing for ten years like a ghost… what are you doing back now?” He pouted, a gesture so childish it shattered his “dark CEO” persona. He tried to sneak a piece of fruit into his own mouth.

Whack! I kicked him squarely in the rear. “Did I teach you nothing? Good things go to the wife first, then your sister, and you get the scraps. Has Mong Tran eaten yet?”

Kaichen yelped, clutching his backside. “You! You dared to kick the young master’s pride!”

The servants looked at me as if I were a god or a madwoman. To Mong Tran, the fragile “heroine” of this tragic script, stared at me with newfound adoration. I realized then that my brother hadn’t just become cold; he had become a victim of a “tragic male lead” script that forced him to be a monster. But to me? He was still the boy who used to wash my feet for a ten-yuan snack.

“One second,” I signaled with a finger. “Get over here.”

He hesitated, his face dark, but his legs betrayed him. He shuffled over and bent down, presenting his rear for another disciplinary kick. “Sister, I was wrong,” he mumbled, his voice cracking. “I’ll be your servant for life. Even when you have kids, I’ll be their servant too. My position as the family butler is unshakable.”

I sighed. “Go get my luggage from the gate. Double time.”

As the days passed, I realized the depth of the “Dog-Blood” drama surrounding them. Kaichen was trapped in a cycle of jealousy and possessiveness, fueled by misunderstandings about a “Childhood Friend” and Mong Tran’s alleged infidelity.

I decided to fix it. I installed 360-degree cameras in every room except the bathrooms. “The Young Master hates being watched!” the butler warned. “He’ll burn the house down!”

That evening, Kaichen returned. Seeing the cameras, his face turned black. “Who did this?” he roared, his eyes flickering toward Mong Tran. The poor girl trembled, expecting another interrogation.

“I did,” I said, not looking up from my phone. “Got a problem?”

The darkness in his eyes vanished instantly. “No problem. Just asking.”

But the peace was short-lived. A “Green Tea” antagonist named Tan Nhuoc Y—a girl Kaichen had supposedly sponsored—sneaked into his study. She orchestrated a scene, slapping herself to make it look like a domestic dispute, and then flaunted a “hickey” on her neck, claiming Kaichen preferred her “youth” over Mong Tran’s “faded” beauty.

The air in the study was electric. Mong Tran stood at the door, tears streaming down her face, ready to flee into the rain—the classic “tragic exit” from the script.

I grabbed her arm. “Whatever you think you saw, you aren’t the one leaving. We go in. If it’s true, you hit him. If it’s a lie, you hit her.”

We burst in. Nhuoc Y began her monologue about being his “destined soulmate.” But Kaichen didn’t play his part. He didn’t stay silent. He didn’t “misunderstand.”

Slap!

Kaichen delivered a stinging blow to the girl’s face. “I don’t even know who you are. My family sponsors thousands of students. You think I’d jeopardize my reputation for someone who can’t even address my wife as ‘Madam’?”

He immediately called his lawyer. “Sue her for defamation. Fire everyone in HR who let this delusional woman near my office.”

But the real climax came when Mong Tran, finally breaking free from her “fragile victim” role, lunged forward. She grabbed Nhuoc Y by the hair. “Who are you calling a ‘faded hag’?” She delivered a flurry of punches that would have made a professional boxer proud.

I stood back, nodding. That’s my sister-in-law.

The villa’s hierarchy had been permanently flipped. Kaichen was no longer the tyrant; he was the “domesticated hound.” He followed Mong Tran everywhere, carrying her bags, buying her favorite milk tea, and literally lying down on the ground so she could sit when her legs were tired.

“Honey,” Mong Tran asked one day, “Am I too demanding?”

Kaichen shook his head violently. “No! Compared to my sister, you’re an angel!”

Just as I prepared to move back to our old childhood home, a new character entered the fray. A sleek black car pulled up, and a small, chubby boy tumbled out, hugging my legs. “Mama! I finally found you!”

Behind him stood a tall, breathtakingly handsome man with a look of pained longing. Co Tram Nguyen—my husband.

“Dayen,” he sighed, his voice thick with emotion. “Don’t run anymore. Come home with me.”

Kaichen stared, jaw-dropping. “Sister… is that a three-year-old nephew? Did you… buy some DNA in a lab?”

“No, you idiot,” I pointed at the man. “That’s your brother-in-law.”

The two men—the Tyrant CEO and the International Tycoon—stared at each other. Then, they hugged. “Life is hard, brother,” they whispered in unison, two victims of “powerful women” finding solace in their shared fate.

They spent the rest of the evening arguing over who was a better servant.

“I’ve served her for ten years!” Kaichen bragged, massaging Mong Tran’s feet.

“I’ll massage her ten times a day!” Tram Nguyen countered, kneeling by my side.

I clinked my wine glass against Mong Tran’s. The “tragic script” was dead. The “villainess” was a queen, and the “tyrant” was happily folding laundry.

As for Nhuoc Y? She was back in her hometown, serving tea to people who didn’t care for her drama. Life, it seemed, finally followed my script.

Would you like me to develop a specific scene further, or perhaps create a dialogue-heavy “bonus chapter” for the two brothers?