"Are you telling me eight of them jumped you alone?"
The forty-something homeroom teacher rapped her knuckles on the desk, shooting a glare at Ethan Chen after glancing at the eight bruised students.
Ethan nodded. "There are security cameras in the hallway. You can check the footage."
The teacher waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not interested in any footage. It's already been deleted. Marcus Whitfield's father runs a company. Yours… sells fish, right? They wouldn't come after you for no reason. We called your parent. We'll talk when he gets here."
Ethan's face darkened, not because of the teacher's blatant bias—he was used to that. What made his stomach churn was the fact that his 'father' was coming.
He never wanted to call that man. Biologically, Michael Langford was his father, but Ethan was just the result of an affair. They'd met only once.
But he had no choice. If the man didn't come, the school would call his mother. He couldn't let his mother, undergoing chemotherapy, deal with this stress.
Footsteps echoed in the hall. A middle-aged man entered the office, his gaze sweeping the room indifferently, barely resting on Ethan. He seemed completely detached.
He was polished, refined. He approached the teacher and extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Ethan's father, Michael Langford."
Ethan noticed the wedding band on his ring finger.
The teacher looked surprised.
Michael smiled smoothly. "He takes his mother's last name."
The teacher gave a stiff nod. "Mr. Langford, we called you in today because Ethan was involved in a fight. It's his senior year…"
"Sorry to interrupt," Michael said, his voice calm but carrying an undeniable authority that demanded silence. "I overheard outside. Those eight boys attacked him first, correct?"
The teacher glanced at the eight students and gestured for them to leave. Once they were gone, she said coldly, "Why would they target him and not someone else? Maybe he should reflect on his own behavior. Even if they were ninety-nine percent wrong, doesn't he bear at least one percent of the blame?"
"Let me ask you something, then." Michael slowly removed his wedding ring and tucked it into his breast pocket. Then, his hand snapped out, cracking sharply across the teacher's face. "Tell me, why did I only hit you, and no one else?"
The slap echoed, crisp and shocking.
Ethan stared, stunned.
The teacher was equally frozen. She never imagined a parent would dare lay a hand on her.
Michael didn't stop. He grabbed a folding chair from the corner and swung it hard, smashing it into her head and knocking her to the floor. He raised the chair again, bringing it down on her repeatedly.
"Teacher!"
"Tell me…"
"…why I…"
"…only hit you!"
After several brutal strikes, the teacher's face was streaked with blood.
Michael finally dropped the chair, straightened his tie, pulled out his phone, and dialed 911. He crouched, pressing the phone to her bloodied ear.
"Go on," he said softly. "Tell the police."
Half an hour later, both Michael and the teacher were led away by the police. Before leaving, Michael told Ethan to go back to class and not fall behind.
Ethan couldn't process the rest of the school day. He'd only met Michael once, for two minutes.
After school, Ethan walked out with his backpack.
"Ethan! You think you're tough now?"
The eight bruised boys surrounded him, backed by a crowd of older, rough-looking guys—clearly not students. Other students scattered, knowing trouble had arrived.
The group closed in, cracking their knuckles.
Ethan sized them up, calculating which one to take down hard enough to scare the rest.
"Move!"
Someone shouted. The crowd surged back as a fiery red Ferrari sped toward them, showing no signs of slowing.
The car screeched into a perfect drift, stopping inches from Ethan.
"Holy shit! What the hell!"
The thugs yelled curses.
The tinted window rolled down. The driver was a stunning woman with long hair. She took off her sunglasses, revealing sharp, captivating eyes, and winked at Ethan.
"Ethan. Get in."
He didn't know her, but he knew exactly who sent her. Without a word, he yanked the door open and slid inside.
The engine roared, and the red supercar vanished from sight.
In the car, the woman stayed silent.
So did Ethan, though he noted her long legs and the striking figure outlined by the seatbelt.
They drove downtown, stopping in front of an upscale club. Ethan looked up at the sign: The Dynasty.
He'd heard of it. A single night here could cost more than his family made in months.
"Come on. Don't look so nervous." The woman patted his shoulder. "In a way, this place… belongs to your family."
The interior was pure opulence. Everything screamed money. Crystal chandeliers, velvet walls. Ethan couldn't price the decor, but he knew it was expensive.
Everyone they passed greeted the woman respectfully.
"Evening, Miss Summer."
"Hey." She smiled. To Ethan, she said, "Just call me Summer. I'm eight years older. You're not losing anything."
She led him to a booth. A waiter brought wine and a fruit platter.
"Have something." Summer glanced at him. "Michael will be here soon."
Ethan had barely eaten two bites when a loud, arrogant voice cut through the calm.
"So he's here? Let me see!"
Summer's brow furrowed slightly as she looked toward the voice.
A young man in his early twenties, surrounded by a few lackeys, swaggered over. He looked Ethan up and down.
Ethan stared back, recognizing the resemblance to Michael and guessing his identity immediately.
"Ethan, this is Lucas," Summer said evenly.
"What the hell is that look?" Lucas sneered, jabbing his index finger into Ethan's shoulder. "See me and forget your manners? Don't get any ideas. This has nothing to do with you. You're just a bastard from some side chick, got it?"
A cold glint flashed in Ethan's eyes.
Summer saw it and tensed. She knew that look—it was the same one Michael got right before he snapped.
Ethan's hand shot out, grabbing Lucas's index finger and twisting it hard. A sickening crack echoed as the finger bent at a grotesque angle.
Lucas screamed in pain.
Ethan didn't hesitate. He snatched a wine bottle from the table and smashed it over Lucas's head. In one fluid motion, he slammed Lucas's head onto the table, pressing the jagged broken glass against his throat.
"Apologize."
Lucas's crew surged forward.
"Everyone, stay back!" Ethan hissed, pressing the glass deeper, drawing a thin line of blood on Lucas's neck. "Move, and I'll kill him right here!"