The Broke Husband’s Billion-Dollar Name

The Reckoning Slap

"I've already booked a hotel room upstairs," Simon murmured, his breath hot against James's ear. "For later tonight. Sophia and I are going to celebrate properly, the way a real man celebrates with a woman. And you know what? I might even record it. Send you a little video so you can see what you could never give her."

James's expression hardened, his jaw clenching. His fingers, which had been resting loosely on the table, slowly curled into fists.

Simon pulled back slightly, his smile poisonous, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. He'd gotten the reaction he wanted—proof that beneath James's calm exterior, he could still be hurt, still be made to feel small.

"What's wrong?" Simon said, loud enough for others to hear again. "Nothing to say? No clever comeback?"

The guests watched with avid interest, some with sympathy for what they perceived as a spurned, bitter man being put in his place, others with the cruel fascination of people watching someone else's humiliation.

James's eyes locked onto Simon's, and for just a moment, Simon felt something that made his triumphant smile falter—a flash of something dangerous, something that suggested the man sitting before him was not what he appeared to be.

But the moment passed, and Simon's confidence returned. What could this nobody possibly do to him?

James's hand moved with sudden and precise speed.

The slap connected with Simon's cheek with a sound like a gunshot. The crack echoed through the banquet hall, halting conversations, and the careful veneer of civilization that governed these gatherings.

Simon's head snapped to the side. His feet left the ground. For a heartbeat, he seemed suspended in the air, his expression frozen in shock, before gravity reasserted itself and he crashed to the marble floor with a scream that was equal parts pain and disbelief.

The entire hall fell silent.

The string quartet's bows froze mid-stroke, champagne glasses stopped halfway to lips. Every conversation died instantly. Three hundred heads turned as one toward the main table, toward the man standing calmly and the man sprawling on the floor clutching his face.

"James!" Sophia's shriek shattered the silence. She rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside Simon, her crimson gown pooling around her like blood. "Are you insane? What's wrong with you?"

James looked down at them both, his expression carved from ice. "He brought it upon himself."

"Apologize!" Sophia's voice climbed higher, shrill with outrage and genuine shock. "Apologize right now! You can't just—you can't hit people!"

"Why not?" James's tone was conversational, almost curious. "He thought he could say whatever he wanted without consequences. I corrected that assumption."

Simon struggled to his feet, one hand pressed to his cheek where a livid red mark was already blooming. His eyes blazed with hatred so pure it was almost palpable, but something in James's posture—the relaxed readiness, the absolute lack of concern, kept him from lunging forward.

There was something about the way James stood, the way he held himself, that whispered of violence barely restrained. Something that suggested attacking him would be the last mistake Simon ever made.

"You'll regret this," Simon hissed, his voice shaking with rage. He forced his shoulders back, tried to reclaim some dignity despite the burning handprint on his face. "Do you have any idea who you just struck?"

"Someone who needed to be struck," James replied calmly.

The gathered crowd watched with fascinated horror. This wasn't how things worked in their world. Disagreements were settled with lawyers and leverage, not physical violence. The raw, primal nature of what they'd just witnessed both repelled and transfixed them.

"When Marcus Sterling arrives," Simon said, his voice gaining strength as he remembered his position, his supposed importance, "when he learns that you dared to lay hands on his daughter's savior—the man who provided the medicine that saved her life, he'll have your legs broken. Both of them."

A few guests nodded, murmuring agreement. That made sense to them, the natural order reasserting itself. The nobody would be punished by the powerful for daring to step out of line.

James's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Savior?" He let the word hang in the air, dripping with contempt. "You?"

Simon's face flushed darker, anger mixing with the red mark. "If not me, then who else? You?" He laughed, though it came out strained. "I'm the one who acquired the thousand-year-old ginseng that cured Elena Sterling. I'm the one Marcus Sterling owes an unpayable debt to. This banquet—" he gestured broadly at the opulent hall, "—is being held in my honor. In our honor."

He pulled Sophia to her feet, positioning her beside him in a united front. "Marcus Sterling personally invited us to celebrate Elena's recovery. The recovery that happened because of the medicine I provided. So yes, I am her savior, and you are nothing but an interloper who's about to be thrown out on his—"

"He's right," a voice called from the crowd. A man in an expensive suit stepped forward. "Mr. Sterling should know about this. Someone should call security."

"Absolutely," a woman agreed, her earlier sympathy for James evaporating in the face of Simon's confident assertions. "Attacking a guest, attacking Miss Sterling's benefactor, it's unconscionable."

More voices joined in, eager to align themselves with what they perceived as the winning side. If Simon had saved Elena Sterling, if Marcus Sterling owed him a debt, then supporting Simon meant potential access to Sterling's vast network and resources.

"Throw him out!"

"Someone call security!"

"Marcus Sterling needs to know about this!"

The crowd's voice grew louder, more insistent. James stood at the center of it, unmoved, as wave after wave of condemnation washed over him. He'd expected this—these people only understood power and proximity to power. They would always side with whoever they thought could benefit them most.

But at that moment, a different voice cut through the noise.

"Miss Sterling has arrived!"

The crowd's attention snapped toward the entrance. Conversations died again, but this time not from shock but from anticipation, from the instinctive response to true power entering a room.

Elena Sterling walked into the banquet hall, and every eye tracked her movement.

She wore a gown of midnight blue that seemed to capture and reflect light with each step, elegant and commanding. Her dark hair was styled simply, pulled back to reveal features that needed no adornment. But it was her bearing that truly captured attention, the unconscious authority of someone who knew exactly who she was and what she was worth.

The crowd parted before her like water before a ship's prow, creating a clear pathway from the entrance to the main table. People stepped back automatically, some bowing their heads slightly in respect, others simply staring in awe at her beauty and presence.

Simon's face transformed. The anger, the humiliation, all of it vanished beneath a mask of confident charm. He straightened, adjusted his jacket, and plastered on his most winning smile. Beside him, Sophia's expression brightened with hope and vindication.

"She'll set this right," Sophia whispered urgently. "She'll tell everyone what you did for her."

Simon stepped forward as Elena approached, Sophia at his side. The crowd watched eagerly, anticipating the moment when their narrative would be confirmed, when the natural order of their world would be restored.

"Miss Sterling," Simon called out, his voice warm and congratulatory. "How wonderful to see you looking so well. Your recovery has been nothing short of miraculous."

Elena stopped a few feet away, her expression unreadable. The hall held its collective breath.

"We're so grateful we could help," Simon continued, moving closer with Sophia. "Though I must apologize for the disturbance here tonight. This man—" he gestured dismissively at James, "—this trash has been causing trouble. He attacked me, can you believe it? Right here in your father's hotel, during your celebration."

He shook his head with performative disbelief. "Don't worry, though. We'll have him removed immediately. Security can escort him out so he won't trouble you or spoil your evening any—"

Elena's hand moved with sudden, precise speed.

The slap connected with Simon's other cheek—the unmarked one, with a crack even louder than the first. Simon's head whipped to the side. His carefully styled hair flew wild. And this time when he stumbled, Elena's furious voice followed him down.

"Who," she demanded, her words cutting through the stunned silence like shards of ice, "did you just call trash?"