TRILLIONAIRE'S COLD REVENGE

The glass doors of Prestwick International Holdings swung open with a loud hiss as two broad-shouldered security guards stormed into the main lobby, their eyes locked on the thin, ragged figure standing in front of the front desk.

“Sir, we’ve warned you already,” one of them barked. “You’re not welcome here.”

John Whitaker’s arms flailed as they grabbed him roughly by both shoulders. “Please,” he said, voice cracking, “I just need to speak with Eleanor. Five minutes—just five minutes. I’m begging you.”

But the guards weren’t listening.

The first guard shoved him hard, sending him stumbling to his knees on the polished marble floor. Before he could gather himself, the second one yanked him up by the collar of his worn-out shirt and began dragging him across the lobby.

The lobby of Prestwick International Holdings; the very heart of the billion-dollar Prestwick empire, was bathed in gold-trimmed elegance. Employees in designer suits paused mid-stride, turning toward the commotion. Some froze in mild amusement, others pulled out their phones, already recording. The sound of mocking chuckles and camera shutters filled the air.

“Is that the loser son-in-law again?”

“Why does he keep embarrassing himself?”

“Someone should tell him Eleanor’s not going to save him.”

John’s hands scraped against the cold tiles as he was dragged across the floor like a sack of garbage. His shirt tore at the seams. His face was contorted in desperation as he twisted his neck to the stairwell above.

“ELEANOR!” he screamed, voice raw. “ELEANOR, PLEASE!”

His voice echoed through the high ceiling, bouncing off the marble pillars and glass chandeliers. But no one answered.

Not her.

Not anyone.

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to see her. God, he didn’t even love her anymore. But he needed her. He had just come from Riverdale Public Hospital, where his mother lay in a thin gown on a rusted bedframe, the heart monitor slow and unsteady. The doctor’s words were still burning in his skull:

“If we don’t operate within five hours, she won’t make it. The surgery costs $500,000.”

Half a million dollars.

He had gone to every bank, every friend, every corner of the city; and no one would help. He was out of time. Out of options.

The guards reached the exit.

One of them growled, “Stop struggling, you wretched piece of filth.”

John fought to pull back, grabbing onto the side of a chair leg, but the guard snapped. He pulled out his baton.

“You deaf?! I said don’t resist!”

The first strike landed across John’s back; hard, thunderous. The wind whooshed out of his lungs. Another blow cracked against his ribs. A third landed on his shoulder.

Pain exploded through his body.

“AHHH! Please! PLEASE!” he screamed, curling into himself.

The second guard joined in, both of them swinging like animals. The baton slammed into his stomach, his thigh, his back again. Blood leaked from his lip where it had split open from the impact. His fingers splayed weakly on the cold tile as the guards stood over him, beating him like a criminal.

And still... nobody helped.

They watched.

They laughed.

Some even filmed in slow motion.

John screamed again, his voice now hoarse and trembling with agony. “Help me… please, someone… please…”

Then—

“That’s enough.”

The voice was sharp, low, and unmistakably commanding.

The guards froze mid-swing. Everyone in the lobby turned toward the entrance.

John opened one swollen eye and slowly turned his head.

His heart nearly stopped.

His blood went ice cold.

Standing tall in a crisp navy suit and black gloves was Richard Ferguson; the sole heir to the Ferguson Dynasty, second only to the Prestwicks in wealth and power. His chiseled face looked carved from stone, expression unreadable. His gaze wasn’t warm. It wasn’t angry either. It was worse; it was disdainful.

Richard Ferguson.

The man who had once offered Eleanor a marriage proposal in front of twenty million viewers during a gala fundraiser. The man who had made it known to the world that he would stop at nothing to have her. The man who had smiled through his heartbreak when she rejected him and chose John instead.

But what was he doing here… at her company?

Why did he look so at home?

Was he always here with her…?

The questions came like a surge of acid through John's chest, but he pushed them aside.

He couldn’t afford pride. Not now.

Groaning, he forced his battered body upright, crawling on his elbows until he could kneel before the tall, godlike figure. His palms came together in front of his chest as he looked up at him.

“Please…” he whispered, barely able to speak. “Mr. Ferguson, I’m begging you… please let me see Eleanor. I need to talk to her. It’s urgent. I’m not here to cause trouble… please.”

The entire lobby was silent, until Richard’s lips curled in a cruel smirk.

“You really are shameless,” he said coldly. “What makes you think Eleanor would want to see a worthless insect like you?”

A collective gasp filled the lobby. Then came the laughter; louder than before.

John bowed his head and ignored it.

“I’m begging you,” he said, voice shaking. “Please. Just tell her to come out. Just for a minute.”

Richard chuckled as he placed his gloved hands in his pocket, his voice heavy with derision.

“You think being her husband gives you privileges?” he said, eyes flashing with disgust. “You think that means something? You’re a parasite. A disgrace. You’ve been an embarrassment since the day you entered her life.”

Tears mixed with blood on John’s face. He pressed his forehead to the floor. He was past humiliation now. Past pride.

“I’m begging you… please.”

He reached out, his hand trembling, and clasped Richard’s expensive leather shoe.

Richard’s eyes blazed. “How DARE you!” he barked.

He shoved John back violently with his foot.

“You filthy worm. Who gave you the right to touch me?!”

John crashed to the floor again, coughing from the impact. Richard looked down at the broken man groveling at his feet and sneered as if John was a disgusting stain on the pristine marble beneath him. His voice was cold, sharp, and commanding.

“Get this piece of trash out of here,” he said to the guards. “Now.”

John's body jerked as the guards grabbed him again, one by the collar and the other by the back of his belt.

“NO! Please—PLEASE!” he cried, clawing weakly at the floor, his palms sliding on the smooth tile, leaving streaks of blood behind. “I’m begging you—just tell her I’m here! Just five minutes, PLEASE!”

But no one listened.

The guards lifted him off the floor like a rag doll and began dragging him once more, this time toward the main entrance.

The laughter and whispers erupted again like a sickening chorus. Sharp, cold voices cut into him from every corner of the lobby.

“This man is truly shameful.”

“Doesn’t he have any dignity left?”

“Eleanor should divorce him already.”

“He’s a piece of shit dragging the Prestwick name through the mud.”

“Every time he shows up, it’s one disgrace after another.”

“I heard he can’t even afford to pay hospital bills. What a joke.”

“Poor Eleanor… stuck with this failure.”

John’s breath hitched. Their words didn’t just pierce his ears—they lanced through his soul.

He screamed again, his voice hoarse, nearly inhuman. “ELEANOR! ELEANOR, PLEASE—PLEASE HELP ME!”

But no footsteps came. No voice responded. Only silence.

The guards reached the revolving glass doors, kicked it open forcefully, and threw him out into the concrete steps of the towering Prestwick building.

John hit the ground hard.

The side of his head struck the pavement with a dull, painful thud. His body rolled down the last two steps, his elbow scraping along the concrete. He came to a stop on his side, coughing violently, blood trickling from his mouth. His shirt was torn, his face swollen, his ribs aching with every breath.

He didn’t move.

Not at first.

People passed by, some sparing him a sideways glance. Others just looked away as if he were a common beggar. He could feel their eyes on him; full of contempt, curiosity, or pity, but he no longer had the strength to care.

He just lay there… broken… humiliated… bleeding into the sidewalk.

For a moment, he wanted to close his eyes and just… disappear.

His thoughts became distant, foggy, as they drifted backward through time—before the beatings, before the ridicule, before the slow, humiliating destruction of his name.

It had all started the day his mother collapsed at home. The hospital diagnosed her with an advanced stage of pancreatic cancer. The surgery to save her life was expensive; over half a million dollars. And John had nothing. No savings. No family. No hope.

He remembered standing by her hospital bed, holding her frail hand and feeling like a helpless child.

That was when Eleanor came.

She approached him like a savior. She told him she’d been watching him. That she admired his loyalty. His dedication to his mother. She offered a solution.

“Marry me,” she said, “and I’ll pay the bills. I promise.”

He hadn’t asked why. He hadn’t questioned her motives.

He was desperate. His mother was dying.

He agreed.

They signed the papers. She moved him into a guest wing in the Prestwick estate.

But the bill was never paid. Not a cent.

The doctors called. The deadlines passed. His mother’s condition worsened.

And Eleanor?

She was cold. Distant. Absent.

Eventually, the ridicule began. The insults from her family. The way they spoke about him like he was some mutt Eleanor had picked up from the street. The way she ignored him, humiliated him, erased his presence. And still, he stayed, because he kept hoping she’d keep her word.

But today proved it again:

She never would.

None of them ever would.

A sharp wind whipped through the air, carrying the honks of traffic and the chatter of passersby. Slowly, painfully, John pushed himself upright, each breath labored and tight in his chest.

His legs trembled. His body screamed in protest. But he stood.

He had to.

He staggered down the sidewalk, brushing dust from his sleeves, though his clothes were beyond saving.

There was only one place left to try.

The Prestwick family mansion.