Chapter 1 - The Thirtieth Count
The grandfather clock in the grand foyer of the River Oaks mansion chimed a low, resonant nine o'clock, but the sound was completely swallowed by the wet, rhythmic smack of flesh meeting flesh.
Franklin Reeves did not fight back. He stood near the solid oak dining table, his weathered, sixty-eight-year-old frame absorbing the impact of his son's fists. Franklin’s head snapped to the left. Then to the right. He tasted copper and salt as his lip split against his teeth. But inside his mind, there was no panic. There was only a cold, mechanical tally.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
Thirty.
Brandon finally stopped, his chest heaving under his tailored silk shirt. His knuckles were red, dusted with the light powder of his father's dry skin. He looked down at his hands, then up at Franklin, his eyes wild with the toxic mix of expensive whiskey, unchecked privilege, and a lifetime of soft boundaries.
"Get the hell out of my house, old man," Brandon panted, pointing a trembling finger toward the towering double doors. "I am sick of your patronizing attitude. I am sick of you coming into my home, in front of my friends, acting like you own the air I breathe. You’re a relic. You’re done."
In the background, sitting on the plush velvet sofa, Amber quietly sipped her chardonnay. She didn't call out. She didn't look horrified. Instead, her lips curved into a small, venomous smile—the look of a spectator who had finally gotten the show she paid for. She adjusted her diamond bracelet, her eyes glittering with a cold, triumphant satisfaction.
Franklin slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out a linen handkerchief. He pressed it to his mouth, watching the white fabric instantly bloom with deep crimson. He looked at his son—the boy he had carried on his shoulders through construction sites, the boy whose Ivy League tuition he had paid in cash, the boy who had just traded his soul for a moment of artificial dominance.
"Thirty," Franklin said, his voice flat, completely devoid of the tremor that should have been there.
"What?" Brandon sneered, taking a half-step back, confused by the lack of fear in his father's eyes.
"Thirty times you hit me, Brandon," Franklin replied quietly, folding the bloody handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket. "I wanted to make sure of the number."
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"You're losing your mind, Franklin," Amber chimed in from the sofa, her voice dripping with artificial pity. "Brandon just defended our boundaries. You brought this on yourself. Now please, leave before we have security drag you out."
Franklin didn't look at her. He bent down, his joints popping slightly, and picked up the small, brown-paper-wrapped package containing the antique watch from the floor. He wiped a speck of his own blood off the wrapping, tucked it under his arm, and walked out into the cold February night without saying another word.
