From Dust To Dynasty

3

The rain had eased to a persistent drizzle, but Caleb barely noticed. He stood frozen in the club's parking lot. The roar of his bike, which usually comforts Him, felt distant, muffled by the ringing in his ears. He wasn't angry; anger was a fire he couldn't summon. Instead, a cold, desolate ache had taken root in his chest, feeling like a deep, sickening emptiness.

  He stared at his hands, still slightly grimy from the electrical work.

  They were the hands that had clutched every meager dollar, that had pushed his body through countless shifts, all for her. The skipped meals, the worn-out shoes, the loneliness of long nights on the road—every sacrifice had been a brick in a future he’d envisioned with Cathy. A future that, in a single, brutal moment, had been reduced to dust.

  A laugh, sharp and joyful, drifted from the club, followed by the faint strains of a celebratory song. It twisted the knife in his gut. Why me? The question clawed at his throat, raw and agonizing. Why did he always end up like this, bruised and discarded? He’d tried so hard to be the man she wanted, the man society approved of—a provider, a steady presence. 

  He’d poured every ounce of his humble being into their love. And for what? For a public denial, a cruel charade, and a thrown handful of money on his face.

  His vision blurred. He squeezed his eyes shut, making an attempt to hold back the torrent. The tears came anyway, hot and relentless, tracing paths down his rain-streaked face. 

  He sank against a cold, brick wall, the icy dampness seeping through his clothes, matching the chill that had settled deep within his soul. He just wanted the world to stop spinning, for the crushing weight in his chest to finally ease.

  Caleb’s eyes burned, but he fiercely scrubbed the tears away. He wasn't about to break down. Not here. Not when he still had a shift to pull at Drip, a high-end bar and club. Even with his heart shredded, rent was due, and bills waited. He still needed to make money.

  He pushed through the heavy doors of Drip, stepping into the familiar rush of noise and flashing lights. The venue was renowned in Veredale, boasting a full hotel, a sprawling lounge, private suites, a gourmet restaurant, a gym, and even an indoor golf course. He ordered two shots of tequila, his voice a little hoarse. His bartending shift wasn't for another three or four hours, but he just needed a quick hit to dull the edges. "Man's still gotta work, you know," he mumbled, trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

  He took his drinks outside, settling on the curb beside his delivery bike. Drinking inside Drip was a hard rule he never broke; he didn't want any trouble with his boss, especially given the weight of the city’s social strata already pressing down on him.

  He managed to down the first shot. By the time he reached for the second, a wave of dizziness hit him hard. He fought it, clenching his jaw, desperate to stay clear-headed enough to forget Cathy. But the alcohol twisted the knife in his gut, making the pain feel even more acute, more devastating.

  "Just a sip," he whispered, uncapping the second bottle of beer he got with the tequila. "And I'll drop it." But halfway through, a strange, overwhelming lightness washed over him. His vision swam, then fractured. His eyes went cold, and the bottle slipped from his numb fingers, shattering on the ground with a sharp crack. He pitched forward, falling into a deep, dreamless slumber.

  A figure loomed over him, a man in crisp black trousers and a white shirt unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of his chest, sleeves meticulously rolled. This was Mr. Reyson, Caleb’s exploitative boss. He surveyed Caleb’s unconscious form with a sneer.

  "Seriously? This is how you show up for my establishment?" Reyson's voice, usually a snide murmur, was now a sharp, disgusted bark. He gestured to a bouncer nearby. "Get him out of here. He's fired. And make sure he doesn't cause a scene."

  Caleb stirred, a groan escaping his lips. His eyelids fluttered open, but the world spun sickeningly. He was still profoundly drunk, his mind a hazy fog. He could vaguely make out Reyson's sneering face, the bouncer's hulking form, and the shattered glass on the ground. Instinctively, he tried to sit up, his hands reaching for the broken bottle, a foolish attempt to clean up his mess.

  A shard of glass bit into his palm, making him feel a sharp, sudden pain, but his drunken state muffled it. He barely registered the sting before a heavy boot slammed into his side, followed by a flurry of blows. The bouncer, unforgiving, beat him, making sure he was thoroughly incapacitated.

  "Take him to one of the empty rooms," Reyson snapped, his voice barely audible to Caleb through the haze. "Don't want any scandal, especially with them having a party here."

  Rough hands hauled Caleb up, dragging his limp body through a labyrinth of hushed corridors. He felt himself being lifted, then unceremoniously dropped onto something soft. A heavy door clicked shut, plunging him into darkness.

  It felt like hours, or perhaps just minutes, before Caleb finally drifted back into a hazy consciousness. The throbbing in his head was immense, and his body ached. He shifted, trying to get comfortable, and his hand brushed against something warm, something soft.

  Suddenly, a violent yank, a sharp, stinging slap across his face, and a startled gasp cut through the silence.

  "Who are you, what are you doing here and what the actual fuck did you do?!" A feminine voice, clear and sharp, screamed, filled with a mixture of shock and fury raised her blanket up to check if she was still well dressed.

  Caleb blinked, trying to focus, despite the pain blooming on his cheek. He pushed himself up, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room. He was in a luxurious hotel suite, not his cramped apartment. He blinked again, trying to make sense of his surroundings, before his gaze finally settled on the person beside him. A woman, her silhouette framed by the faint glow of the city lights outside, was staring at him, her face a mask of disbelief.

  "What… who…. Who are you?" Caleb mumbled, his tongue thick with alcohol. "And why am I here?"

  He had no idea that the room he had been dumped in belonged to Ms. Diana Reed, a doctor who was in Drip for a medical conferenc

e, and who was now staring at a strange, beaten, and drunk man in her bed.