Tormenting My Demon Lord Baby

My newborn son lay in his luxury crib, glaring at me with eyes that promised absolute destruction.

He was a reborn Supreme Demon Lord with his past-life memories entirely intactand in our previous life, I was the one who personally shattered his soul into a million pieces.

Now? He was nothing but my helpless, squishy biological son.

I grabbed my phone, maxed out the volume on the most obnoxious death metal track I could find, and let the frantic drumbeats and guttural screams absolutely tear through this million-dollar luxury nursery!

The high-and-mighty Demon Lord's tiny face instantly drained of color. His little body practically vibrated, shaking violently under the assault of the ear-splitting noise.

Pbbbt

Driven to the absolute brink of rage and sheer humiliation, my mortal enemya massive, incurable germaphobestraight-up crapped his diaper.

His little face flushed beet red. Humiliated tears welled in his eyes, radiating a murderous intent that screamed he wanted to slice me into a thousand pieces.

I stood over him, soaking in his utter breakdown from my absolute high ground, laughing so hard my stomach cramped.

"Maxwell!" I yelled toward the door. "Your son just took a massive dump! Get in here and change his diaper!"

You want revenge? Save your breath. In this lifetime, you're going to have to learn to call me Mommy first!

Chapter 1

My name is Cleo, and right now, I'm lying in a VIP maternity suite, severely questioning my life choices.

I gave birth naturally. Seven pounds, a boy inheriting the golden DNA of a multi-billion dollar empire.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was the way my son looked at me. It was like his gaze was dipped in actual poison. I swear I wasn't hallucinating.

Other newborns usually come out looking like wrinkled red potatoes, eyes squeezed shut, screaming their lungs out.

My son?

Dead silent.

The nurse cleaned him up and brought him over, and this little brat just kept his eyes wide open. He was actually staring right at me!

Those dark eyes were impossibly bright. But the look in them wasn't the innocent, clueless gaze of a baby. It was freezing. Disgusted. A mix of cold aloofness, scrutiny, and straight-up murderous intent.

Yeah, you heard me. Murderous intent.

As his mother, I literally shivered under his stare.

"Oh, Mrs. Maxwell! Look how alert he is!" The oblivious nurse practically beamed. "Such gorgeous eyes. He already knows he's looking at his mommy."

My mouth twitched. Sister, you need your eyes checked. He wasn't looking at his mommy; he was staring down his mortal enemy.

I tentatively reached out a finger, aiming to poke his little cheek.

My son, little Dumplingwell, officially his name is Caspian, but I just mentally nicknamed him little Dumplingactually turned his head a fraction of an inch and dodged my touch.

The movement was barely there. But the absolute disgust oozing from it was loud and clear.

I swallowed hard.

Fine. I comforted myself. All newborns are weird. Probably just a facial nerve twitch from squeezing through the birth canal. Yep, totally normal.

My husband, Maxwellmy ridiculously gorgeous but ice-cold contract husbandstrolled over.

He slipped off his gold-rimmed glasses, a rare move for him, and narrowed his striking eyes at the little brat in the crib. Maxwell was a walking, breathing freezer. Ours was a strictly business marriage. Aside from signing the papers and showing up at mandatory social events, we barely exchanged three sentences a month.

I figured a guy like him would at least show a shred of human emotion when facing his own flesh and blood, right?

Wrong. He stared for exactly three seconds.

My son, Caspian, stared right back with zero expression for three seconds.

One big, one small. Two identical poker faces engaged in an epic, silent standoff right there in the delivery room.

Then, Maxwell let out a low hum. "He's a bit different," he noted.

"Different how?" I croaked out, exhausted.

"Too much murderous intent," Maxwell delivered, short and sharp.

Holy shit!

He saw it too?! I thought I was losing my damn mind, but he actually picked up on it?

Maxwell slid his glasses back on, instantly snapping back into his untouchable, high-society elite persona. He shot me a cool, sideways glance. "Good work. You are excused from the corporate quarterly meetings for the next three months."

My jaw tightened. Gee, thanks. Did I just give birth to a son, or a walking KPI performance review?

Over the next few days, I got a front-row seat to exactly how "different" my son was.

First up: feeding time.

I suffered severe engorgement. The pain was excruciating. A top-tier Beverly Hills lactation consultant, hired on an exorbitant retainer, threw every trick in the book at me.

Then came Maxwell's mother. That overbearing woman, perpetually clad in custom Chanel suits, demanded with unquestionable arrogance that I personally breastfeed her precious grandson.

Fine. Breastfeeding it is.

Gritting my teeth against the pain, I offered my breast to my son.

This little monster squeezed his eyes shut, his face locked in an expression of absolute, 'death-before-dishonor' resistance.

"Oh my, why isn't Caspian eating?" My mother-in-law's voice spiked with impatience. "Is his mother not holding him correctly?"

I shifted through about eight hundred different positions.

The brat kept his mouth clamped shut like a steel trap.

Chapter 2

Finally, driven by sheer starvation or maybe just pure annoyance, his eyes snapped open. He shot me that exact same venomous, murderous glare.

The look practically screamed: Woman, get your filthy appendage away from me.

Son of a bitch.

My blood boiled and my jaw clenched tight. I carried you for nine agonizing months, and you're disgusted by me?!

"He won't eat!" I dumped the kid back onto the mattress. "Starve then! See if I care!"

My mother-in-law gasped, immediately swooping in to scoop him up. "Oh, my precious grandson. We can't let you go hungry."

Finally, we compromised. Formula it was.

The royal British head nanny brought over some absurdly expensive European imported formula. After mixing it to the perfect temperature, she poured it into the standard sterile hospital bottle and offered it to him.

My son, Caspian, graced it with a split-second glance. Then, he swiped his tiny hand.

Smash! The bottle hit the floor, shattering into pieces.

The nanny froze. I stared.

"Oh my god! What was that for?!" my mother-in-law shrieked.

I got it. He wasn't just disgusted by me. He was disgusted by the bottle.

Over the next twenty-four hours, my son used direct, physical action to teach me the true definition of "impossibly high standards."

This brand of bottle? Trash. Smelled too much like plastic.

That brand? Garbage. The nipple was too soft.

The other brand? Vetoed. The aesthetic was offensive to his eyes.

My mother-in-law, a ruthless corporate shark who devoured competitors for breakfast, was practically brought to tears by her own flesh-and-blood grandson. "What what do we do?" she stammered.

Maxwell stood to the side, watching the chaos with zero expression. Finally, he pulled out his phone and made a single call.

Half an hour later, his executive assistant sprinted into the room, hauling a sleek, silver biometric briefcase. He popped it open to reveal a row of brand new, immaculately vintage-styled baby bottles. They gleamed under the hospital lights.

"Custom-made for the Monaco royal family, hand-polished," Maxwell stated flatly. "Pure sterling silver interior lining. Perfect temperature regulation."

Are you kidding me? I'm his mother, and I've never used anything that disgustingly luxurious in my entire life!

The nanny, visibly trembling, transferred the formula into the new royal bottle and nervously offered it.

My son, Caspian, opened his eyes. He meticulously scrutinized the silver bottle. Then, with the arrogant grace of an emperor, he reached out his tiny hand and grazed it. Finally, he opened his mouth.

Gulp. Gulp.

He actually drank it.

I leaned back against the pillows, watching this ridiculous spectacle. Only one thought echoed in my head.

I didn't give birth to a son.

I gave birth to a tyrant.

And this tyrant's absurd tastes felt sickeningly familiar.

A wild, impossible thought flashed through my mind, but I immediately forced it down.

No way. Absolutely impossible. I drove my sword straight through that bastard's heart myself. I watched his soul shatter into a million unrecoverable pieces.

I was definitely just suffering from postpartum paranoia. Yeah, overthinking it.

My son, Caspian, was a man of refined tastes. And his impossible standards didn't just stop at his bottles; his sleep environment required even more ridiculous accommodations.

Upon discharge, we headed straight to Maxwell's sprawling Bel Air estate. My mother-in-law had custom-built the most elite nursery in the universe for her grandson. We were talking climate-controlled mattresses and a bassinet hand-carved by Italian artisans.

The result?

My son refused to sleep on night one.

The nanny held him; he just stared blankly at the ceiling. The second she set him down, he would let out this impossibly faint, yet ear-piercingly annoying sound.

It wasn't a cry. It was a grunt. A grunt that clawed at your nerves until you were ready to rip your hair out.

"Is he hungry?" my mother-in-law asked.

We fed him.

"Does he need a change?"

We changed his diaper.

"Is he cold?"

We tucked him under a cashmere blanket.

Chapter 3

He just kept grunting.

Finally, I snapped. Sporting two massive dark circles under my eyes, I stormed in from the next room. "Caspian!" I yelled at him. "What the hell do you want?! Are you going to let anyone sleep in this house or not?!"

My voice echoed off the walls, fueled by pure exhaustion and pent-up rage. Helen the nanny and my mother-in-law both jumped in fright.

My son, Caspian, slowly turned his head. Those pitch-black eyes locked onto me.

That look Tsk. It practically screamed: Stupid woman. You're too loud.

He stopped grunting. Instead, he switched to straight-up murdering me with his glare.

Maxwell walked in right after. He had just wrapped up work in his executive study. He wore a silk robe, the collar slightly open, revealing his collarbone Ugh, focus, Cleo. Now is not the time.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Your son refuses to sleep," I snapped.

Maxwell walked over, looking down at his son.

Caspian looked right back up at his father.

Cue another one of those damn, epic stare-downs.

"Play some music," Maxwell ordered out of nowhere.

"Right, right!" My mother-in-law slapped her thigh. "Music! Is my little Dumpling in the mood for a song?"

Helen the nanny frantically unlocked her phone and pulled up the most aggressively brainwashing, viral children's song on the internet right nowBaby Shark.

"Baby shark, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo"

The second the music hit the airwaves, my son's perpetually expressionless face scrunched up into a tight, horrified ball.

He looked like his eardrums were being physically assaulted. Agony mixed with humiliation.

"Waaah!"

He cried.

This was the very first time he actually cried since he was born. And it was earth-shattering. Lung-busting. Like he had just suffered the most catastrophic injustice in human history.

"Oh my goodness, why is he crying?!" My mother-in-law looked absolutely heartbroken. "Does he hate this song? Change it, quickly! Play that loud heavy metal death rock!"

I bit my tongue. Mom, please, spare him.

"Turn it off," Maxwell ordered coldly.

The music cut out. The crying instantly snapped to a halt.

Caspian let out two sharp hiccups, tears still clinging to the corners of his eyes, and glared viciously at Helen's phone.

That look practically threatened: Play that again, and you die.

"He he really doesn't seem to like that one," Helen stammered, looking like she was about to cry herself. "What what should we do?"

"Classical," Maxwell stated. He stepped over to the smart speaker. "Play Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata."

The smooth, slightly chilling piano melody slowly drifted through the nursery.

A miracle happened.

My son, Caspian, slowly closed his eyes. His deeply furrowed brow relaxed. The corners of his mouth even tipped up into a faint, barely-there smirk of satisfaction?

In less than three minutes, he was out cold.

Helen, my mother-in-law, and I stood there, three jaws practically hitting the floor.

Are you kidding me? A baby less than ten days old, and you're telling me he only falls asleep to Beethoven? What is this, some cheesy Hollywood Boss Baby movie?

"I told you." Maxwell wore a thoroughly vindicated expression. "The kid has impeccable taste."

I looked from Maxwell's unreadable face back to the little brat sleeping peacefully in his luxury crib.

That absurd thought bubbled up in my brain once again.

This pretentious-to-the-bone taste. This absolute refusal to settle for anything less than elite. This disgusting habit of looking down on the entire world.

Why why did he act exactly like my mortal enemy from my past life!

Chapter 4

Caspian!

The Supreme Demon Lord of the immortal realm! A terminal germaphobe, an insufferable narcissist, and absolutely useless aside from his unfairly gorgeous face!

The sick freak who refused to sleep on anything but ancient divine wood, who only drank from thousand-year-old glacial springs, and who literally demanded a three-day incense bath before a damn fight!

No, no, no. Cleo, calm down.

You stabbed Caspian to death ages ago. You drove your master's ancient divine sword, Starfall, right through him with your own hands. His very soul was shredded into nothingness by the sword aura.

How the hell could he be reborn?

And reborn as your son, of all things?

That was too absurd. That was even more ridiculous than me entering a strictly corporate marriage with Maxwell and actually popping out an heir.

I decided to test the waters.

The next day, taking advantage of my mother-in-law and Helen being out of the room, I slipped into the luxury nursery.

My son, Caspian, was wide awake. He lay in his Italian bassinet, intensely focused on the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. His gaze was laser-focused and ruthlessly critical.

It was as if he was evaluating whether the cut of the crystals was worthy of his royal presence.

"Hey, little brat," I leaned over the rail.

Caspian didn't even shift his pupils. Total freeze-out.

Alright. Play it like that.

I cleared my throat and pulled out my phone. Caspian's ear twitched a millimeter.

I tapped open my carefully curated playlist.

"Baby shark, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo, doo"

The second the beat dropped, Caspian's head snapped toward me. His eyes exploded with the most intense, concentrated murderous intent he had mustered since birth!

He glared dead at me. His tiny face flushed violently red. His little fists clenched so tight his knuckles turned white.

If he had the motor skills, he would have crawled up and strangled me on the spot.

"Ah! Ba-puh! Yah!" he fired off an enraged, utterly non-threatening string of baby babbles.

"Hahahahaha!" I clutched my stomach, practically rolling on the hardwood floor.

"What's going on? What's wrong?" Helen sprinted in at the sound of my howling laughter.

I instantly paused the track, pasting on a look of pure innocence. "Nothing, Helen! Just telling my son a joke."

Caspian stared. The temperature in his eyes plummeted below zero.

Woman, you've crossed a line. You have successfully secured my absolute wrath.

I read his subtext perfectly. It only fueled my adrenaline.

That night, Maxwell locked himself in his executive study to play the relentless workaholic again. Helen was playing Beethoven, coaxing Caspian to sleep.

I strolled right in.

"Helen, I'll take over. Go get some rest," I offered with a sickeningly sweet smile.

"Oh, sure thing."

The second the door clicked shut behind her, I killed the hypnotic Moonlight Sonata.

Caspian's eyelashes fluttered. His eyes snapped open, locking onto me with high-alert paranoia.

"Son," I cooed, dripping with mock sweetness. "Beethoven is so utterly boring. Come on, Mommy's got something with a real kick."

I tapped a different track.

An aggressive, chaotic, ear-splitting barrage of heavy metal death rock instantly blew through the luxury speakers!

All the blood drained from Caspian's face. For the very first time, panic and humiliation flashed across those gorgeous eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut. His tiny body shook against the mattress.

"Hahahahaha!"

I couldn't breathe. I was going to die laughing.

Torturing Caspian, that incurable germaphobe, was hands down the greatest thrill of both my past and current life!

"Love it, son?" I shoved the phone an inch closer to his face. "This is high art! Understand? The raw, unfiltered voice of the people!"

Caspian shook even harder. He looked like he was mobilizing every ounce of his remaining spiritual energy to fend off the sonic assault.

Pbbbt

A faint, but absolutely undeniable, wet sound echoed through the room.

Chapter 5

An indescribable stench began to permeate the air.

I froze. I completely forgot to cut the music.

Caspian, driven to the brink of rage and humiliation by the heavy metal noise crapped himself.

He literally crapped his pants.

The high-and-mighty, terminally germaphobic Caspian, who exclusively fell asleep to Beethoven took a massive dump.

I watched his tiny face cycle violently from deathly pale, to beet red, and finally to a sickly, furious purple. The look in his eyes wasn't just murderous intent anymore. It was pure, unadulterated annihilation.

CLEO! I could practically hear the primal roar echoing from the very depths of his shredded soul.

"Oh my god!" I pinched my nose, letting out a dramatic gasp. "Caspian! Where are your impossibly high standards? How do you poop your pants just from listening to a little music?!"

Caspian squeezed his eyes shut with a death grip, projecting an absolute aura of I am dead, do not touch me.

"Maxwell!" I yelled at the top of my lungs. "Your son just took a massive dump! Get in here and change his diaper!"

Maxwell appeared instantly.

He pushed the door open, only to be hit in the face by a dense, unholy stench violently mixing with the chaotic heavy metal drums. This billionaire CEO, a man who wouldn't flinch if a mountain collapsed in front of him, visibly stalled in his tracks.

His perfectly straight brows slammed together, knotting tight enough to crush a fly.

"What is going on?" he demanded, a razor-thin layer of forced restraint coating his voice.

"Your son." I pointed at the little brat in the crib, who looked like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole, fighting back a laugh. "He was so moved by the music. He just let go."

Maxwell didn't say a word. He strode over and killed the chaotic noise.

The world finally descended into peace.

Caspian slowly cracked his eyes open. His damp eyes were completely bloodshot. First, he shot me a vicious glare.

Then, he looked at his father with an impossibly complex expression. It was a chaotic mix of utter embarrassment, sheer humiliation, a desperate plea for rescue, and a razor-sharp threat that screamed, Touch me, and you die.

"Where is Helen?" Maxwell asked.

"I gave her a break." I threw my hands up in a shrug. "Honey, as the boy's father, shouldn't you step up and do your duty?"

I was doing this entirely on purpose. Maxwell was notoriously cold and untouchable. I knew for a fact he was a germaphobemaybe not as pathologically psychotic about it as my son, but pretty damn close.

Forcing this ice-cold billionaire to change a foul-smelling baby's diaper? The mere thought of that visual was thrilling.

Maxwell stared at me in dead silence for two agonizing seconds.

I fully expected him to ring for the staff or just slam the door and walk out. Instead, he reached for his cuffs. He meticulously rolled the sleeves of his exorbitant silk robe all the way up to his elbows, exposing thick, muscular forearms.

"The tutorial," he ordered.

"Huh?"

"The diaper-changing tutorial. Send it."

I bit my lip. Alright, man of action.

I frantically dug through my phone, found the Ultimate Newborn Care Guide for Billionaire Families video that Helen had sent me, and directly AirDropped it to him.

Maxwell stood right next to the designer crib, his face utterly blank, watching a little cartoon animation demonstrate the 'wipe, fold, and lift' technique. He studied it with deadly focus, analyzing the screen as if it were a multi-billion dollar merger contract.

Meanwhile, Caspian was on the verge of a total breakdown in the crib.

In this lifetime, or his previous one, he had never been subjected to this level of degradation. Breathing in his own stench, his tiny face scrunched up like a miserable old man.

It was the ultimate torturean infinitely arrogant, supreme soul violently trapped in a fragile, mortal body, forced to suffer the agonizing indignity of basic human bodily functions.

Chapter 6

"Ah yah" He started to whimper softly, the sound thick with unshed tears.

[Hurry up! You foolish mortals!]

Maxwell set his phone down. His expression was dead serious. "Finished."

He stepped over, picking up a fresh diaper and a pack of wipes. His movements were incredibly stiff. But steady.

The second his fingers brushed against Caspian's leg Caspian went completely rigid.

The sheer horror on his face outmatched his reaction to the heavy metal assault.

[Do not touch me!]

[You mortal! Get your filthy hands off me!]

[I will I will annihilate you!]

"Hold still." Maxwell's voice was low, carrying a razor-sharp edge of warning.

Caspian froze under his father's authoritative tone. He stared blankly at Maxwell, completely forgetting to fight back.

Then, I got a front-row seat to the most bizarre spectacle in human history.

An ice-cold, germaphobic billionaire CEO, completely expressionless, strictly following a video tutorial step-by-step to change the diaper of his equally germaphobic sonwho happened to house the soul of a Supreme Demon Lord.

The atmosphere was dead silent. You'd think he was performing a high-stakes open-heart surgery instead of wiping a baby's butt.

Maxwell's technique how should I put it?

Precise. Efficient. Utterly void of human emotion.

He tossed the soiled diaper. When he went in with the wipes, his hand moved fast and ruthlessly, like he was scaling a fish. Caspian's little behind turned a bright, angry red.

Caspian bit his tiny lip. Tears welled up in his eyes, spinning furiously, but he stubbornly refused to let them fall.

It was the ultimate, crushing humiliation of having his absolute dignity dragged through the mud.

Finally, the deed was done. Maxwell cleared away the mess without batting an eye, strode straight into the en-suite bathroom, and aggressively scrubbed his hands for ten solid minutes.

My stomach ached from holding back my laughter. "How do you feel, son?" I poked Caspian's little cheek.

Caspian slowly turned his head. He shot me a look that loudly promised, Just you wait.

Alright. I'm waiting. Let's see what a helpless infant who couldn't even roll over could possibly do to me.

As it turned out, I severely underestimated him.

The very next day, I noticed my brand new, limited-edition La Mer serum was missing.

I scoured my entire suite. Nothing.

"Helen! Did you see the skincare bottle on my vanity?"

"No, ma'am."

I stormed into the luxury nursery.

Caspian lay in his crib, sleeping perfectly "soundly."

I walked over, my eyes narrowing. I caught a whiff of something very expensive.

I ripped back his cashmere blanket.

My two-thousand-dollar serum was clutched against his chest like a damn teddy bear. And the cap was actually twisted open! Half the bottle had spilled out! Poured directly all over his custom pink bunny sleep sack!

"Cas! Pian!"

I let out a shrill scream.

The little brat woke up from the noise, peeling his eyes open with heavy displeasure. He looked at the half-empty bottle in my hand.

Instead of showing even a sliver of guilt he actually flashed a smug, totally provocative smirk.

It vanished in a split second, so fast I almost thought I hallucinated it.

But he definitely smiled!

[Foolish woman. That is the price you pay for humiliating me with that garbage noise.]

Son of a bitch!

My hands literally shook. This was no longer just weird baby behavior.

This was revenge! Naked, calculated revenge!

An infant less than two weeks old twisting open a bottle cap?! Executing a precise, targeted counterattack?!

That absurd, impossible thought crashed over me like a tidal wave once again.

Chapter 7

"Caspian." I hauled him up from the mattress, locking dead onto his eyes. "You're faking it, aren't you?"

Caspian blinked his massive eyes with perfect innocence, playing the complete fool.

"Don't play dumb with me!" I ground my teeth. "Who the hell are you?"

He let out a tiny yawn, tilted his head onto my shoulder, and nuzzled in like he was drifting off to sleep. He reeked of expensive La Mer.

My blood boiled.

"Fine, don't talk." I let out a cold laugh. "Maxwell! Maxwell! Your son just drank my serum!!"

I was totally bluffing him! If he really was the Supreme Demon Lord, his pathological germaphobia would never allow him to actually drink my skincare!

Bingo!

The second the words left my mouth, the little brat pretending to sleep in my arms went completely rigid! He snapped his head up. His eyes blew wide open, radiating outrage at the slander.

His expression practically screamed