Daniel scoffed, flashing perfect white teeth as his tongue ran over them, fingers combing lazily through his tousled hair. A diamond-studded ring, perched theatrically on the bridge of his nose, glinted beneath the chandelier's light. He strolled forward, hands in the pockets of his woven red trousers, eyes locked on the older man who dared speak so confidently in a house he didn't belong to.
Without warning, Daniel slapped him. A sharp, careless backhand across the cheek.
Mr. Corallo froze, stunned. The room went still.
The four young men, all heirs to empires, had gathered at Samuel Boron's house for a weekend of leisure. But the intrusion of Mr. Corallo, a respected business consultant, had grated on them the moment he arrived. His presence wasn't requested. His persistence wasn't welcome.
Earlier that day, Samuel had received a call, uninvited and lengthy, from Corallo, urging him to begin lessons in a newly emerging niche of the oil and gas market. "It would set you apart," the man insisted. "If you begin now, by the time you graduate, you'll be leagues ahead of your peers."
Samuel had rolled his eyes. "Don't ever call this number again," he snapped into the phone. "It's the weekend. I'm not wasting it listening to your wheezing voice and old-man theories."
Now, Corallo stood in the grand sitting room, humiliation burning into his skin.
He'd come hoping to impress. Recommended by Samuel's father,Nickel Boron, CEO of one of the world's leading oil and gas conglomerates, Corallo had dreamed of leaving a legacy by tutoring the next generation. He'd hoped for a quiet seat at the table of power. Instead, he'd been dragged into a den of lions.
"I don't think he was talking to us... was he?" Harrison asked with mock innocence, his smirk razor-sharp as he reclined on a velvet couch.
Daniel loomed over Corallo, unblinking. "I hope that reset your weak brain," he said coldly. "Next time, understand what 'no' means."
Corallo glanced toward Samuel, searching for reason. But the boy just smirked, lips twitching with amusement. The four of them, Daniel, Harrison, Clinton, and David, radiated the polished cruelty of boys raised to believe the world bent for them.
"Take the hint, old man," Daniel added. "You're disgusting."
Corallo had barely sat down before they descended. He'd waited for Samuel to join him, watched him saunter down the stairs, casual and cold, followed by his friends, clean-cut, camera-famous, terrifying in their entitlement.
"Do you speak to your fathers that way?" Corallo asked, trying to keep the tremble from his voice.
Clinton leaned in, eyes like flint. "Do you speak to your employer's son that way?"
"I have daughters older than you," Corallo said, more to remind himself than them.
"And are they as irritating as you?" Harrison said, laughing dryly. "Or were they raised with actual class?"
Samuel stood, slowly, and approached. His fingers toyed with the silver ring on his forefinger. "Who do you think you are?" he said. "You're an employee. One we didn't hire. And definitely don't want."
He grabbed Corallo's face and pulled it close, as if inspecting something beneath him. "You're nothing," Samuel whispered. Then, he wiped his palm on his trousers, as though Corallo's skin were filth.
Clinton reached over and gently flicked a stray hair from Corallo's forehead, his smile empty. "Just one negative comment from us," he said, "and everything you've built comes crashing down. That would be unfortunate, wouldn't it?"
When Corallo shoved Clinton's hand away, the mood shifted. The boys' expressions hardened. Harrison stood. Daniel pressed down on Corallo's shoulder.
"Apologize," Clinton ordered.
"I..." Corallo stammered. He saw in their eyes the capability to ruin him, boys born with lawyers, publicists, and corruption in their blood. His entire career could vanish with a phone call.
"I'm sorry," he murmured.
"That's not enough," Harrison hissed. "You're going to call Mr. Boron and tell him you're resigning. That you're incompetent. And tired."
When Corallo hesitated, Harrison leaned in. "We can find where your daughters work. One bad report... one call. You wouldn't want anything unfortunate to happen, would you?"
Corallo reached into his pocket with trembling fingers. He dialed.
"I'm calling to say... I'm not fit for the role you gave me," he said quietly into the phone. "I apologize, Mr. Boron."
A pause.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Boron isn't in the office right now," a woman's voice said. "May I take a message?"
Relief washed over him. "No message," he said quickly. "I'll call back."
"Get out," Samuel ordered.
Corallo gathered his things, moving toward the door. Daniel blocked his path for a moment, then stepped aside.
"You're welcome," he said.
Corallo left without looking back.
As the door shut, the boys broke into laughter. Harrison folded his arms across his chest, watching the retreating figure.
"Pathetic," he muttered.
"I mean," Clinton said with a smirk, "the man couldn't even dress properly. Who wears a white suit in July?"
More laughter echoed through the house, loud, unkind, and unrepentant.
*********
Rachael couldn't stop staring at the screen pressed to her palm.
The photo was grainy, captured in the half-light of that summer evening. A boy with an unbuttoned cotton shirt had his arm loosely draped around her neck. She was smiling, radiant, unaware of what would come later.
She had done all the talking that day. He had only listened, occasionally nodding, eyes half-lidded like he'd heard it all before. Still, she had loved being close to him. Something about his presence warmed her, filled her with a tingling joy she didn't know how to name.
They'd met by accident. His sleek, white car had blocked hers in front of the gift shop. Rachael had been annoyed, glancing at the clock and muttering about being late for her parents' anniversary party. She waited silently in the driver's seat, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the store window, until he finally appeared.
He was striking. Too attractive, almost unreal. His shirt clung to his lean frame, his hair artfully messy. Rachael had to laugh, partly from disbelief and partly from the irritation still bubbling inside her. He apologized. She introduced herself.
The handshake lingered.
Later that night, she texted him. Then she called. She had to remind him who she was. He barely remembered. Still, she stayed up until dawn thinking about him. It was the first time she'd ever traded sleep for someone.
Within a few weeks, they were lovers.
His name was Samuel. And he wasn't the type to stay.
She knew that from his sister, Georgia, who told her plainly: Samuel didn't do relationships. He liked control. He liked things rough, precise, on his terms. But he spoiled Rachael too, black card indulgences, gifts, attention. She told herself this was love. And maybe, for a moment, it was.
Twelve months later, she still hadn't accepted that it was over.
He'd ended it in a whisper. A single sentence spoken after they'd made love: "Don't come back here." He'd said it without turning around, eyes focused on the window, hand absently stroking his jaw.
Rachael had wrapped her arms around his waist, desperate to hold on to something already gone.
"What did I do wrong?" she whispered. "If it's something I said, I'm sorry—"
But he peeled her arms off him, one by one.