2025-09-08 23:55:40
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The words hit the lobby like a dropped glass. Conversations stuttered, laughter faltered, and even the clink of glasses from the bar seemed to still.The older receptionist blinked, her lips parting as if she wanted to retort but couldn’t find the words. Dylan’s gaze stayed on her, sharp and unwavering.“Tell me,” Dylan drawled, straightening and letting his hands rest lightly on the counter, “do you really believe a clipboard and a checklist give you more power than me? That a pen stroke decides who belongs here?” He let out a quiet chuckle, slow and mocking. “Adorable.”The tall man near the pillar scoffed, pushing off it with his shoulder. “Big words for someone who can’t even walk in without stuttering at reception.”Dylan’s head turned lazily toward him, eyes narrowing with the faintest glimmer of amusement. “Stuttering?” His smirk deepened. “You must be mistaking me for yourself, since the only thing I’ve heard from your mouth so far is the nervous laugh of a man desperate to be
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Dylan’s eyes flicked toward the younger receptionist, cool and assessing, the kind of gaze that made people feel like they were being measured and found lacking. His voice was low, even, but laced with sharp amusement. “Why should I give my name?”The receptionist hesitated, her fingers tightening on the edge of the desk. She glanced at her colleague, then back at him, as if trying to decide whether to stand her ground or collapse under the quiet force radiating from him. “It’s… it’s just… protocol,” she said finally, a little too quickly. “Everyone has to give their name. Otherwise…”“Otherwise what?” Dylan leaned in slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His presence was calm, but the air around him seemed to thrum with a tension that made the busy lobby quiet down in patches.The older receptionist straightened, her expression firm, though the faint twitch in her jaw betrayed irritation—or perhaps fear. “Otherwise we can’t let you through. The boardroom is
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The SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of the chic five-star hotel, its glass facade glinting like a mirror under the late sun. Valets rushed to open doors, their uniforms crisp, their movements rehearsed. But when Dylan stepped out, the hum of conversation near the entrance dipped, curiosity crackling in the air.Men in tailored suits lingered with cigars, their laughter fading as eyes shifted toward him. Women in jewel-toned gowns turned ever so slightly, lips curling, whispering behind manicured hands.“Is that… Dylan Grenville?” one voice murmured.“He actually showed his face here?” another scoffed.A tall man with slicked-back hair let out a low chuckle. “God, look at him. Plain shirt, no tie. Walks in like he belongs. Embarrassing.”A woman in crimson with earrings that glittered like small chandeliers gave a pitying laugh. “I almost thought he was a driver. Imagine—Dylan Cross reduced to this.”Their disdain rolled over him like smoke, but Dylan’s stride remained steady. His
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Inside the SUV, the low hum of the engine filled the silence. Dylan rested an elbow on the armrest, his fingers brushing against his jaw as he stared out the tinted window. His expression was unreadable, but his driver dared a glance through the mirror.“Sir,” the driver said cautiously, “you… handled it differently than usual.”Dylan’s lips twitched faintly, though it wasn’t a smile. “Sometimes words cut deeper than fists. He needed to feel both.”The driver nodded, gripping the wheel tighter. “The crowd—they’ll talk about this for weeks.”“That’s the point,” Dylan murmured. His gaze lingered on the fading image of the fruit stall. “Fear fades. Memory doesn’t.”⸻Back at the stall, the fruit seller still clutched his cheek, his breath shallow, his pride shattered. His knees buckled, and he sank onto the chair, staring at the ground as if the dust could swallow him whole.The villagers edged closer now that the SUV had vanished, their whispers growing bold.“You called him a beggar,”
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The fruit seller’s smirk faltered the moment the SUV stopped. His eyes darted from Dylan’s calm face to the black, polished vehicle, to the suited man who stepped out and bowed.“Sir, is everything alright?” the driver asked crisply.The crowd went silent, the word sir ringing in their ears like a bell.“Sir?” someone whispered. “Did he just call that man sir?”The fruit seller blinked rapidly, his throat bobbing as he tried to swallow his sudden fear. “S-Sir?” He forced a laugh that came out shaky. “He called you sir? Pah—maybe you hired him to pretend. Some people pay actors, you know!” His voice wavered, desperate. “Is this a trick?”Dylan tilted his head, regarding him like one would a fly buzzing too close. “A trick?” His voice was dangerously soft.“Yes!” the fruit seller barked louder, trying to regain his confidence. “Look at you! Jeans, shirt, no gold, no chain! That’s not how rich men dress. Rich men don’t stand alone in the street. They don’t stare at fruit stalls like begg
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The villa gates shut behind Dylan with a heavy clang, the kind that echoed finality. He didn’t look back. The sun was already low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the city, turning the rooftops into sharp silhouettes against a sky streaked in orange and violet. His steps were even, measured, as though every movement of his body carried a purpose. In his hand, he still carried the envelope of papers—the ones that gave him authority, power, ownership. It was ironic, he thought, that something so important could be so thin, just a few sheets pressed together.But the street outside did not care who he was or what he carried.The air shifted. Loud, messy, crowded. Children laughed somewhere behind the stalls, vendors shouted prices, pots clanged, and the scent of roasted corn, fried plantains, and spiced meat filled the evening air. Dylan slipped into that current of sound and smell, a lone figure among many.His plain black shirt clung comfortably to his frame, worn jeans sitt
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