My Secret TikTok Life: Family Disgrace to Global Kingmaker

Chapter 2: The Public Execution

I had only been on the portico for a few seconds, the rain just beginning to soak into my shoulders, when the heavy oak doors behind me groaned open again. I thought for a second it might be my mother coming to say a secret goodbye, or maybe a servant bringing me a coat.

Instead, a hand like a meat hook clamped onto my shoulder.

"The Chairman isn't finished with the show yet, Salim," Hakan said. He was the head of estate security, a man I’d known since I was five. He used to sneak me extra dessert from the kitchen. Now, he was looking at me like I was a trespasser he was about to toss into the bushes.

"He told me to get out, Hakan. I’m getting out," I snapped, trying to shake him off.

He didn't budge. "He told you to leave. He didn't say you were done. Get back inside."

He didn't wait for an answer. He practically dragged me back through the doors, out of the fresh, rainy air and back into the suffocating scent of lilies and expensive perfume. But the room had changed. The upbeat jazz was gone. The five hundred guests—the so-called 'elite' of the city—had formed a massive, silent circle around the marble dais at the front of the room.

My father stood behind a microphone, looking like a king preparing to pass a death sentence. To his left, Marcus was leaning against a pillar, already holding his phone up. He was recording. He wanted to make sure my downfall was preserved in 4K resolution.

"Attention, everyone," my father’s voice boomed. It wasn't just loud; it had that 'Bakar Authority' that made everyone’s spine straighten. "Tonight is about the future of our legacy. And a legacy can only grow if you prune the dead branches."

Dead branches. My stomach did a slow, sick roll. He was talking about me. In front of everyone.

"Salim, get up here," he commanded.

I walked toward the stage. My legs felt like they were made of lead, and every footstep seemed to echo through the silent room. I could feel the heat of five hundred stares on my back. I saw the Mayor, I saw the bank CEOs, and I saw my old high school classmates. They weren't looking at me with pity. They were looking at me like I was a car crash they couldn't turn away from.

"For twenty-two years," my father said, his voice dropping to a low, cold register, "this family has invested in a shadow. We gave Salim the best tutors, the best schools, and a name that carries the weight of empires. And how did he repay us? By chasing 'clout.' By acting as a servant to internet clowns."

A wave of snickering went through the crowd. I looked at Zara. She was smirking behind her champagne flute, whispering something to a girl next to her.

"I’ve realized that I cannot force a man to have a spine," Father continued. "If Salim wants to live a 'TikTok life,' he can do it. But he won't do it as a Bakar. As of this moment, I am officially disowning him. He is stripped of his inheritance, his position, and his place in this family."

I felt a weird sense of numbness. It was like I was watching someone else’s life fall apart. Is this really happening? I thought. Over a marketing proposal?

But the real knife hadn't been twisted yet.

"However," Father said, and the room went even quieter, "the Bakar Group is a business. We do not write off bad investments without settling the books. Marcus, the document."

Marcus stepped forward with a smug grin, placing a single sheet of paper on an antique table. Beside it sat a gold fountain pen.

"This is an itemized bill, Salim," my father said. "Every cent spent on your failed education. Your luxury cars. Your designer wardrobe. The total is five hundred thousand dollars. I consider this a 'Debt of Upbringing.' Consider it a loan."

I stared at him, my jaw dropping. "Five hundred thousand? You’re... you’re charging me for being your son?"

"I’m charging you for the resources you wasted," he replied. "Sign it. Acknowledge the debt. If you don’t, our legal team will be in court by Monday morning to freeze every asset you’ve ever touched. You’ll be tied up in litigation until you’re fifty. You won't even be able to open a bank account."

I looked at the paper. It was a trap. A total, perfect trap. If I didn't sign, he’d crush me with lawyers. If I did sign, I’d be starting my new life with half a million dollars of debt hanging over my head. My father wasn't just kicking me out; he was making sure I could never get back up.

"Sign it, Salim," Marcus whispered, leaning in. "Unless you think your 'followers' are going to pay your legal fees. Oh wait, you don't have any followers. You're just the guy who holds the camera, right?"

My hands were shaking. I looked at my mother. She was standing twenty feet away, carefully inspecting her manicure. She wouldn't even look at me. That hurt more than the debt. That was the moment I realized I truly had no one.

I picked up the pen. It felt heavy, like it was made of lead.

Fine, I thought, a spark of cold, jagged anger finally cutting through the numbness. You want your money? You want me gone? You’ve got it.

I scrawled my name across the bottom of the page. The ink was dark and thick.

The second the pen left the paper, my father snatched the document away. He handed it to a notary who appeared out of nowhere, stamping it with a loud, final thud.

"It is done," my father announced to the room, his voice returning to its normal, booming tone. "Now, let us get back to the music. The Bakar Group is officially lighter tonight. And much stronger for it."

The orchestra began to play a lively, upbeat tune. It was a slap in the face. The guests immediately turned back to their drinks and their gossip, moving away from me like I was a contagious disease. I was standing in the middle of a golden ballroom, surrounded by billions of dollars, and I had exactly zero to my name.

Actually, that wasn't true. I had negative five hundred thousand to my name.

I turned and walked off the stage. I didn't look at my father. I didn't look at Marcus. I just wanted to get to the door. I wanted to get to the rain. I wanted to disappear before I lost what little pride I had left.

But as I reached the massive doors, a hand blocked my path.

It was Zara. She was standing there with her arms crossed, her eyes scanning me with a hungry, predatory look.

"Going somewhere, Salim?" she asked.

"I’m leaving, Zara. Isn't that what you all wanted?"

"Oh, you're leaving," she said, her smile widening. "But you're not leaving with those." She pointed her silver-manicured finger at my wrist and my feet.

The public execution was over. But the "strip-search" was just beginning.