WHO IS MALIK HAMPTON?

The High Stakes of Pride

"You’ll find out soon," Malik said sharply.

His voice sliced through the ballroom like a blade. Glasses halted mid-air, conversations froze, and every gaze locked onto the unfolding drama. But Janet wasn’t done.

“You arrogant fool!” A hiss escaped her lips as she said, trembling with anger and a deeper fear, her fists clenched as she advanced.

Without warning, she snatched a glass of red wine from a nearby tray and hurled it at him.

The wine splashed across Malik’s chest, soaking his shirt in a dark crimson bloom that spread like blood across pale fabric. It dripped slowly down his torso like shame made visible.

Gasps rippled through the room.

Sarah instinctively stepped forward as if to defend him, but Michelle gripped her wrist, holding her back.

“Don’t. Let him finish what he started,” Michelle whispered into her ear, but her eyes never left Malik.

Sarah hesitated, her eyes flickering between Malik and Janet. This wasn’t the time for chaos. Her victory tonight had been hard won. The last thing she needed was Malik turning it into a spectacle. Instead of defending him, she shot him a glare, silent but sharp, her arms folded tightly against her chest.

Michelle sensed her shift in mood and leaned closer.

“Let’s step into another room. You need to breathe,” he murmured, already nudging her away.

Malik stood alone now, drenched and humiliated. The wine was nothing compared to the stares—Evelyn’s smirk, David’s cruel chuckle, John’s narrowed eyes. Even the guests he didn't know—people of lower ranks, servers, a mere janitor wiping the floor nearby, were whispering.

A cleaner paused mid-sweep, openly chuckling.

“Somebody tell the poor guy it’s over,” the cleaner muttered, just loud enough. “He ain’t royalty. He’s just a broom boy in a suit.” His mop slapped the floor with finality.

Laughter erupted nearby. Mocking, biting.

“Did he think wearing cologne could wash off the gutter?” one guest jeered, sipping champagne.

Another voice followed: “He should admit it. He’s nothing. A ghost clinging to someone else’s spotlight.”

Malik’s jaw clenched. The sting in his chest now wasn’t from the wine. It was from their words—their truth wrapped in cruelty.

Then came a voice that silenced the air like thunder.

“Enough!” Paul Roy’s baritone cracked across the hall.

The orchestra suddenly paused mid-note. Nobody was talking anymore. Even Janet lowered her hand, still slick with wine.

Paul stepped forward with his cane, the click of it echoing as he moved like a general through stunned troops.

“This is my celebration. I will not have it turned into a circus,” Paul declared, his eyes sweeping across the crowd before landing on Malik. Then he paused.

“You made a bold claim. Is it true?” Paul asked, his tone even but loaded.

Malik squared his shoulders, refusing to let the room swallow him.

“Yes, sir. Sarah’s gift was authentic. A rare 1923 Pomerol. Worth over two million dollars,” he said steadily, lifting his chin. “It was switched. Sabotaged by Janet.”

Gasps erupted again.

Janet’s face turned bright red.

“You’re insane! That’s slander!” she screamed.

And then—crash. A full bottle of wine flew from her hands and shattered against Malik’s shoulder, the glass exploding in a violent splash. More wine. More humiliation. Red soaked him like a battlefield wound.

Malik flinched, stumbled, but remained upright. Drenched and steady.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the room beat him to it.

“He’s delusional.”

“Maybe he thinks he’s Sherlock Holmes now.”

“What a joke. Still thinks he matters.”

Arnold DeWitt stepped forward and his wife Michelle was drifting beside him like a shadow with a champagne flute in hand.

“Sir Roy, with all due respect,” Arnold began, his voice thick with false decorum, “this man is clearly trying to win favor with your granddaughter by spinning tales. It’s... embarrassing.” He smiled tightly.

Michelle chuckled, sipping. “The cleaner trying to become a king. Tragic.” She said with a cruel smirk.

Paul raised a hand once again, and silence returned like a curtain falling.

“I said I want the truth,” he said firmly. Then turned again to Malik. “Do you have proof? Evidence of this sabotage?” Paul asked.

Malik’s mouth opened, then closed. He had no photographs, no footage, no physical bottle. Just his gut. And his gut had never lied.

“No, not yet,” he admitted, his voice low but unwavering as he speak. Sigh, he continues. “But I will. Before this night ends, I’ll prove it. And when I do, Janet will owe me a public apology. For slandering me. For this humiliation.” He gestured to his wine-stained shirt, the broken glass still glinting at his feet.

A ripple of voices. Skeptical. Amused.

Janet scoffed loudly. “You’ll never prove anything. But fine. If by some miracle you bring proof before the night ends, I’ll apologize in front of everyone.” She stepped closer.

Her voice dropped, sharpened like a dagger.

“But if you don’t... you’ll lose all ties with this family. No more Roys. No more Sarah. You’ll be cast out like the trash you came from.”

Silence fell like snowfall. Heavy and cold.

Arnold clapped slowly, mockingly.

“Now that’s a deal worth toasting,” he said.

Michelle raised her glass. “Cheers to that,” she added, smiling wickedly.

Malik turned to Paul Roy, who studied him long and hard, measuring something no one else could see.

Finally, the old man gave a slow nod.

“You have until the end of this celebration. But no more drama until then. Agreed?” Paul said.

Malik nodded once. “Agreed,” he replied.

He stood in silence, drenched and disgraced.