“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.
