Chapter 4

JULIAN

Belcroquant has been underperforming compared to our restaurants in other locations these past few months. My initial plan was to shut it down with immediate effect, instead of spending resources for nothing.

But my assistant, Patrick, told me it had the potential and somehow managed to convince me not to shut it down... yet. He told me that all Belcroquant needed was an advertisement campaign.

But of course, that would most probably be a total waste of money. One influencer post was all the opportunity this place was getting.

Last month, the advertisement team hired an influencer. They worked together and made a video, which was then uploaded to the Internet. I watched the first ten seconds of the video and thought it was mediocre at best.

But surprisingly enough, the outcome exceeded my expectations. And mind you, I have very high standards. In just under a month, Belcroquant has made it to our top three best performers.

All from just one influencer post.

Thus, as a means to commend the staff, I decided to grace them with my presence. They served me the best meal they have, along with a cold bottle of scotch.

Indeed, it was a tasty meal.

I had a few words with the manager. His face was a mask of relief as I revealed that I won't be shutting down Belcroquant after all.

With the remaining scotch in my hand, I stood up and made my way down the aisle, heading for the exit, with Patrick trailing behind me.

Then something unexpected happened.

This lowlife, whom I could tell just from looking at his face, is an entitled little brat who thinks the whole world revolves around him, stood up and knocked over the scotch in my hand.

His shirt is now drenched, and he's furious, shouting, insulting, and throwing curses at me.

“Do you even know how much this shirt fucking costs?!” He barked, voice vibrating through the whole restaurant. “This shirt is probably worth more than your entire life savings! This is a fucking high-end place, not some bar for washed-up has-beens like you!”

First and foremost, one thing I detest is insults. Especially from insolent, entitled lowlives like him. And worse, in front of the general public.

Second, I loathe attention. I find any kind of attention irksome and enraging. And this kind of attention I'm getting right now is the worst kind.

“Are you fucking dumb or what?” He snarled, gritting his teeth, “The least you can say is sorry, you clumsy old fuck!”

I remained calm and composed, taking in every detail. Everyone sat rigid and watched with entertained eyes.

“I said, can't you at least, fucking apologize?!” He said in a raging voice.

Then he did something he shouldn't have done.

The little bratty bastard shoved me hard on the chest. The motion was aggressive, but it barely moved me.

Instead, it awoke something else.

Patrick tried to step forward and intervene, but I furtively gestured for him or anyone else to halt. He obeyed immediately.

The other one, sitting across from him, presumably his friend, stood up and tapped him on the back.

“Come on, Tate, that's enough.” He whispered softly.

Tate.

That's his name?

Interesting.

“No, it isn't!” He shrugged his friend off him, taking raging steps forward, jaw clenched tight. “He spilled on me. He should apologize, or he's getting it.”

I shifted my gaze from his face down to his fists, clenched tightly by his sides, ready to throw a punch.

My lips couldn't help but curl up.

Interesting.

Right from my childhood, people had always been petrified of me. They can barely stand my presence, let alone be brave enough to make eye contact with me.

They tremble whenever I walk into a room. They whisper my name like a warning. Even without a single utterance of a word from me, they tremble in my mere presence like I'm some grim reaper who has come to collect their soul.

And believe you me, I love it all.

The sheer power I feel from these moments is so thrilling and fascinating. Makes me feel like I'm some kind of god. And so far, I have never encountered anyone who has never felt intimidated by my presence.

But this one… this entitled, insolent brat is the only one that has defied it.

He's… well, he's… interesting.

It's not often you see a guy like him.

He took a step forward, “You gonna apologize or what, big guy?”

Then I motioned Patrick to make a move.

Patrick stepped forward. “I apologize on his behalf. He should have been more careful. It will never happen.”

“Yeah, you fucking bet it won't.” He snarled, shifting his maddening gaze from Patrick to me, then back to Patrick. “And who the fuck are you? This clumsy, dumb fuck's spokesman? Whatever, I don't give a fuck what you are.” He tugged at the wet, clinging fabric. “This shirt is expensive, you'll have to pay for ruining it.”

“Why, of course.” Patrick said sharply, “If you would give me your bank details, I'll compensate for the damage caused.”

The insolent brat glared at me once more, before facing Patrick fully and began giving him his account details.

I swept my eyes over him again. The wet shirt clung to his skin, highlighting every small young adult muscle in his body.

Interesting.

I turned and made my way out.

My chauffeur was already on standby, waiting outside. He gave a little bow of his head and opened the back door.

I climbed onto the backseat and settled down, relaxing back, acutely aware of the little curve of my lips.

Patrick joined me in the back seat a few minutes later.

My chauffeur started up the engine and set the car in motion, maneuvering it onto the road.

The first thirty minutes of the ride were done in absolute tranquility, except for the low hum of the engine and the roll of the car against the asphalt.

Finally, Patrick put down his tablet and glanced at me.

“His name is Tate Parker.” He informed me. “Twenty-one years old. Comes from a middle-class family of five. Has two siblings, one a college freshman, the other a high school junior. He's currently a college junior at Imperial Institute. Relationship status: none. He's an online personality with about a total of four hundred followers. And also… he's the influencer that our advertisement team worked with last month.”

Hmm.

Even more interesting.

I didn't say a word. Kept staring out through the window, enjoying the cool, humid night breeze.

“What do you plan on doing to him, sir?” The suppressed uneasiness and curiosity in his voice weren't lost on me.

“Is the Pope a Catholic?”

“Huh?”

“I have a question for you, Patrick.” I said, voice low and smooth. “What do little kids do with toys?”

“Uh… they play with them?”

“Exactly. They play with them.”