My wife’s family was worth millions, and I married into it. Her adoptive brother claimed I caused the accident that left her dad in a vegetative state, that I only married her for the money. Just based on his suspicion, I was sent to prison. She broke the hand I used to paint. She damaged the eye I used for photography, leaving a four-inch scar across my face. My mom knelt before her, begging for my release. After getting out, I avoided her like the plague. But she haunted me, relentless as a ghost. My mom spent her life savings to bail me out, but my wife demanded she kneel and apologize right there before agreeing. On the way home, the stress triggered a heart attack. Mom collapsed, and then a passing car hit her. Now she’s the one in a vegetative state. Only when I suffered the same fate as her father did the Vances finally back off. The first thing I did after getting out was sign the divorce papers. I wanted nothing to do with the Vances ever again. To pay for Mom’s medical bills, I scraped together two high-paying—or what counted as high-paying for me now—jobs. I thought I’d paid a steep enough price. But seeing Sarah Vance at the nightclub proved how naive I was. Surrounded by her friends, her gaze landed on me, full of condescending arrogance. "Well, if it isn't the great artist, Liam? What's someone like you doing in a low-class joint like this?" "I seem to recall you looking down your nose at places like this." She pulled a wad of cash from her purse and threw it in my face. "Take good care of my friends, and there's more where that came from." I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw trembled. "You've got the wrong guy. I just serve drinks. I'm not an escort." Laughter erupted around me. Sarah's face tightened for a second before she pulled out several thousand dollars and tossed it on the floor in front of me. "You can be!" They casually rattled off names of expensive liquors, shattering what little pride I had left. That booze, worth more than my life felt like right now… if I sold it, Mom's medical bills for the next month would be covered. I slowly lowered my head and went to get the drinks. My hand, the one she’d broken in prison that never healed right, trembled violently as I held the tray. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. I held the tray out. Nobody moved to take anything. The sweat soaked through my shirt. After a long moment, Sarah finally looked up, raising an eyebrow. "How are you going to sell drinks if you don't drink? Don't you know the rules here?" My grip tightened on the tray. We were together for five years. She knew perfectly well I was allergic to alcohol. If it weren't for the scar on my face and the damage to my wrist, I wouldn't have been desperate enough to take this job. I grabbed a bottle, ready to drink it anyway, but she snatched it from me. She poured it onto the floor, letting it soak into the carpet under the sofa. She tilted her chin, gesturing for me to get on my knees. "Oops, how clumsy of me. That's expensive stuff. What a waste… unless… you just lap it up from the carpet." My eyes fixed on the stained carpet. A wave of humiliation washed over me, worse than anything I'd felt before. God knows how many shoes had trampled this club carpet, and I doubted it had ever been cleaned. The manager saw what was happening and strode over. He kicked the back of my knee. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the floor. Stay calm, Liam, I told myself, over and over. This is the best job you could find. You need this. When I didn't move, Sarah threw another ten thousand dollars, the bills scattering over my head and shoulders. Stiffly, I bent forward, my face getting closer and closer to the filthy carpet, but I couldn't bring myself to touch it. The next second, Sarah’s stiletto heel pressed down on the back of my head. My head twisted, forcing my cheek flat against the carpet. The club lights hit the grotesque scar near my eye. That happened in prison. She'd used a pen... the tip had grazed my eyeball as I flinched away in pain, tearing the skin. Emergency surgery saved the eye itself, but not the vision. I lost sight in my left eye. People around gasped as if they'd just noticed. "Ugh, what is that on his face? So creepy! They'll hire anyone here!" They knew damn well how I got the scar, every single one of them. But they pretended ignorance, twisting the knife. Sarah chuckled softly, the point of her heel tracing the edge of my scar. "Is this really our great artist? I barely recognize you." Then, she shifted her weight, grinding her heel into the wrist of my bad hand, the one pinned beneath me. The tendons were already ruined, never healed properly, but the pressure sent white-hot pain shooting up my arm. "Liam," she said slowly, each word deliberate, the pressure increasing, "is this the hand you used to tamper with my father's car?" She picked up some of the scattered bills and started slapping them against my face. "Still not drinking? Are you waiting for a formal invitation?" The manager, who had frozen nearby, snapped back to attention. He kicked me sharply in the backside. "Drink it, now! These are VIPs! Screw this up, and you're fired!" He grabbed my head, forcing it down until my lips were pressed against the alcohol-soaked carpet. My skin already burned, reacting to the cheap booze. With my bad hand pinned and the other useless, I couldn't fight his strength. Sarah leaned close, her voice a venomous whisper in my ear, "This is payback for what you did to my dad!" I tried to shake my head, but the manager clamped his hands on either side, holding me still. I'd explained it countless times in prison. The car accident had nothing to do with me. If it weren't for Mr. Vance, I never could have afforded art school, let alone had someone sponsor my gallery show. Why would I hurt him for money? But no one listened. Because of one accusation from her adoptive brother, Jason, I was suddenly the villain, guilty as charged. I clamped my jaw shut, my lips grinding against the rough carpet fibers. I forced the words out through gritted teeth. "Sarah... I told you... it wasn't me..." Hearing the old nickname made her eyes flash red. "If not you, then who? My brother? Dad adopted Jason when he was five, raised him like a son, groomed him to take over the company! Are you saying he hurt Dad? The brother who's always been there for me? And now he's blaming you?!" "The Vance fortune was practically his already. Why would he need to?" Thinking of her father, her only remaining family, Sarah grew more agitated. She spat through clenched teeth, "Still talking? Guess you haven't had enough to drink!" As soon as she said it, one of her friends chimed in. "Wow, this carpet really soaks it up! Let me try..." She grabbed another bottle and poured, the liquid pooling and spreading beyond the carpet now. A bitter laugh welled up inside me. When I got the call about Mr. Vance's accident, I rushed over immediately. He only had minor injuries then. But after Jason arrived, put him in his car, and took him to the hospital… he ended up vegetative. Bitter irony. Maybe Jason didn't do it for the money. But what if he did it for you, Sarah? I had to open my mouth to breathe, and ended up gulping down the disgusting, booze-soaked liquid. Alcohol flooded my throat, and a fierce itch started deep inside me, my allergy kicking in. The manager, startled by my reaction, muttered an excuse about me needing to clean up in the restroom, finally giving me a momentary escape. In the bathroom, I choked down the allergy pills I always carried, then shoved my face under the faucet, turning the cold water on full blast. Tears or sweat, I couldn't tell, but my face was soaked. Just as I felt like I was about to suffocate, a hesitant female voice sounded nearby. "Excuse me, are you Liam?" I lifted my dripping face from the sink and met a pair of clear, kind eyes. The young woman was dressed head-to-toe in designer clothes – clearly from a different world than mine now. I figured she had the wrong person. I gave a slight nod and turned to leave. I still had to go back out there and earn that money. But she stopped me, her eyes lighting up with excitement, though she hesitated when her gaze fell on my scar. "I thought I was mistaken! I saw your gallery show. I loved your work, but then... I couldn't find any news about you." She flashed a charming smile and held out her hand. "Hi, I guess I'm one of your earliest fans. My name is Grace Norton." Hearing her name, a vague memory surfaced. That one and only gallery show, sponsored by Mr. Vance… only one person had contacted me afterward, wanting to buy a piece. I'd been ecstatic then, thinking it was the start of my career. Turns out, it was the only time. And the last. The past felt like another lifetime. I avoided her gaze and mumbled, "You're mistaken. I just serve drinks here." Then I practically fled. What was once my armor—my art—was now the sharpest knife twisting in my gut. Swallowing the bitterness, I forced myself back to Sarah's table. A few good-looking guys had joined them now, charming her friends into giggles. One of the women saw me and exclaimed, "Sarah, you were right! He actually came back! Ugh, I lost the bet! So annoying!" I took a deep breath, trying to muster a smile. Sarah was leaning against one of the guys now. She scoffed, "He kissed my ass for five years. I know exactly what he's thinking. You only lost, what, fifty grand? Just take it out on him." I bit down hard to keep quiet. My pride was being trampled by these people, and all I felt was a burning, helpless resentment. The woman who lost the bet brightened at Sarah's suggestion. The next second, she slipped off her high heel, picked up one of the bottles I'd just brought, and poured the expensive liquor into her shoe. Then she covered her mouth in mock horror. "Oh my god, I'm so clumsy! This stuff is so expensive, what a waste..." Her eyes met mine, a playful smirk on her lips. "What should we do? That's probably, like, two months' salary for you, right? Can't let it go to waste. How about this: you drink it, I'll pay for the bottle. Deal?" "Besides," she added, "isn't it an honor for this booze to be consumed by such a great artist?" Laughter rippled through the group. Their eyes were on me, expectant, burning holes in my already shredded dignity. I turned my head, looking straight at Sarah. The woman I'd loved for five years. Honestly, deep down, a part of me still couldn't believe she could be this cruel. Five years together. We were each other's first love. After prison, I'd specifically checked at the hospital – Mr. Vance's condition was stable. There was a chance he could wake up. If he did, he could clear my name. But she ignored my stare, turning back to flirt with the guy next to her. The woman with the shoe gestured towards it with her bare foot, tilting her chin expectantly. I bent down, lowering my head to hide my shame. My whole body trembled as I reached for the shoe. Just before my fingers could touch it, a hand grabbed my arm. "Liam? Fancy meeting you here. Are you looking for inspiration? Could I possibly talk to you about that painting of yours?" Seeing this, Sarah finally pulled away from the guy she was leaning on. She looked at Grace, her expression wary and cold. "I'm dealing with my own man here. What's it to you?" I cut in, my voice flat. "Sarah, we're divorced." She flushed, momentarily speechless. Seeing her caught off guard, one of her friends jumped in, scowling at Grace. "You must have the wrong guy. He's no artist now. What painting are you talking about? Something Sarah paid for back when they were together?" "I think you're confused," another added venomously. "That artist basically died in prison. The person in front of you now is just a crippled bartender. Possibly even an attempted murderer..." She emphasized the word "crippled," and the blood drained from my face. Not wanting my only fan to witness this humiliation, I just nodded numbly. "Yeah, you must be mistaken. I just serve drinks." Hearing me admit defeat seemed to satisfy Sarah. Her expression softened slightly as she tossed another thick stack of cash—maybe twenty grand—onto the table. In this age of digital payments, I couldn't help but think she used cash specifically to humiliate me. Tapping a phone screen just didn't have the same degrading impact as forcing me to grovel for bills on the floor. Grace watched this exchange, her earlier smile gone, replaced by a serious expression. She said firmly, "Fine. Then I want to buy his services. That should be okay, right?" Sarah's friend immediately scowled. "Do you know who we are? Are you looking for trouble? Didn't you hear us?" Grace blinked innocently. "I want to hire him too. I like his face. Since you've already bought the drinks, what's wrong with me taking him?" In the dim light, Sarah coldly pulled out her phone and dialed a number. "Manager? Someone here is causing trouble for me. Do you want to stay in business or not? Have you forgotten who your best customers are?" Hearing her make the call, my heart jumped into my throat. I saw someone slip away, probably to get security. The other women glared at Grace. "Where did this broke bitch come from? Trying to take someone from us?" I didn't want Grace getting dragged into this because of me. I whispered quickly, "You should go. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine." I knew how much clout the Vance family had locally. Anyone hanging out with Sarah wasn't likely to be ordinary either. But Grace just set her jaw, reached into her designer bag, and pulled out a black card. She tossed it casually onto the table. "Tonight, I'm taking him with me. Period."
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