PAYBACK Of Johnson Lancaster

Chapter 5: Anniversary Ambush

Ben Group's anniversary had hundreds of high-society elites, corporate executives, and wealthy socialites in gracious attendance.

At the center of the elevated stage stood Haven Tyler, basking in the glowing applause of the room.

He wore a pristine midnight-blue tuxedo, his chest puffed out with triumph. Beside him was Isabella, draped in diamonds and designer silk, smiling radiantly as she soaked in the supreme validation of their success.

Only twenty-four hours after securing their multi-million-dollar estate and kicking their "worthless, broken" ex-husband to the curb, they felt like kings of the world.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Haven announced into the microphone, his voice booming smoothly through the surround sound speakers. "Tonight is a celebration of vision, strength, and dominance. As we look toward the future of the Ben Group, I promise you that our momentum is entirely unstoppable."

Polite, roaring applause echoed across the vast hall. Isabella beamed, her chin held high as she looked down at the crowd, convinced that their lives had reached a peak.

Right at that exact second, the massive double doors at the far end of the ballroom swung open with a slow, deliberate creak.

A heavy, sudden hush fell over the front rows as heads began to turn toward the entrance.

Johnson rolled slowly across the threshold. He sat upright in the metallic frame of his wheelchair, his hands placed on the armrests, deliberately maintaining the game plan of recovering from a severe spinal injury.

He wore a charcoal jacket, his dark eyes radiating a quiet, steady calm that cut through the festive noise.

Isabella’s breath caught in her throat. Her smile vanished instantly, replaced by a look of sheer disgust and shock, as if a stray dog had just wandered into a palace.

"What... what is he doing here?" Isabella gasped, her fingers digging into the edge of the podium as she pointed a threatening hand toward the back of the hall. "How did that crippled pig even get past the security gates?!"

Haven stopped mid-sentence, his arrogant grin twisting into an ugly expression of rage. He squinted through the bright stage lights, recognizing the wheelchair immediately.

His eyes gleamed with an explosive fury at the sight of the man he had thrown down the stairs a couple of days ago.

"Security!" Haven roared into his microphone, his voice cracking with sudden panic and rage. "Get that pathetic invalid out of my sight right now! Throw him and his wheelchair into the street before I have the guards break every bone left in his body!"

The crowd erupted into a wave of confused whispers. High-society guests turned around, staring at Johnson with identical expressions of mockery and disdain, buying into the deluded narrative that he was nothing more than an embarrassing, broken ex-husband desperately trying to cling to relevance.

"Look at him," several wealthy socialites murmured under their breath, shaking their heads. "He's actually rolling himself into a high-society gala in a wheelchair. What an absolute, pathetic loser."

Isabella let out a sharp, hysterical laugh, clutching Haven's arm to steady her shaking nerves. "He's completely delusional, Haven! He probably begged a hospital orderly to let him roll out, and now he has nowhere else to sleep tonight! Make sure he's humiliated publicly so he learns his place!"

Johnson wore a weird smirk. He didn't shout back, nor did he stress himself to stand. He propelled the wheels forward at a slow, unbothered pace, moving down the center aisle while his eyes locked straight onto the stage.

Half a dozen heavy-set security guards in black suits rushed down the side aisles, answering Haven’s desperate command. But before they could reach him, the head of security, a veteran named Simeon, pushed past his men and stepped directly into Johnson's path.

As Simeon drew near, Johnson lifted his gaze and gave Simeon a single coded razor-sharp wink.

Simeon caught the signal instantly. The blood drained from his face for a split second as he realized who was sitting in front of him, but years of elite training kept his expression deadpan.

Playing his part to absolute perfection, Simeon dropped into a swift, formal bow right in front of the wheelchair, loud enough for the front rows to notice.

"My apologies, sir," Simeon announced, pitching his voice to carry across the hushed floor.

He straightened up immediately, turning a look of feigned confusion toward the stage. "Forgive me, Mr. Tyler. From a distance, the lighting tricked me. For a second, he looked remarkably like an overseas board investor I used to escort. My mistake entirely."

Up on the stage, the tension that had gripped Haven’s chest instantly faded. A wave of arrogant relief washed over him, quickly turning into loud, mocking laughter.

"An overseas investor?!" Haven bellowed into his microphone, throwing his head back as the entire ballroom joined him in chuckling at the absurdity.

"Simeon, you need to get your eyes checked! That's not an investor, that's Johnson, the useless, penniless ex-son-in-law! He couldn't invest fifty cents in a vending machine, let alone a corporate board!"

Isabella clutched her stomach, laughing breathlessly as she leaned into Haven's shoulder.

"Oh, my god, Simeon, you almost gave me a heart attack! Comparing this crippled beggar to a VIP? He's a worthless dog who couldn't even afford his own medical bills!"

The high-society crowd roared with amused agreement, pointing fingers and shaking their heads in utter contempt.

"What a joke," a corporate executive sneered from the second row. "The guy is completely delusional."

Haven smirked down from the stage, adjusting his cuffs with supreme, bloated self-satisfaction.

He looked at Johnson like a king looking at a dying insect.

"Well, since you managed to wheel your pathetic carcass all the way in here," Haven shouted down mockingly, waving a dismissive hand, "you might as well stay and watch how real winners celebrate. Simeon, don't throw him out just yet. Let the poor loser sit in the corner and watch what success actually looks like. It'll give him something to cry about tonight under a bridge."

Isabella beamed up at Haven, her heart swelling with adoring pride at how effortlessly he handled the loser.

Down in the wheelchair, Johnson kept his head bowed just enough to hide the cold, razor-sharp smile cutting across his lips.

Johnson stuck to the game plan and mused. ‘The tighter they tie the blindfolds around their own eyes, the sweeter it will be when the guillotine finally drops.’