"Please save me, please!" Ethan screamed as he bled out without mercy. He had been involved in a ghastly motor accident; his car had tumbled over, with glass particles shattered all over his face.
"Let's go, Brian! We can't help him. The cops will catch us if we do—he's as good as dead!" Two ladies urged Brian, the one responsible for the accident. They were high and drunk as hell.
"Brian, let's go!" the girls screamed again as they heard the approaching sound of an ambulance. They jumped into their car and sped off, leaving poor Ethan to his fate as he groaned and bled from his wounds. His vision became foggy as he struggled to crawl out of his car, dragging himself across shattered glass that pierced his flesh with every move.
"Dear Lord, please help me..." That was the last plea that escaped his lips before he blacked out. When he woke up, his vision remained blurred, and he could hear nurses shouting as they wheeled him urgently on a stretcher.
"Take him to the theater now—he's badly wounded!" the nurses screamed. The bright white light bulbs seared his eyes, and he could hardly breathe. He felt life slipping away through gaping wounds that exposed not only his torn flesh but even his bones.
"Please... call my wife," Ethan struggled to whisper, coughing out blood. Before the nurses could drill needles into him for the emergency operation, Ethan passed out again, lifeless before their eyes.
"Ethan!!!"
"Ethan!!!"
Ethan woke up with a jolt from what appeared to be a bloody nightmare. His body trembled with goosebumps as he screamed and fell hard off his bed, groaning in intense pain. But it wasn't just a nightmare—it was a flashback of the accident that had almost claimed his life and left him in a coma for an entire year. Fear gripped Ethan as his heart raced. His wounds still hurt, terribly—even after all that time. He felt a slight tear at the stitching on his side and noticed a minor bleed.
"Ethan! Where's that worthless fool?!" came the shrill, piercing voice of the woman who had become his waking nightmare. The cruel voice of his mother-in-law echoed again as she stormed towards his room. She kicked open the door violently, only to find Ethan trembling on the floor in fear.
"Why aren't the cars washed? You've been sleeping your worthless existence away!" she bellowed, then hurled the warm bucket of water she held at his face, choking Ethan as he coughed and gasped for air.
"I'm sorry, Mother... I'll wash the cars immediately," Ethan replied, still coughing.
"Don't you dare call me your mother! I can never be a mother to a poor, wretched fool like you—never!" she roared and stormed out.
Mrs. Judith had made Ethan's life a living hell. She subjected him to endless suffering, torment, and humiliation—everything a poor son-in-law could ever dread. The accident had ruined him: he went into a coma, lost his job, his network, his wealth. He woke up to poverty, with nothing but pain. He was now dependent on his cruel mother-in-law and his loving wife, but life had never been the same again.
Ethan picked himself up and headed for the garage with his tools to wash Mrs. Judith's fleet of cars. He scrubbed the tires, making sure they sparkled, but in the process, he accidentally slit his palm on a sharp edge. Blood trickled down to the ground. He quickly tore a strip from his shirt and wrapped the wound. He had become little more than a slave in the place he once called home. Mrs. Judith, always eager to torment him, never gave him a moment to breathe.
When he returned to the lavish living room, he saw Mrs. Judith having breakfast with a man dressed in a sleek Italian suit. The sight of him made Ethan frown.
"This must be the wretched son-in-law you told me about," the man said mockingly, sipping wine with deliberate elegance.
Ethan growled inwardly but dared not speak a word. He knew what would follow—starvation for days, maybe even a beating. Mrs. Judith took one look at him and scoffed.
"I regret the day I ever met this bastard," she muttered, biting into a piece of pork from her plate.
"I'm done washing the cars," Ethan said quietly and turned to leave. But the man in the suit suddenly called out.
"Wait, Ethan. Forgive my manners. I haven't properly introduced myself, and I can't just let you walk away like that. You deserve a chance to dine with me," he said with a disturbingly sweet voice. Ethan turned back, more confused than ever.
"I'm David Sinclair. Surely you must have heard of me. My name echoes across the country. Come—take a seat, my dear friend," he gestured kindly, while Mrs. Judith looked stunned. The Sinclair family was one of the wealthiest in the nation, commanding respect from all men and women alike. David, the only son of the Sinclair dynasty, was known for his wealth, arrogance, and cruelty. He was a spoiled prince feasting on his father's fortune and influence.
Ethan hesitated, but managed a forced smile and joined them at the dining table. He watched in disbelief as David Sinclair personally served him from the golden pot. Ethan hadn't tasted pork—or any luxurious meal—in months. Not under Mrs. Judith's roof.
"Lord David! How can you allow him to eat with us?!" Mrs. Judith protested, her voice brimming with fury. David simply raised his hand to silence her.
Ethan picked up a knife and fork. Just as he was about to taste the meal, David nudged his plate with a single finger. It fell to the floor, shattering into pieces. David erupted in laughter, his joy uncontrollable.
"Feast on your meal on the ground. That's where dogs like you should eat—and be grateful," he sneered, and Mrs. Judith joined in the cruel laughter. Ethan clenched his fists in growing rage.
"Clean that place up—now!" his mother-in-law barked with authority.
Ethan had no choice. He returned with tools to clean the mess, sweeping the broken pieces away in silence. David watched with a satisfied grin. As Ethan turned to leave, David called out again.
"Wait, boy! Come fill my glass with wine," David commanded.
Ethan reluctantly filled the glass, and just as David took it, he let it slip and crash onto the marble floor.
"Oops. My glass slipped. Refill my wine—and clean that up too," he said with a smirk.
Ethan's body tensed. His anger surged, his eyes slowly turning red.
"Clean up your mess and fill your glass yourself, you spoiled brat!" Ethan muttered under his breath.
David rose from his chair and walked over until they stood face to face, nose to nose.
"What did you just say to me, boy?" he asked calmly, but dangerously.
Ethan's grip tightened around the cutlery knife. Every part of him screamed to drive it into David's throat. His hands trembled from rage, barely able to hold back.
"Ethan... fill my glass and kiss my feet as an apology, or I will make the remaining days of your wretched life more miserable and painful than you can imagine," David Sinclair threatened, his voice cold and deliberate.
Both men stared into each other's eyes. The air between them grew thick with tension—something dark, something violent was beginning to stir, and it was far from over.