Chapter 5

He wanted to dash at Armand. Wipe that smug grin off his face. Make him choke on his own words.

But he couldn't.

If Armand fired Elena, she'd be ruined. The Lexus family had connections all over the city. One word from them, and no one would hire her. She'd lose everything. Her kids would suffer. After everything she had done for him, Maxwell didn't want to be reason for her hardships, all because he couldn't kneel.

He looked at Armand, then at the broken glass on the floor. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

Slowly, Maxwell crouched down.

The room went silent again, but this time it was different. This time, they were watching a man break. The sound of phone cameras clicked as some of the guests took out their phones to capture this moment.

"Finally," Gordon said, his voice loud enough to carry across the table. “This disgrace needs to learn his place."

Vivian nodded, her smile returning. "Some people just need a firm hand, don't they?"

Maxwell began picking up the shards, ignoring them. 

"That's more like it," Armand said, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Finally learning your place."

Brendan moved slightly, getting a better angle with his phone. A few other guests pulled out their phones too, sensing something worth capturing.

A few guests chuckled more. Maxwell ignored them, focusing on the glass in his hands.

Just then, he felt a sharp kick to his hand. The glass shards scattered across the floor again, slicing into his palm as they fell. He felt a sharp, slicing pain shoot through his hand, as warm blood seeped between his fingers.

Maxwell looked up, his vision blurring with rage and pain. However he didn't react on instinct and instead just remained crouched.

Armand stood over him, grinning. "Oops. Clumsy me. Better start over, brother."

Laughter erupted from several guests. And they weren't polite chuckles anymore. This time they were laughing for real.

"Oh my God," Brendan said, his phone steady in his hand. "This is perfect."

Gordon was laughing too, slapping the table.

Maxwell's felt intense anger in his heart. His hand throbbed, blood dripping onto the white marble.

"Come on, Maxwell," Armand said, his voice louder now, playing to the crowd. "Don't be lazy. We've got all night."

There was more laughter.

One woman whispered to her husband, loud enough for Maxwell to hear. "Is this really the son of Debra Lexus? How embarrassing."

"I heard he's always been useless," another guest murmured. "Living off the family name."

"Man, Armand is a savage, look at how he is treating his peasant brother."

Vivian leaned toward Casey, speaking just loud enough to be heard. "Darling, you're so lucky to have married into the successful side of this family."

Maxwell continued picking up the glasses until there was nothing on the floor, and then he started to stand, his bloody hand trembling.

"Where do you think you're going?"

It was Debra who spoke this time. And she stood, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. All eyes turned to her.

She walked toward Maxwell slowly, her heels clicking against the marble floor with each step. When she reached him, she looked down at him with pure disgust.

"Look at you," she said, her voice disgusted, "Kneeling on the floor like a beggar. Bleeding all over my marble. You look exactly like your father."

Maxwell's heart stopped at her words. She never talked about his father in a good way. 

"A filthy nobody," she continued, her voice rising. "He pretended to be something. Pretended he belonged in my world. And I was foolish enough to believe him. One mistake. One drunken night. And I got stuck with you."

The room was silent now. Even the guests who'd been laughing had gone quiet. Even Brendan had lowered his phone slightly.

Debra leaned down, her eyes boring into Maxwell's. "You are a reminder of the worst decision I ever made. Every time I look at you, I see him. A worthless man who contributed nothing to this world except a son who's even more worthless.

"Your father was trash," Debra said, her voice quieter now, but no less cruel. "And trash only begets trash. You'll never be anything more than what you are right now. A beggar in borrowed clothes, bleeding on my floor."

She straightened, smoothing her dress. "Clean up this mess. Then get out of my sight."

She turned and walked back to her seat.

The guests watched in stunned silence. A few looked uncomfortable now, but none of them said anything. None of them defended him.

Maxwell stayed on his knees for a moment longer.

His hand bled and it was painful, but it was nothing compared to the pain he felt in his heart eight now after Debra, his own mothers words. She always made it clear that he was nothing to her and he should be used to this. However this time it hurt him differently, the pain was more intense. 

Something else was happening. This night made him realize something, that this family would never see him as one of them. When he received an invitation to Armand's wording, a surprise he didn't expect, Maxwell thought the only reason Armand would want him here was because he saw him as family despite everything. Well, he was wrong. 

And now he was done hoping his mother would ever look at him with anything but contempt. Done bleeding for people who would never care.

Maxwell stood up, dropping the glasses that he had cleaned up back to the floor. 

They scattered, 

He didn't wipe the blood from his hand. Didn't apologize. Didn't look at Debra or Armand or any of the guests still holding their phones.

He turned and walked toward the door.

"Maxwell!" Debra's voice snapped behind him. "What are you doing? Clean it up!" She yelled.

But Maxwell didn't stop.

"Maxwell!"

He kept walking, past the table, past the staring guests. Past Gordon, who was shaking his head. Past Vivian, who whispered something to Casey. Past Ramon, who half-rose from his seat but didn't follow.

He walked out of the dining hall, leaving a trail of blood drops behind him.

The sadness and anger burning in his chest was unlike anything he'd felt before. It consumed him, made his hands shake, made his vision narrow to a single point ahead of him. She was his mother.

The thought kept circling through his mind, relentless and cruel.She gave birth to him. And yet, she probably hated him more than Armand and Ramon. And she called him trash. She called his father trash.

Maxwell wasn't one to shed tears. He'd learned years ago that crying changed nothing in this family. But this hurt in a way he couldn't describe. It wasn't just humiliation. It was something deeper. Something final.

The realization that he'd never had a mother. Not really.

He just wanted to leave. Get out of this place. Never come back.

He pushed through the main entrance doors into the night. 

"Master Maxwell." Just then, someone called out to him. 

The voice came from behind him.

Maxwell only felt more angry to hear someone calling him. He didn't stop walking.

"Fuck off," he snapped, his voice raw.

He knew what this was. Another guest. Someone who'd followed him out here to get one more jab in. One more humiliating video for their social media.

"Master Maxwell, wait…"

"I said fuck off!"

Maxwell spun around, ready to unleash everything he'd been holding back.

But the man standing there wasn't dressed like the other guests. He wore a simple black suit. But what made Maxwell realize this wasn't one of those smug people from inside was the way he seemed to carry himself even standing.

He looked about Maxwell's age, maybe a year or two older. His face was surprised, almost concerned.

"Master Maxwell," the man said again, softer this time. His eyes dropped to Maxwell's bleeding hand, then to the blood on his shirt. "Why... why do you look like that?"

Maxwell stared at him. "What?"

The man's gaze shifted past Maxwell, toward the entrance of the mansion. Toward the dining hall where voices could still be heard.

The man's expression changed. His eyes narrowed.

"This fucking family," he muttered, his voice low and filled with disgust. "How dare they treat her nephew this way."

“Who’s nephew?” Maxwell frowned. "Who the hell are you?"

The man looked back at him, and for the first time, Maxwell noticed something in his eyes. Not pity. Not mockery. Respect.

"My name is Kieran," the man said. "I've been looking for you, Master Maxwell. I was sent here by someone who's been searching for you for a very long time."

Maxwell looked at Kieran with a suspicious look. "Sent by who?"

Kieran hesitated, glancing once more at the mansion behind them. Then he met Maxwell's eyes.

"Your aunt," he said quietly. "Your father's sister."

Maxwell felt the ground shift beneath him.

"I don't have an aunt," he said without a second thought. 

Kieran's expression softened. "You do. And she's been looking for you since the day your father died."