THE HUSBAND THEY BULLIED, THE KING THEY FEARED

CHAPTER 11: A BANQUET FOR THE BROKEN

A BANQUET FOR THE BROKEN

The crowd behind erupted in laughter, but Damien stood calm.

Elara’s heart clenched. With everyone watching, heat crept up her neck, and she lowered her head as shame washed over

“Your pass, sir," the guard repeated, stretching his hand out. “How do we intend to identify you without your pass?"

“I don’t need a piece of paper to prove who I am,” Damien said evenly.

For a moment, silence fell over the hall.

The guests stared at Damien, eyes blinking in disbelief.

“What did he just say?” someone whispered.

“He doesn’t need proof?” another murmured, confused.

The guard pulled out his baton and jabbed Damien’s shoulder with it. “Oh right,” he sneered, mimicking Damien’s earlier calm tone. “Maybe we should call the host over and let him personally escort you in, huh?” He tapped Damien again, smirking. “That way your stay here might actually be valid, Mr. Important.”

That was all it took to send the room shaking with laughter.

From the crowd, Sebastian called out, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or better yet—have one of the sponsors hand you the ceremonial mallet while we all cheer for our executive guest!”

Phones rose, camera flashing and flickering as laughter filled the hall. And through it all, Damien didn’t move. He just kept his eyes on the guard, as if the rest of them didn’t exist.

The room broke into louder jeers.

The guard raised his baton again, ready to jab once more. “And maybe after that—”

He never finished.

Damien moved before the words even left his mouth, catching the man’s wrist. A sharp gasp tore from the guard as pain shot up his arm. Then, with a cold flick of his wrists, the baton dropped to the ground.

His lips cracked into a small, cold smile as he took a step closer to the guard. “Why don't you do exactly that...” he glanced down at the name tag on his suit, "...Henry?”

The guard frowned, taking a step back. "What?” he muttered, thinking he misheard. "What did you say?”

Damien repeated, his tone flat. “Why don't you call the host?” His smirk grew. "Call the sponsor. I'd love to have them escort me."

The guard’s face twisted in rage. “You crazy bastard,” he spat, stepping in close. “Think you can mouth off here? I’ll break your damn legs!”

He swung the baton up without warning.

Gasps rippled through the crowd—no laughter this time, only panic.

Damien didn’t flinch.

“MOVE!” the guard roared, raising the baton higher. “I said—GET—”

The guard swung the baton down hard—only for it to stop midair with a sharp crack. His wrist jolted. Something had caught it. No—someone.

The grip was firm, unshakable. The guard looked up, irritation flashing across his face—

and froze.

The man in front of him wasn’t security, wasn’t staff. He wore a tailored suit, not a uniform, and a silver badge gleamed on his lapel. The engraved word made the guard’s stomach drop.

Sponsor.

His pulse spiked as recognition hit him. “M-Mr. Ryan Chen!” he stammered, instantly lowering his arm. “S-Sir, I didn’t realize— I thought—”

Ryan’s cold gaze cut through him like a blade. “I give you all this money every year, and this is how you treat the taxpayers?” he said, each word crisp and biting. “You saw a stranger and thought that gave you the right to humiliate him?”

The guard’s throat went dry. His baton slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. “I—I’m sorry, sir—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Ryan snapped, voice low and final. He tilted his chin toward Damien. “Apologize to him.”

The guard’s legs went weak. He turned slowly, bowing his head toward the man he’d nearly struck, too afraid to meet his eyes.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” he said after a moment of hesitation.

Damien’s jaw ticked but he didn't respond. Without sparing him a glance, he waved at the guard before turning to Ryan.

“Sir," Ryan called as he bowed slightly. “Right this way, sir.”

Vanessa's eyes widened, anxiety gripping her chest as she looked from Ryan to Damien. The bastard didn’t seem surprised. He just nodded slightly and took a step forward.

What was happening?

The crowd stepped backward instinctively to allow him to pass through as whispers broke out. They weren't filled with insults anymore, just questions.

“Who really is this man?” one asked as he moved out of the way.

“And why did the sponsor bow to him?” another added.

“Did we just mock a billionaire?”

Vanessa hurried forward, forcing a bright smile as she tried to curry favor with the sponsor. “Oh, Mr. Ryan, there must be some kind of misunderstanding,” she said sweetly. “After all, he’s just a live-in son-in-law from my family. Why would a man of your stature personally come out to receive him?”

Ryan turned his cold gaze toward her. “Looks like your information is outdated,” he said, his tone cutting. “Starting today, every bell-ringing ceremony will feature an additional honorary guest of public welfare to give back to the taxpayers who support these enterprises. And Mr. Damien Hale is tonight’s honorary guest.”

For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then the whispers started.

“Public welfare? At a stock exchange ceremony?” someone scoffed quietly.

“Since when did these events start caring about taxpayers?” another muttered under their breath.

“Must be one of those PR stunts,” a man in a tailored suit said, half sneering. “Let the rich pretend they care for a day.”

But then, the realization began sinking in—whatever this was, the man they had just mocked was standing in a place they could never reach.

One by one, they raised their glasses, their polite smiles barely masking their unease.

“What a meaningful idea!”

“Truly visionary of the sponsors!”

As if turned on by a switch, they all rushed to introduce themselves.

"An honor to meet you, sir!" one woman said, her face beaming with a smile as she offered Damien a hand.

"Mr. Hale, I've heard so much—!" another began before promptly shoved by someone else.

"You're even more impressive in person!"

Flattery, handshakes, fake smiles—everyone was now desperate to please him. But Damien ignored them all.

Vanessa’s smile froze. Humiliated, she refused to back down. “Then why,” she said sharply, her voice trembling, “haven’t I — the bell-ringer tonight — heard a single word of this?”

Ryan accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, downed it in one smooth motion, and sneered. “That’s because your company’s listing has already been suspended,” he said. His voice echoed through the hall. “Tonight’s bell-ringing belongs to Veyra’s Holdings.”

Silence rippled across the room. Faces turned toward Vanessa as her expression collapsed, the color draining from her face.