Revenge of The Furtive Billionaire Heir

8. I get slapped.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement.

Coraline had always been a kind, open person when we were in high school, and never had she treated me like this. When she talked to me back in the day, I always felt like we could be friends if I had the gall to approach her about it. We ran in different circles and my one was generally lower in the food chain, but for Coraline, that didn’t matter.

But now, I feel betrayed and devastated. I never thought she would be one of those snobs like her friends were.

Tensions are high, and I have a feeling that I was being misunderstood here. I didn’t mean to insult anyone, so I try to rectify my mistake, ignoring the sting of her slap in my face and my heart.

“Look,” I start in an even voice, “I’m not trying to insult you or your shoes. What I’m trying to say is those shoes are forges, and whoever sold them to you scammed you. If you think I’m wrong, check the soles. If it’s an original, there should be a signature on the sole. That line of shoes is always signed by the artist, one of the reasons those shoes are expensive."

“Oh, fuck off,” one of Jon's friends pipes from behind him, “You’re just trying to humiliate him. What would you know about designer brands?”

“Insulting Jon is never going to work for you, you welp.” Another friend of his joins.

But when I look straight at Jon’s face, I know the truth. I know that he's aware of the shoes being fake because there is an almost undistinguishable glint of humiliation in his eyes. I can recognize that look anywhere because I always remember seeing it constantly in my past. I could bet a hundred bucks that he just bought the fakes to show off at the party.

I’ve done things like that since I was a kid. I didn’t think it was anything to be ashamed of. However, by now I realize that he was just bluffing about them because he wanted to make me feel less than others.

Just like in high school. 

Before neither of us could speak, Coraline steps right in front of me, and slaps me again, catching me by surprise on the other cheek.

This time, I can’t keep quiet, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I growl at her, “Are you slap-happy or something? If you want to get my attention, just talk like a normal person, what’s wrong with you?!”

“Leave the place immediately,” ignoring my tirade, Colarline hisses. “You don’t belong here with us, leave before we make you.”

I want to fight her, I want to fight them all. But after everything, I don’t want trouble. There was still a video of me being pranked roaming on the internet, and for me, that was enough of a headache to worry about. I didn’t want to have my whole high school batch angry with me over this.

So, without a word, I turn away from them and walk towards the exit amidst their victorious crowing.

But before I can exit the building, a waiter comes running, looking panicked.

“Sir, sir!” he calls me, “You have to pay your bill.”

My brows raise, “What bill? I didn’t have anything here, I literally came in just moments ago.”

The waiter looks uncomfortable, “I’m sorry sir, but these are the rules of the establishment. Refreshments and other services were booked beforehand, and each guest must pay on their way out.”

“Those are some funky rules,” I reply with a sigh, “But whatever. Here’s my card, charge it.”

I took the card my father gave me just yesterday to the waiter. I don’t feel entirely comfortable spending my father’s money like that, but my father had made it clear that the money was mine and that I should be using it for any payments. Given the situation of my own bank account, I can't turn it down.

The waiter returns with my card. After muttering my thanks and accepting his, I turn to leave the establishment. Of course, loud snickering and mocking laughter bursts behind my back as I open the door, and I sigh.

Just another day in the life of Jace Greyson, I think, what a bizarre life I’m living now. 

I trudge through the parking lot of the restaurant to where my rusty old bike is parked. The evening is on the verge of turning into the night, and I feel as bone-weary as I was yesterday. At least this humiliation was private, unlike the last one where my business was live-streamed on the internet.

Speaking of that, I wonder if Gerald had been able to find and delete the video as he promised me he would.

Before I can get on my bike and paddle away to the safety of my home, the sound of feet on the concrete ground comes from behind me. Wondering who it is, I turn.

The waiter comes running, panting.

“Sir!” he huffs, “Sir, I’m…I’m so sorry…”

“Dude, breathe,” I instruct him, crossing my arms over my chest, wondering why he was apologizing, “There’s no hurry, I’m not going to run away.”

“Sir, I’m sorry,” he reiterates, this time not stammering, “There was an error in the cash register, especially with the data that was given. Your card was overcharged.”

“Huh?”

“We entered the wrong bill, sir, that’s our fault, and the machine was none the wiser. We accidentally charged your card $30,000 including the deposit for the reception. That’s the total bill of the venue.”

My eyes widen to the size of saucers upon hearing that, “Thirty thousand dollars?!”

“Yes sir, once again, we profusely apologize. If you can just wait for a moment, we can rectify the mistake.”

“Yeah, sure,” I mutter, feeling like an idiot for not noticing this earlier, “But I’m not coming in there. I trust you to do whatever it takes to fix it.”

“Yes, sir. Again, thank you for your understanding, I will be back in a moment!”

With that, the waiter ran into the restaurant, only for another guest to slip out.