Rise of the belittled: MARCUS HALE

chapter 9

At that moment The phone hit the bar top and shattered into pieces, plastic and glass scattering across the polished wood surface.

"That bastard!" Ryan's voice filled the penthouse suite, sharp and venomous. "That bastard didn't die!"

His jaw was tight, clenched so hard the muscles jumped and twitched beneath the skin. His hand was still extended where he'd thrown the phone, shaking with barely controlled rage.

He'd recognized the voice immediately. Marcus. It was definitely Marcus.

But how? How was that possible?

"How the hell did those idiots fail?" Ryan spun around, his fist slamming into the bar. The impact made the expensive bottles jump and rattle. "I saw his legs broken! Both of them! His ribs were shattered! They injected him with enough suppressant to stop an elephant's heart! How is he walking? How is he talking? How is he—"

He stopped mid-sentence, breathing hard, his mind racing through possibilities and coming up empty on all of them.

The woman who had been draped across his lap on the leather sofa shifted nervously, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her designer dress. She was young mid-twenties maybe with perfect makeup and hair that had cost more than most people's monthly rent. One of Ryan's regular companions for nights like this, when he needed to blow off steam before important events.

"Baby, what happened?" Her voice came out soft, careful, testing the waters. "Who was that on the phone? Why are you so—"

The slap caught her across the cheek before she could finish.

Her head snapped to the side and she froze, one hand rising slowly to her face. The sharp crack of palm against skin echoed through the room. The red mark was already blooming across her perfect complexion.

The suite went completely silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant sounds of the city forty floors below.

"Did I ask you to speak?" Ryan's voice was low now, dangerous, cold in a way that was somehow worse than the shouting. "Did I?"

She shook her head quickly, tears already forming in her eyes, her hand still pressed against her burning cheek.

"Then shut your mouth," Ryan said, his voice dripping with contempt. "You're here to look pretty and satisfy me. That's it. Nothing more. Do you understand?"

She nodded, a small, jerky movement, not daring to make eye contact.

"Get out." He pointed at the door, his hand still shaking with rage—not at her, but at everything, at Marcus, at the incompetent guards, at the universe for not just letting things go according to plan. "Now. Get out of my sight."

She scrambled off the sofa, grabbing her purse and her expensive heels, not bothering to put them on, just clutching them against her chest as she hurried toward the exit. Her bare feet made soft sounds on the marble floor. She didn't look back, didn't say a word, just pulled the door open and disappeared into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind her with a soft, final sound.

Ryan stood alone in the center of his penthouse suite, breathing hard, his chest heaving. His jaw worked back and forth, grinding his teeth. His hands were still clenched into fists at his sides.

Marcus.

That voice on the phone.

"I'm coming for you."

The words echoed in his head, calm and cold and absolutely certain.

But it didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Ryan had watched Elena shatter Marcus's leg with the bat. Had watched Marcus scream and collapse. Had watched the guards drag his broken body out of the office like a sack of garbage. The injection they'd given him should have stopped his heart in ninety minutes less, maybe, given how damaged his body already was.

There was no way he should be walking.

No way he should be talking, no way he should be threatening anyone.

"How?" Ryan said aloud to the empty room. "How did they fail? They had one job. One simple job. Beat him. Inject him. Leave him in the crusher. Done. How do you fail at that?"

He grabbed another phone from the bar his personal cell, not the burner the guard had been carrying and pulled up his contacts. His thumb hovered over one of the names.

He could call someone. Send more people. Finish the job properly this time.

But even as he thought it, doubt crept in.

Marcus had sounded different on that call. Not scared. Not desperate. Not the broken, pathetic man who had begged for mercy in the office earlier tonight.

He'd sounded... dangerous.

Ryan shook his head sharply, dismissing the thought.

"Doesn't matter," he muttered. "Even if he survived, he's probably barely walking. Probably bleeding internally. Probably dying slowly somewhere. There's no way he'll come here. Not with security everywhere. Not with every powerful person in the city in attendance. He'd have to have a death wish."

He nodded to himself, the logic settling his nerves slightly.

Marcus was smart. Damaged, yes. Angry, definitely. But smart enough to know that walking into the Zhao family celebration would be suicide. Too many witnesses. Too many bodyguards. Too many cameras.

No. Marcus would crawl away somewhere to lick his wounds. Maybe try to go to a hospital, though good luck explaining the injuries without getting the police involved. Maybe he'd try to hide, to run, to disappear.

Either way, he wouldn't be a problem tonight.

And after the event, after Ryan had secured his position as the golden boy of Zhao Industries, after he'd celebrated with his father and Elena and all the dignitaries who mattered...Then he'd hunt Marcus down properly, he'd make sure the job was finished.

Ryan took a deep breath, forcing his hands to unclench, forcing his jaw to relax. He smoothed down his shirt, checked his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

He looked good. Expensive suit, perfectly tailored. Hair styled just right. The picture of success and confidence.

He could do this. He could go down to the room, smile and shake hands and accept congratulations, and no one would ever know that anything was wrong.

At that moment a soft knock at the door broke his thoughts.

"Mr. Zhao?" A woman's voice, quiet and deferential. One of the household staff. "Sir, I'm sorry to disturb you, but—"

"What?" Ryan snapped, his patience already thin.

The door opened a crack and one of the maids middle-aged, nervous, wearing the standard black and white uniform peeked in.

"Your guest has arrived, sir," she said carefully, her eyes averted. "Miss Elena She's downstairs in the main ballroom. And your father asked me to tell you that the celebration has begun. All the guests are here. He's waiting for you to make your entrance."

Ryan's expression shifted immediately.

Elena was here, his father was waiting.

The event had started.

This was it. The moment he'd been working toward for years. The celebration of his success. The unveiling of the revolutionary project he'd "created." The moment when he would be officially recognized as the heir apparent to Zhao Industries.

Everything else Marcus, the guards, the phone call all of it had to be pushed aside.

This was too important.

"Fine," Ryan said, his voice controlled now, professional. "Tell my father I'll be down in five minutes."

"Yes, sir." The maid bowed slightly and disappeared, closing the door behind her.

Ryan turned back to the mirror, checking himself one more time.

And he smiled at his reflection, cold and sharp.

"Let him come, Let him try to walk into a room full of the most powerful people in the city, covered in blood and garbage, looking like a homeless lunatic."

Security would throw him out before he made it past the lobby.

And Ryan would make sure he never got up again.

He grabbed his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and headed for the door.