The Trillionaire They Threw Away

Absolute Rock Bottom

The heavy scent of stale beer and cheap tobacco filled the dim air of the dive bar.

Liam Cross sat in the darkest corner table, his bruised hands shaking as he clutched a glass of straight whiskey. He had nowhere left to go. Lily was no longer at the mortuary; her tiny body was resting beneath the cold dirt. He couldn't go to Daniel's house either—Daniel's parents were lifelong friends of the Vanes, and staying there would only force his brother into a brutal family conflict.

He was completely alone. He needed to erase the world.

"Give me another one," Liam muttered, slamming the empty glass onto the sticky wooden table.

The bartender didn't even look up from wiping the counter. "You got cash for another round, trash? I know who you are. You're that deadbeat the Vane family just kicked into the gutter. No credit here."

Liam reached into his pocket and threw down a crumpled twenty-dollar bill—part of the money Daniel had desperately given him. "Keep pouring. Just make the room stop spinning."

"Suit yourself, Monkey," the bartender grunted, splashing cheap alcohol into the glass. "Drink fast and get out. Regular customers don't like looking at ghosts."

Liam drank it in one agonizing gulp, the liquid burning his throat but failing to touch the freezing void in his chest. He looked down at his calloused fingers, his mind trapped in a horrific loop. He kept seeing Lily’s tiny yellow dress swaying at the bottom of the pool. He kept hearing Diana’s sharp, cruel laugh as she confessed to selling his mother’s heirloom ring.

“It was just a piece of metal, Liam. You’re nothing but a dead man walking among the living.”

Suddenly, the front door of the bar swung wide open.

"Hey, everyone! Next round is on me! Let’s turn up the music!"

The loud, arrogant laugh was completely unmistakable. It was Marcus Quinn. He strode into the dim room wearing a pristine, custom-tailored suit, a beautiful young heiress giggling on his arm. Flanking them were three massive private bodyguards, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards. Marcus scanned the room with the supreme certainty of a man who believed everything and everyone on earth could be bought.

Then, his green eyes locked onto Liam sitting alone in the shadows.

Marcus stopped walking mid-stride. A slow, deeply predatory smirk spread across his face. He casually patted the woman's shoulder, handing her off to one of his bodyguards.

"Wait by the bar, sweetheart," Marcus murmured loudly. "I see a stray monkey hiding in the corner. I need to teach it some manners."

The entire bar went dead silent as Marcus walked over, stopping right at the edge of Liam's small table. He looked down at the half-empty glass, the rumpled clothes, and the complete hollow despair in Liam's eyes.

"Well, well, well," Marcus loud voice echoed, ensuring every customer in the room could hear him. "Look what the wind blew into the trash can. Aren't you supposed to be sleeping in a ditch somewhere, garbage?"

Liam didn't lift his head. He stared directly into his glass. "Get away from my table."

"Your table?" Marcus laughed shrilly, clapping his hands together. "Hey, bartender! Does this broke loser own this table? Did he buy it with the pennies he scratches from delivery shifts?"

The bartender chuckled nervously. "He doesn't own a single thing in here, Master Quinn."

"Hear that, furniture?" Marcus sneered, suddenly leaning down, slamming his hands onto the wood, forcing Liam to look into his arrogant face.

"You don't own the chair you're sitting on. Should I tell you what happened in Aspen? Diana spent the last three weeks screaming my name in Aspen while you were weeping over your bad luck. Tell me, how did it feel to bury that defective brat today? Was the box small enough for a budget discount?"

Liam's jaw clenched so tightly the bone cracked. "Don't you dare!."

"Oh, am I striking a nerve, monkey?" Marcus mocked, turning around to face the entire bar, gesturing dramatically toward Liam.

"Hey, everyone! Look at this absolute joke of a man! He let his own kid drown, got evicted by his wealthy in-laws, and now he's sitting in a dive bar trying to act tough! He's the biggest loser in the entire city!"

A few drunk patrons laughed nervously. The public humiliation was suffocating, cutting deeper than any physical blow.

"I saw how your lovely wife spat directly on your face," Marcus whispered viciously, turning back to Liam, his eyes wild with sadistic pleasure. "She said your dead mother's ring bought her a beautiful new Chanel bag. I touched every inch of her body while she wore it, goat. You are nothing. You are less than nothing."

Liam's eyes snapped up, a flash of pure, murderous rage breaking through the alcohol. He stood up violently, knocking the chair backward. "You're evil!"

Marcus didn't even flinch. He simply turned his head and gave a single, brief nod to his bodyguards.

"Trash him."

Before Liam could even swing, two massive bodyguards slammed into his chest. A heavy hand gripped his wet collar, violently hauling him upright and throwing him across the room. The whiskey glass flew off the table, shattering loudly into a hundred pieces across the floorboards.

Liam managed to get one desperate, wild swing in, his fist connecting solidly with a bodyguard's cheekbone. But the physical satisfaction lasted less than a second. The second guard struck him heavily across the jaw with a closed fist, sending his vision tilting sideways.

Liam flew backward, crashing hard against the sharp wooden edge of the bar counter. His left shoulder took the blunt force, and he felt something grind painfully in the bone. He gasped for air, desperately trying to push himself back up, swinging through the static in his eyes. He missed completely.

The third bodyguard stepped into the fray, driving a heavy boot straight into Liam's stomach.

There were three of them, unleashing a merciless rain of fists. And then, Marcus Quinn calmly rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, stepped forward, and delivered a brutal blow across Liam's temple.

The room exploded into blinding white static. Liam dropped straight down to his knees, his hands clawing at the sticky floorboards.

"Keep getting up, monkey!" Marcus barked, laughing as he delivered a heavy kick directly into Liam's fractured ribs. "Show everyone how a beggar begs for mercy! Come on!"

Liam desperately pulled himself back up using the edge of a barstool. He didn't even know why he was doing it—there was absolutely nothing left to gain from standing—but a deep, unyielding instinct deep inside his soul refused to let him crawl before these monsters.

Marcus struck him again, a heavy, final blow straight to his jaw. The force was loud and sickening. Liam collapsed heavily onto the filthy floor, completely unable to move.

The bartender kept his back completely turned to the blood, meticulously wiping down a clean beer tap.

Two men at the far end of the bar suddenly became intensely interested in the contents of their glasses. Nobody said a single word. Nobody moved a single muscle to help a dying man.

Marcus crouched down to his level, his breathing barely elevated. He looked down at Liam's bleeding face with complete, unadulterated contempt.

"I gave you a very clear warning, goat," Marcus whispered quietly, his voice dripping with ice. "And you just keep foolishly getting back up to ruin my view. Don't you ever step foot in this district again. If I see your face, I’ll ensure you join your brat in the dirt."

Marcus stood back up, calmly smoothing down the front of his tailored jacket. He walked back to the heiress waiting anxiously by the door, took her hand, and they exited the bar into the night, his three bodyguards following closely behind.

The bar immediately returned to its low, murmuring normal chatter, completely ignoring the broken man on the floor. Within minutes, two burly bar staff grabbed Liam's bleeding arms, dragged his limp body out the back door, and ruthlessly threw him onto the freezing pavement of the dark alleyway.

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Liam lay flat on his back on the cold, hard ground.

His fractured ribs burned like absolute fire with every ragged breath he pulled in. His jaw was swelling rapidly, his left eye was beginning to completely close up from the blood, and he could taste the thick, copper taste of fluid pooling at the corner of his split mouth.

He closed his eye, his mind drifting back to the fresh mound of earth covered in papery sunflowers.

He didn't hear the soft sound of footsteps approaching until a long, sharp shadow fell directly across his bruised face.

A woman crouched down beside him without a single shred of hesitation, looking like someone who was thoroughly used to making split-second decisions under immense pressure. Her voice was direct, sharp, and incredibly calm.

"Can you hear me?" she asked, her amber-hazel eyes locking onto his. "Stay perfectly still—don't try to move your torso yet. Look at me."

Liam slowly forced his good eye open to look at her. She appeared to be in her late twenties, possessing striking, intelligent eyes that were already expertly assessing the deep physical damage. She wore a sharp white silk blouse under a dark coat, a leather bag slung over one shoulder. She wasn't alarmed by the thick blood or the dark alleyway. She was entirely focused on saving him.

"How many of them were there?" she asked, her voice steady as her fingers gently checked his neck pulse.

"Four," Liam rasped out, the word coming out ruined, thick, and bloody against his throat.

"Can you sit up?"

"Yes," he groaned.

"Then sit up very slowly," she commanded firmly. "Do not use your left arm under any circumstances. Lean against my shoulder if you have to."

He did exactly what she ordered. She placed a firm, grounding hand flat against his back, keeping him steady against the brick wall.

"I'm calling you an ambulance right now," she stated, already reaching into her leather bag for her phone.

"I don't need—"

"You have at least two severely cracked ribs and your left eye is completely swelling shut," her tone wasn't unkind, but it was purely factual, refusing to tolerate his stubborn pride. "You absolutely need immediate medical attention. What is your name?"

Liam leaned his head back against the cold brick wall. "Liam," he muttered, his voice cracking completely. "Liam Cross."

"I'm Serena," she said simply, her thumb already swiping the screen. She was already dialing the emergency number.