Returning home from a leave of absence with the Special Operations Command, my four-year-old son suddenly dropped to his knees in front of me, begging not to go back to school at Crestwood Academy. He said he didn’t want to go anymore.

I asked him why, but he just cried and shook his head, too scared to speak.

Sensing something was wrong, I lifted his shirt. His body and arms were covered with tiny puncture marks.

Shaking with rage, I snapped a photo and posted it in the Parents’ WhatsApp Group, demanding:

“Who did this?”

A contact listed as Brandon’s Dad arrogantly replied:

“I told my son to do it!”

Then he sent two more photos.

One was a wedding portrait of him with Victoria Stone.

The other was a family photo of me, my son, and Victoria.

“You shameless freeloader,” he sneered. “You dared steal my billionaire wife and even had an illegitimate son with her? You should be grateful I didn’t have my boy beat this little bastard to death.”

The chat group instantly exploded with abuse—every message directed at me and my son.

Even the teacher, Ms. Carter, went out of her way to tag Brandon’s Dad:

“Brandon did a great job. Tomorrow I’ll reward him with a Gold Star Sticker.”

Brandon’s Dad then sent a smug emoji and tagged me, taunting:

“If you’ve got a problem, come find me. My son and I are still at Crestwood.”

Carrying my son, I hurried toward the school while dialing a secure line:

“Victoria Stone is guilty of bigamy and has an illegitimate child—launch a proper investigation!”

“And another thing: my son was assaulted at Crestwood. Send people now. I want them to pay dearly!”

Because of the secrecy of my work, I rarely had contact with the outside world.

Even after marriage, my time with my wife and son had been limited.

This time, I had taken leave specifically to spend time with them.

I never imagined I’d return home only to find my boy abused like this.

When I pulled up at Crestwood with my son, the first person I saw was Brandon’s Dad, standing proudly at the gate. A cluster of parents surrounded him.

“Brandon’s Dad, you’ve been way too low-key! If it weren’t for this incident, we never would’ve guessed your wife is actually New York’s wealthiest woman!”

“No wonder I thought you carried yourself differently the first time I saw you—so that’s the aura of the Stone family!”

“We came here today to stand with you. We’re all respectable people. We can’t let that low-life home-wrecker push you around.”

“Exactly. A loser’s genes can’t produce anything good. Brandon really is the heir of the richest family—already defending society at such a young age. Impressive!”

Even Ms. Carter bent over backward to please him:

“Brandon’s Dad, send me a list of Brandon’s favorite dishes. From now on, we’ll adjust Crestwood’s meals to his taste.”

Brandon’s Dad basked in their flattery, puffed up like a proud rooster.

Victoria’s own ability was never enough.

Without marrying me—without the fear my background inspired in her rivals—she’d have been devoured long ago, bones and all.

She never could’ve sat at the top as New York’s richest woman.

And yet now, this had become Brandon’s Dad’s greatest bragging right.

When I arrived, the same parents who had been flattering him turned and glared at me with disgust, as if I were some filthy contaminant.

Ms. Carter marched straight toward me, her face cold.

“Mr. Reed, the principal asked me to inform you that, starting today, Aiden Reed is expelled.”

I fixed her with a steady stare and asked in a low voice:

“My son was assaulted here, and instead of protecting him, you expel the victim just to curry favor with the powerful?”

Ms. Carter shrugged dismissively.

“This is a private elite academy. Every child here comes from wealth and influence.

Aiden, an illegitimate child, has no place in Crestwood. Keeping him would only tarnish the school’s reputation.”

My face darkened. I said sharply:

“You’d better investigate carefully—find out who the real home-wrecker is, and who the real illegitimate child is.”

No sooner had the words left my mouth than Brandon’s Dad strode up and smashed his fist into my face.

“You pathetic freeloader,” he barked. “You think you can stand tall in front of me, her real husband?”

“You really believe raising a bastard son entitles you to my wife’s fortune?”

Other parents pointed at me, sneering without restraint:

“Look at you—you could’ve done anything with your life, but you chose to be some sugar mama’s boy toy? Disgraceful.”

“Some men act all decent on the surface, but the moment they sniff out a rich woman, they drop to their knees like dogs in heat.”

“Men like you are shameful. And your kid? Better off dead.”

Their jeers drew a crowd. Onlookers pointed, cursed, even pulled out their phones to film me. Some spat at me.

I peeled off my jacket and tossed it into a trash can. Then I faced Brandon’s Dad head-on.

“You ordered your son to abuse mine. Now you strike me in public. Who gave you the courage to act so lawlessly?”

He sneered.

“Beating up a home-wrecker and his bastard son is only natural. Besides, I’m the husband of the richest woman in New York. I’m untouchable. Killing you both wouldn’t matter.”

The other parents echoed him:

“If you hadn’t destroyed his marriage, why would Brandon’s Dad have to step in? You brought this on yourself.”

“A kept man like you should tuck his tail between his legs when facing the real husband. You’re lucky it was only one punch.”

“Addicted to seducing women, are you? Spare us your victim act. We’re not naive enough to buy it.”

Even strangers in the crowd hurled the ugliest insults they could.

Brandon’s Dad only grew more emboldened. His gaze shifted to the car behind me, eyes blazing.

“A freeloader like you has no right to drive. You burn through my wife’s money without shame?”

“Today, you’re coughing up every penny you’ve leeched!”

He grabbed a brick from the curb and began smashing my car—windows, lights, hood, nothing was spared.

“Brandon’s Dad is the husband of the wealthiest woman in New York. We can’t let a parasite like you defile him!” someone shouted.

Soon other parents grabbed whatever they could and joined in, hammering at my vehicle.

But the car was armored. After a long frenzy, they had managed only a few scratches.

Frustrated, they shouted:

“What the hell is this thing? Why’s it so tough?”

I warned them coldly:

“You’d better stop. This isn’t an ordinary car. Damaging it won’t be something you can settle with money.”

My words only enraged Brandon’s Dad further.

“It’s just some cheap domestic junk,” he snarled. “I’ll smash it however I want!”

The next second, he and several others yanked open the doors, climbed inside, and slashed at the leather seats and interior.

In moments, the once-pristine cabin was a wreck.

Yes, the car was American-made.

But it wasn’t junk—it was a Presidential Cadillac, a state-issued vehicle assigned to me by the Special Operations Command. It was more than a car; it was an emblem of honor.

Watching these maniacs desecrate it, I quietly pulled out my phone and called my commanding officer.

“Colonel, the official vehicle assigned to me has been vandalized.”

Before the voice on the other end could reply, one of the parents snatched my phone and smashed it to pieces on the pavement.

“Still trying to tattle? You’re nothing but a useless gigolo. What gives you the right?”

“Yeah, probably calling his sugar-mama sponsor to crush us. What a joke!”

“Man really thinks he’s somebody important.”

“Trash like you should’ve been thrown out with the garbage. Pretentious bastard.”

They burst out laughing, mocking me like hyenas.

I stared at the shattered phone and said coldly:

“I hope you’re still laughing in a few minutes.”

Then I turned to Ms. Carter.

“My son was bullied here. You knew about it, didn’t you?”

She glared with contempt.

“So what if I did? The rotten genes of a worthless freeloader produce nothing but garbage. Brandon was just taking out the trash.”

Applause broke out among the parents.

“No wonder you’re the teacher, Ms. Carter—so fair and sharp!”

“That’s right. This is an elite academy, not a dumping ground for strays.”

“Why does the son of a kept man even need school? Better you teach him how to serve rich women like his father. Maybe he’ll outdo you, latch onto someone even wealthier.”

Brandon’s Dad grew bolder, crowing:

“See? This is what happens to parasites like you. You and your bastard son will always be at the bottom, despised by everyone.”

The air filled with abuse. The louder they cursed me, the wider Brandon’s Dad’s grin stretched.

Ms. Carter seized the moment to flatter him further:

“Brandon’s Dad, the principal said if you’re satisfied with how we handle this, we hope you might help us. Crestwood is planning to expand, but all the surrounding land belongs to Stone Enterprises. If you could…”

He folded his arms, smug.

“Don’t worry. I’m pleased. When the time comes, one word from me and my wife will hand over the land.”

Her face lit up. “Thank you in advance!”

Other parents jumped in one after another:

“My wife’s company has worked with Stone Enterprises before. Could we get priority on contracts?”

“My firm’s pivoting industries—maybe we could cooperate with Stone Enterprises too?”

“Brandon’s Dad, here’s an unlimited shopping card to my mall. Please accept it. Hopefully our families can keep in closer touch.”

One after another, they scrambled to ingratiate themselves, even slipping bank cards into his bag.