After eight years of struggle, I stood tall in the polished halls of Blackwood Estate, now leading Morningstar Group.
It was meant to be a quiet return. But, as usual, nothing ever turned out as expected.
At the homecoming party, the first familiar face I stumbled upon was Leila West—née Young, my former fiancée. She draped over her new husband like arm candy with too much attitude.
Then and there, she spotted me before I had a chance to pretend that I didn't see her.
"Oh my, Nick! You're alive?" she gasped, mock surprise dripping off her voice. "I thought you'd died out there. Didn't expect you to have the nerve to crawl back! And looking like that? Honestly, you working here as a waiter is an insult to the building."
Leila's words landed like cheap perfume—loud, synthetic, and impossible to ignore. She and her husband stood there, smug as anything, treating me like I was part of the décor.
Background noise. An afterthought.
They didn't even realize I hadn't made my entrance yet.
Instead, I was on the edge of the room, listening as they auctioned off the main table seat like it was a prize in a charity raffle.
"Go on, keep bidding," Vincent West, her husband, said with a self-satisfied smirk. "I'll toss in another $10 million to celebrate the triumphant return of Dominic Blackwood."
I raised my brow.
Then I said flatly, "One glance at your face, and suddenly, I've lost all interest in dinner."
——
Instantly, the room went silent.
Then came the laughter—loud, rough, and unfiltered.
"What's this? Talking to Mr. West like that?"
"Who the hell do you think you are?"
"A bloody waiter mouthing off? Know your place, peasant," someone sneered.
It was a feeding frenzy.
One by one, they piled on like dogs in heat, desperate to be heard, desperate to impress Vincent.
None of them had a spine of their own.
Vincent drank in the chaos like champagne. Arms folded, chin high, reveling in the attention.
"You pathetic little thing," he sneered. "You dare insult me? You really think I couldn't make someone like you disappear overnight?"
He took a step forward, puffing out his chest like that would make him look threatening.
"Still the same, aren't you, Nick?" Leila chimed in, clinging to Vincent's arm like she was born for his wallet. "Still full of that fake confidence. And still flaunting the Blackwood name like it means something."
She let out a cold little laugh.
"You're lucky they let you keep the name. But don't fool yourself into thinking you're actually the heir. Let me make this clear—we'll be at the main table with Mr. Blackwood tonight. You will be in the corner, carrying plates."
Eight years had gone by, and Leila hadn't changed a day.
Same shallow eyes. Same brittle pride.
Honestly, dodging that marriage felt like divine intervention in hindsight.
I looked her over once, then turned my attention back to Vincent.
"Sit at the main table?" I said, scoffing. "With that pitiful face? Do you even know what the word worthy means?"
I shook my head, sneering, not bothering to mask the contempt.
The crowd wasn't done.
"Did you hear that? This pompous bastard just said Vincent isn't worthy!"
"Vincent's got more status in his cufflinks than this guy has in his whole bloodline."
"Mad as a hatter, that one."
Their noise only made Vincent angrier. His face turned scarlet, his fists trembling at his sides.
"Enough!" he snapped, voice low but shaking with rage. "A waiter like you dares speak to me like this?"
He stepped in, chest up, hands balled into fists. "You clearly haven't been taught how to behave."
"Oh?" I lifted an eyebrow, unbothered. "And how exactly do you intend to teach me how to behave?"
The challenge landed squarely, and Vincent's expression soured. His jaw clenched, veins straining in his neck. He looked like a man trying very hard not to come apart.
Leila leaned in toward him, her voice syrupy with condescension. "Darling, don't waste your time on him. He's clearly just trying to get a rise out of me. Honestly, let him kneel and apologize, and we'll let it go."
Vincent smirked, slow and smug, like he was holding court.
"Since you ask so sweetly," he said, as if bestowing charity, "I'll give you one chance. Kneel. Apologize. And we'll let you leave in one piece."
I leaned back in my chair, crossed one leg over the other, and gave him the faintest smirk.
"Kneel?" I repeated, my voice dry. "I'm afraid your luck's far too small to be playing in this league."
That did it.
"You—!" Vincent's voice cracked with fury. His fists trembled at his sides as he stormed toward me, posture braced for a swing.
But then came a single cough.
The room went still.
Vincent froze mid-step, his bravado evaporating as quickly as it came. He turned stiffly toward the sound.
"Mr. Richard Barclay," he said, his voice now lined with strained respect.
Richard stepped forward—tall, composed, and cutting. He was a senior figure at Morningstar Group, a man whose presence carried weight.
"Today marks the homecoming of Sir Dominic Blackwood," he said coolly. "Anyone creating a scene here is, effectively, spitting in the face of the Blackwood family."
Silence followed. Heavy. Absolute.
Vincent's face fell. But even as he shrank back, he managed to shoot me one last glare, eyes full of venom.
"Consider yourself lucky, brat," he muttered. "The Blackwood family's rules are shielding you for now. But once you leave this hall..." He paused, his voice sharpening. "You'll regret ever crossing me."
