The Raise of James Morrison.

Chapter 5

James stepped forward, his eyes on the Ming Dynasty tea set. Something in his mind an instinct honed from countless late nights researching antiques online, reading forums, studying authentication techniques was screaming at him that something was wrong. The glaze had an odd sheen. The proportions were slightly off. And the mark on the bottom...

"I said it's fake," James repeated, his voice steady. "That's not a genuine Ming Dynasty piece."

The silence stretched for three full seconds.

Then the room exploded.

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!"

"Who the hell do you think you are?!"

"This is insulting!"

David's face turned purple with rage. "You have some nerve—"

"The glaze is wrong," James said, picking up the teapot carefully. His hands were steady despite the hostile eyes boring into him from every direction. "Ming Dynasty imperial kiln pieces had a specific smoothness to the glaze, a depth that came from the firing process. This one's too uniform, too glossy it's the hallmark of modern reproduction techniques."

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about!" David snarled.

"And the shape is wrong," James continued, turning the teapot in his hands. "This is styled after new Dynasty proportions, not old. The spout angle, the handle curve—whoever made this copied the wrong period."

He flipped the teapot over, revealing the base. "But this is the real giveaway. See this mark? 'Made in the new period of the Great Ming.' That's not how imperial pieces were marked. Authentic tribute pieces from that era were stamped with the dynasty name, the district, and the kiln identification number. This is a mass-market reproduction probably high-quality, but still fake. And worse, modern reproduction glazes often contain lead and other chemicals that authentic pieces don't. If Grandma actually drank tea from this, she could get heavy metal poisoning, and it would be very bad, that she will not even supervise it."

The room had gone silent again, but this time it was different. Several relatives were squinting at the tea set with newfound doubt. David looked like he'd been punched in the stomach.

Then someone laughed—a sharp, mocking bark.

"Oh, this is rich!" It was Marcus, and his laugh was cruel. "The freeloader thinks he's an antiques expert now! What, did you take an online course, James? Read a Wikipedia article?"

The crowd erupted in laughter again, the tension breaking like a dam.

"You've got to be kidding me!"

"Since when does the house-husband know anything about antiques?"

"I bet he's never even SEEN a real antique before!"

"Yeah, James!" another cousin chimed in, grinning maliciously. "How many antiques can YOU afford? Can you even afford a five-dollar knockoff from a flea market?"

"This is absolutely ridiculous," an aunt said, shaking her head. "David spent FIVE MILLION DOLLARS on that piece. You think someone would pay that much for a fake?"

"He's just jealous!" someone else shouted.

David recovered quickly, his shock morphing into righteous fury. "You've gone too far, James. Too damn far! I bring a five-million-dollar gift out of love and respect for Grandma, and you—a man who's never contributed a single dollar to this family, who lives off Emily's charity like a leech you have the audacity to call it fake?!"

"I'm not trying to insult anyone," James said, his voice still calm despite the hostility radiating from every direction. "I'm trying to protect Grandma. If she drinks tea from a reproduction piece with modern glaze chemicals—"

"PROTECT HER?!" David's voice rose to a roar. "You're insulting her! You're insulting this entire family! You're calling me a fool and a liar in front of everyone!"

"That's not what I—"

"Get on your knees."

The voice was cold, sharp, and came from Marcus Wellington. He stepped forward, his handsome face twisted with contempt.

James blinked. "What?"

"You heard me. Get on your knees and apologize to David. Right now." Marcus's voice was silky with menace. "You've insulted him, you've made a mockery of his gift, and you've embarrassed Emily again. The least you can do is show some humility and grovel for forgiveness like the parasite you are."

"Marcus, that's not necessary—" Emily started, but her protest was half-hearted at best.

"Oh, I think it is necessary," Marcus said, cutting her off. "James needs to learn his place. He seems to have forgotten that he's here on SUFFERANCE. He has no family, no money, no accomplishments, nothing that qualifies him to be in this room. The only reason he's not living in a gutter somewhere is because Old Master Anderson took pity on him and shackled Emily to him for some incomprehensible reason."

"Marcus, please," Emily said again, her face flushed. But she didn't tell him to stop. She didn't defend James. She just looked away, her arms crossed, her designer dress suddenly feeling like a costume.

Her friends were watching. Her colleagues were watching. Important people were watching. And once again, James was humiliating her.

"Come on, James," David said, his voice poisonously sweet now that he had backup. "Be a good little freeloader. Get on your knees, apologize, and maybe... maybe we'll let you stay for dinner. Otherwise, you can get the hell out."