Faking Disability: Two Years of Deceit for Revenge

The collision sent the cabinet quaking violently.

Scores of exquisitely packaged bottles of château reds and elite malts tumbled down, shattering on the floor.

The cacophony startled everyone. They stared, slack-jawed, at the devastation.

A momentary hush descended, swiftly shattered by amplified mockery.

"What a klutz! Total catastrophe."

"Tally up the damage. This bumpkin is doomed."

"Lafite Rothschild, Romanée-Conti, Macallan rarities... Good lord! What's the tab?"

"Millions easy. Selling himself off wouldn't cover it."

"Can't cover it?" Mark sauntered closer, smirking. "No sweat. Get down and lap up the spill. For each lick, I'll foot a drop's worth. Keep going till I'm satisfied."

The crowd latched onto his cruel suggestion with glee.

"Kneel and slurp."

"Show us your floor-cleaning skills."

They closed in, seizing my arms and forcing me down toward the shattered glass and spilled fortunes.

"Down on your knees! Lick it up!"

"Or jail now!"

A wave of degradation and agony engulfed me as they grabbed my head and shoved me down.

Summoning every ounce of resolve, I jerked my head up and rasped, "I'm the exclusive successor to the Lane Group. Janet Lane is my mother!"

There was a stunned pause, but an explosion of derisive howls followed.

"Did you hear that? The Lane heir?"

"Tycoon mom? He is delusional or brain-fried to spout nonsense."

"If you're an heir, then I'm president."

Mark convulsed with laughter. "Please, the Lane heir owns this joint, and he is my sister's fiancé. Skip summoning your mom. Bring out your fiancée to handle us."

His cronies booed, "This guy is full of hot air. Hilarious!"

Amid this soul-crushing mortification, a silhouette drew near.

Jessica's gown swayed elegantly, her posture exuding confidence.

Spotting me, she gasped, "Noah? Mark? What's going on here?"

She surveyed the wreckage and my subdued position, then addressed me from her lofty vantage. "Noah, how did you wind up like this? Stirring up trouble again? Never mind. If you beg me, I might consider our history and handle this..."

Before she could finish, a commotion came from the hotel entrance.

The onlookers parted quickly, whispering among themselves.

"Is that Pauline Castro? Stunning as ever."

"You bet. Groomed in elite circles, her poise is unmatched."

A striking woman, clad in a black couture gown accented by a sophisticated jacket, marched in with purpose.

Her eyes zeroed in on me, and her face darkened at my pinned, bedraggled state.

"What are you doing?" she snapped.