I was just filling in for someone else, helping serve wine to the guests. As I passed by the bathroom, a man's voice—playful and mocking—drifted out from inside.

"Mr. Donovan, how does it feel to be with the most beautiful woman in Westerdale?"

I slowed my steps, instinctively pausing.

"It's just average," came the lazy reply.

Another voice chimed in, amused and suggestive. "She may look like a cold goddess on the outside, but in bed? She’s wilder than anyone I’ve ever had."

The second man—Mr. Donovan, apparently—scoffed, his tone dripping with contempt.

"If she’s offering herself up, why not have some fun? Be a waste not to."

He gave a short laugh, then added smugly, "And guess what? She was still a virgin when we first slept together."

The two of them burst into laughter.

The words struck like thunder. I froze, stunned, my brain refusing to process what I’d just heard.

Westerdale's most beautiful woman? That could only mean one person—my wife, Francine Hanson Reeves.

——

Still reeling, I barely registered the bathroom door swinging open. The two men stepped out, arms slung around each other in drunken camaraderie. They stopped short when they saw me blocking the way.

"Hey! Move it, mutt!" one of them snapped.

The voice belonged to the first speaker. I recognized him instantly—Rich Stephenson. A notorious rich brat from Sundown City, a frequent guest at the hotel. Arrogant, reckless, and used to throwing his father’s dirty money around like confetti.

The man beside him had to be the infamous "Mr. Donovan." Rich, for all his usual arrogance, was fawning over him—clearly, Donovan’s background was something far more powerful than I could place.

I remained rooted to the spot, still in shock.

Rich’s face twisted in irritation. "What the hell are you staring at, hick?"

"You deaf or just blind? Move!"

He shoulder-checked me hard as he stormed past. I barely managed to steady the tray, clutching the wine bottle to keep it from tipping.

Usually, I ignore the insults from people like them—people who think a bit of money and power gives them the right to trample others. But this time... something snapped inside me.

Anger boiled up, uninvited and hot in my chest. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to stay calm, to not react.

As Rich passed, I caught his gaze flicking toward my chest—specifically, my employee badge. He paused, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He lingered just a second too long, as if committing my name to memory, then turned and walked off with Yan.

I finished serving the wine in a daze, then left the banquet hall. My legs felt heavy, like I was wading through molasses.

Their conversation kept replaying in my mind, word for word.

There wasn’t another woman in Westerdale who matched Francine’s reputation. No doubt about it—they were talking about her.

My chest tightened as I pulled out my phone, hesitating only a second before dialing her number.

It rang for a long time.

Then her voice came through—sharp, irritated. "I’m busy. You’d better have something important to say."

My grip tightened around the phone.

She always spoke to me like this—cold, dismissive, as though hearing my voice was an inconvenience.

Swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat, I forced the words out.

"Francine… I want to ask you something. Do you know a man named Russ Donovan?"

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line—subtle, but noticeable. Then Francine’s voice came, clipped and defensive.

“Russ Donovan? Who’s that? I don’t know anyone by that name.”

She didn’t give me a chance to respond before continuing sharply, “Jim, unlike you, I don’t have the luxury of sitting around all day doing nothing. Do you have any idea how busy I am? Don’t waste my time with these ridiculous questions again.”

Click. The line went dead.

I stared at the screen for a long moment, phone still pressed to my ear.

By all logic, I should’ve felt relieved. She denied it. That should’ve been enough.

But it wasn’t.

Her tone had been too forced. Her words rushed, almost rehearsed. And that pause—long enough to think, to calculate—spoke louder than anything else. It didn’t sound like innocent confusion. It sounded like someone caught off guard and scrambling to cover her tracks.

Before I could process further, my earpiece crackled with the voice of the floor foreman.

“Table 7, private room. They want wine service—specifically asked for you.”

That was strange. Normally, as a low-level temp waiter, I wouldn't be personally requested.

The foreman added, more urgently this time, “Get yourself together and be careful in there. We cannot afford to mess this up.”

As I retrieved the wine from the counter—a bottle of Château Lafite worth over 15,000 dollars—I couldn’t help but wonder who exactly was waiting behind that door.

Who had the kind of clout to make even the management tread lightly?

I reached the private room and knocked. A voice from inside called out, “Come in!”

The room was buzzing. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. Seven or eight men sat around the table, deep in celebration.

And there he was—Russ Donovan—seated at the head of the table like a king on his throne.

Beside him, as expected, sat Rich, grinning like a sycophant.

The others were all familiar faces—heirs, rich kids, the usual second-generation elites of Sundown City. All of them raised their glasses, eager to toast, to flatter, to impress.

I narrowed my eyes.

Now it made sense why I had been summoned. This wasn’t about wine service—it was a setup.

Yet strangely, neither Russ Donovan nor Rich acknowledged me when I walked in. They kept chatting among themselves, as if I didn’t exist.

Had I imagined their attention earlier?

“Why are you just standing there?” someone near the door snapped, frowning at me. “Bring it in already.”

I moved forward, placed the wine bottle carefully on the table, and bowed slightly. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”

Just as I turned to leave, a voice cut through the room like a blade.

“Stop right there.”

It was Rich. He hadn’t looked my way once until now—but suddenly, his voice rang with malicious glee.

He leaned back in his seat, a sneer curling on his lips.

“You really think we called you in here just to serve and walk out?”

I turned back with a polite, practiced smile, hiding the tension crawling under my skin. “Is there something else I can help with?”

Rich didn’t answer. Instead, he reached for a wine glass—though not the one filled with the red wine I had just delivered.

He held it up, the liquid inside a strange, murky yellow.

“This,” he said mockingly, “is a reward. Mr. Donovan is in a good mood tonight. Don’t say we never gave you a taste of the high life.”

“I’m sure you’ve never had wine this expensive before,” he added, his tone dripping with condescension. “Shouldn’t you be thanking Mr. Donovan?”

I didn’t miss the glint in his eye, or the expectant amusement on the faces around the table. They were all watching, waiting—like spectators at a circus, eager to see the monkey dance.

My gaze shifted to the glass again.

That wasn’t wine. Not even close.

A chill crept down my spine.

I knew that look Rich had given me before. I’d seen it in schoolyard bullies and boardroom predators. This wasn’t generosity—it was humiliation dressed up as a joke.

I saw through their little act, but I didn’t call it out.

To avoid unnecessary trouble, I simply bowed slightly and said with a calm smile,

“Thank you, Mr. Donovan.”

Russ curled his lips in smug satisfaction.

“Then drink it.”

I kept my polite smile.

“I’m on duty, sir. I’m not allowed to drink while working. I appreciate your generosity, but you should enjoy this wine yourself.”

Rich’s face instantly darkened.

“Mr. Donovan is showing you respect, and you’re turning it down?”

He leaned forward, his tone sharp with menace.

“Do you even know what it means to not give Mr. Donovan face?”

Russ' expression chilled. His smile faded into something darker, colder.

“So I don’t have enough face now?” he sneered.

“A lowly bar waiter dares to look down on me, Russel?”

Only then did I learn his full name—Russel.

The atmosphere in the private room shifted in an instant.

All the chatter and laughter died, and the room fell so silent you could hear the ice settle in the glasses. One by one, their gazes turned toward me—curious, gleeful, hostile. Like spectators circling prey.

Then came the crash of a wine glass shattering against the floor.

Rich stood up, pointing at me, face flushed with anger.

“Damn it, you really don’t know your place!”

“You’re drinking this wine today, whether you like it or not!”

I almost laughed. So this is what it had come to.

I’d kept my head down for so long, played the role of the humble nobody, that even trash like Rich thought he could bark orders at me.

Enough.

I slowly straightened, letting the subservient mask fall away. My posture shifted. Calm, composed. Controlled.

I met their eyes, one by one. They were filled with amusement, anticipation. Waiting for me to grovel, to panic. Waiting to be entertained.

Second-generation parasites. This was their playground.

I raised an eyebrow and looked Rich dead in the eye.

“And what if I refuse to drink?”

His face contorted with rage.

“Ha! You really think you're something? You’re just a spineless son-in-law! You don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as us!”

Son-in-law.

The word hit differently.

So that’s what this was about. He’d recognized me. This wasn’t random. It was a calculated move—a chance for Rich to show off in front of Russ, maybe earn some points by humiliating me.

“What?” someone in the room whispered, catching the word.

“Son-in-law? Wait… you mean that son-in-law?”

“The one from the Hanson Family?”

Now the murmurs began in earnest, eyes darting between me and each other in realization.

“There’s only one man in Sundown City everyone calls the son-in-law…”

“The Hanson Family’s useless live-in son-in-law… Jim.”

And just like that, the mockery reached new heights.

Three years ago, Francine Hanson—the so-called most beautiful woman in Sundown City—married me, a nobody with no money, no influence, no prospects. A complete joke.

The city laughed. Her friends vanished. She locked herself in our house for months out of shame.

That was the beginning of the ice between us.

Now, in this room, the laughter wasn’t just cruel—it was dismissive. These men weren’t just mocking me. They were sure I was beneath them.

But I didn’t flinch. I stood as still as a mountain.

Let them laugh.