2025-03-25 19:57:13I pushed open the bar’s creaky door and stepped inside, immediately hit by the familiar scent of alcohol, sweat, and stale smoke. The place was already busy, dimly lit with the usual crowd of regulars hunched over their drinks.
Back to reality. I sighed, rolling my shoulders before making my way behind the counter. “Look who finally decided to show up,” a gruff voice called. I turned to see Mark, my manager, wiping down a glass with his ever-present scowl. He was a burly guy in his late forties with a permanent five o’clock shadow and a personality that swung between grumpy and mildly tolerable. “You’re two minutes late,” he added. I sighed. “Traffic.” Mark grunted but didn’t push it further. He didn’t actually care as long as I did my job. I grabbed an apron and tied it around my waist, my mind still replaying everything that had happened today. Jenny, her car, her laughter, the way she looked at me… I shook my head. I needed to focus. The night dragged on like it always did. Drunk men flirting with women who weren’t interested, groups of college kids celebrating God-knows-what, a couple of businessmen drowning their stress in whiskey. Same routine. Same chaos. Then, just as I was cleaning a glass, a familiar voice cut through the noise. “Well, well, if it isn’t David, the charity case.” I froze. Dylan. I looked up and, sure enough, there he was, standing by the bar with his ever-present smirk and an arm slung around Stella’s waist. She looked at me briefly, then away, like she couldn’t even stand the sight of me. Of course. Just my luck. “Didn’t expect to see you here, man,” Dylan said, pulling out a stool. “Though, I guess I should’ve. It’s not like you have anywhere else to be.” I clenched my jaw. Not tonight. I wasn’t going to let him get to me. “What can I get you?” I asked coolly, ignoring his jab. Dylan chuckled. “Look at you, all professional. Alright, let’s see… I’ll take a whiskey. Make it strong. And a cocktail for my girl.” I didn’t acknowledge the ‘my girl’ part. Stella wasn’t mine anymore. Without a word, I poured his drink and started mixing Stella’s. She still liked the same cheap, sweet cocktail she always did. Dylan, of course, wasn’t done talking. “Heard you had an interesting day,” he said, swirling his whiskey. “Getting your ass beat, then running off with the new professor? Gotta say, didn’t think you had it in you.” I kept my expression blank. I wouldn’t give him the reaction he wanted. But then he smirked. “Careful, man. You wouldn’t want to get the wrong kind of attention. A guy like you? You’re nothing but a passing amusement to someone like her.” I clenched my fist under the counter, but before I could say anything, another voice chimed in. “Everything alright here?” I turned to see Mark watching us from the end of the bar, his expression unreadable. Dylan grinned. “Yeah, we’re just having a friendly chat, right, David?” I forced a smirk. “Yeah. Friendly.” Mark’s gaze lingered for a second before he gave a curt nod and walked away. Dylan finished his drink in one go and slammed the glass down. “Well, this has been fun. Let’s go, babe.” Stella stood, not even sparing me a glance as they walked out. I exhaled slowly. The night wasn’t even over, and I was already exhausted. ---- I wiped down the last table, sighing as I glanced at the clock. 10:15 PM. Finally. My shift was over, and the bar was nearly empty. Most of the customers had already staggered out, leaving behind the usual mess of spilled drinks and half-eaten food. Mark had left a few minutes ago after giving me a nod and his usual “Lock up when you’re done.” Now, it was just me, the hum of the flickering neon sign outside, and the clinking of glasses as I stacked them behind the bar. Just a little more, and I could finally head home. I grabbed a broom, preparing to sweep when I heard it—the soft creak of the front door opening. I didn’t bother looking up. “Sorry, we’re closed,” I said tiredly, dragging the broom across the floor. But then, a voice that sent a chill down my spine answered. “I don’t think so.” I froze. That voice. Slowly, I turned around. Dylan. He stood in the doorway, smirking like he had all the time in the world. But he wasn’t alone. Three of his guys flanked him, each holding a baseball bat. I swallowed the irritation building in my throat and forced my voice to remain calm. “Look, Dylan, I don’t want any problems tonight.” His smirk widened. “You think you can just walk away after punching me and humiliating me this morning?” I sighed, gripping the broom handle a little tighter. “It was a mistake.” Dylan chuckled, taking a step forward. The dim bar lights cast sharp shadows over his face. “Oh, so getting the new professor’s attention was also a mistake, right?” I clenched my jaw. So this is what it’s about. “There’s nothing going on between me and the professor,” I said firmly. “And I’m sorry for punching you. It won’t happen again.” Dylan tilted his head, his smirk never fading. “Damn right it won’t.” Then, before I could react, he snapped his fingers. Chaos exploded around me. His guys moved fast, swinging their bats into the shelves behind the bar, shattering bottles of expensive liquor. Glass crashed to the floor, the scent of whiskey and rum filling the air. One of them knocked over a table, sending chairs skidding across the room. Another swung at the bar counter, the wooden surface splintering under the force. I took a step back, fists clenched, heart pounding. This was bad. I could only watch as Dylan’s goons tore the place apart like rabid animals. Glass shattered. The sound of bottles breaking against the floor echoed through the empty bar, the sharp scent of alcohol filling the air. One of them swung his bat at a table, sending it crashing down with a sickening crack. Another knocked over a stack of chairs, the metal legs clanging loudly as they hit the ground. I took a step back, my pulse hammering in my ears. This was beyond revenge. This was destruction. One of Dylan’s boys—a thick, muscular guy with a shaved head—grabbed a barstool and hurled it across the room. It slammed into the counter, knocking over the cash register, sending coins and crumpled bills flying everywhere. I clenched my fists. “Dylan, stop this. You’ve made your point.” He just smirked. “Not yet.” Before I could react, he rushed me. A fist slammed into my gut. Pain exploded through my body. I staggered back, gasping for air, but before I could recover, another punch connected with my jaw. The room spun. I barely had time to register what was happening before another one of his guys grabbed me by the collar and drove his knee into my stomach. My legs buckled, and I collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, my ribs screaming in protest. But they weren’t done. A boot crashed into my side. I groaned, rolling onto my stomach, but another kick landed square in my ribs, forcing a strangled gasp from my throat. Laughter filled the room. "Not so tough now, huh?" Dylan sneered, crouching beside me. He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked my head up, forcing me to look at him. My vision blurred, blood dripping down my forehead. "You think you can humiliate me? Take what's mine?" His voice was venomous. "You’re nothing, David." Then, with one final, brutal swing, he punched me across the face, sending me crashing on the floor. The pain was unbearable—a white-hot fire searing through my ribs, my jaw, my pride. Each breath was a jagged knife twisting deeper, and no matter how hard I clenched my teeth, the tears came anyway, streaming down my bruised face in hot, silent rivers. My fists had been useless. My words, even weaker. Dylan and his friends had made sure of that. "Pathetic," Dylan sneered, his boot pressing into my side one last time before he stepped back, laughing. "Look at him. Can’t even throw a punch. What a waste." His friends joined in, their voices sharp, mocking, as they tossed the last of the bar stools to the ground, shattering glass and wood with careless cruelty. Then they left, their laughter echoing behind them like the toll of a funeral bell. And there I was—broken, bleeding, and utterly powerless. I lay on the filthy floor, surrounded by the wreckage of my life. Broken glass glittered like cruel stars around me, reflecting the dim, flickering light of the ruined bar. My bar. Mark’s bar. My stomach twisted. How was I supposed to explain this? I was already drowning in debt, barely keeping my head above water. Now this? It was over. I was finished. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the ragged sound of my own breathing. Then—my phone rang. The shrill tone cut through the stillness like an alarm. I ignored it at first, too lost in the haze of pain and despair. But it kept ringing. Relentless. Demanding. With a trembling hand, I fished it out of my pocket, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of agony through my body. Unknown caller. I hesitated. Who the hell would be calling me now? Swiping weakly, I pressed the phone to my ear. "…Hello?" My voice was barely a whisper, raw and broken. "Is this David Lancaster?" A deep, masculine voice—smooth, confident. I froze. For a long moment, I didn’t answer. Then, cautiously: "...Yes." The man on the other end exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath for years. "Oh my goodness," he breathed, his voice suddenly alight with something like joy. "I finally found you… Master David." Master David? My brows furrowed. This had to be a joke. A sick, twisted prank. "I’m not ‘master’ anything," I rasped. "You’ve got the wrong David Lancaster." "There is only one David Lancaster," the man replied, his tone firm, almost reverent. "The long-lost heir of Andrew Lancaster." My breath hitched. Andrew Lancaster. The name alone sent a shockwave through my skull. The Andrew Lancaster. The richest man in the world. The billionaire whose name was synonymous with power, influence—legacy. No. No way. I scoffed, though it came out more like a pained wheeze. "I’m not in the mood for pranks." "This is no prank, Master," the man insisted. "I’ll prove it to you after this call." Before I could respond, the line went dead. I hissed, letting my arm drop to the floor. What the hell was that? Some cruel joke? Some scam? But… a small, desperate part of me wished it was real. Because if it was— Beep. My phone lit up with a notification. Frowning, I forced myself to look. A bank alert. My breath hitched. I tapped the notification, and when I saw the numbers on the screen, my eyes widened so much I thought they’d pop out of my skull. I almost screamed. TEN. FUCKING. MILLION. DOLLARS. What. The. Hell. My fingers trembled as I stared at the amount—Ten million dollars had just been credited to my account. This couldn’t be real. Was this a mistake? A glitch? Or— The phone rang again, and it was the same number. I answered so fast I nearly fumbled it. "So," the man’s voice was warm, amused. "Do you believe me now… Master David?"
Previous Chapter
Related Chapters
THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER Chapter 6: Now A Lancaster
My fingers trembled around the phone, my breath coming in short, disbelieving gasps. Ten million dollars. Ten million dollars. The number burned itself into my mind, searing away the pain, the humiliation, the despair. "Who… who are you?" I managed, my voice hoarse but no longer weak. There was something new in it now—something raw, electric. Hope. The man chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "My name is Vincent Cole, Master David. I’ve been searching for you for a very long time." Vincent Cole. The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it—like it should have carried weight—made my pulse quicken. "You’re telling me," I said slowly, forcing my thoughts into some semblance of order, "that I’m the heir of Andrew Lancaster. The billionaire Andrew Lancaster." "Not just the heir," Vincent corrected, his voice dropping into something almost reverent. "His only heir. His son." The world tilted. Son. The word hit me like a freight train. My father—if he even was my father—had
THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER My Father's Enemies
The grin didn’t fade as I turned away from the mirror, my mind racing. Fun. That was one way to put it. Insane was another. I ran my fingers over the expensive watch, the weight of it foreign against my skin. The bruises on my knuckles, the ache in my ribs, the ghost of Dylan’s boot against my side—those felt real. But this? The palatial estate, the staff treating me like royalty, the ten million dollars sitting in my account? It was like stepping into someone else’s life. And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. I took a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scent of cedar and wealth, then crossed the room to the massive walk-in closet. Rows of suits in deep charcoals and midnight blues hung perfectly pressed, their designer labels whispering a price tag I didn’t even want to guess at. The shelves held rows of polished Italian leather shoes, and the glass display cases glinted with cufflinks, tie bars, and watches worth more than my old bartender’s salary in a year. I ran my fingers
THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER My Daily Life
The cab rolled to a stop in front of a worn-down apartment complex, its tires crunching against the gravel-strewn pavement. The driver barely spared me a glance as I dug into my pocket, fishing out the last few crumpled bills I had for the ride. It wasn’t much, but it got me home. I handed him the money, murmured a quick “Thanks,” and stepped out into the early morning chill. The street was quiet—eerily so. The distant hum of the city had softened into a lazy murmur, and the streetlights flickered, casting elongated shadows against the cracked sidewalk. I adjusted my bag over my shoulder and trudged toward the building, exhaustion clinging to my limbs like a second skin. Reaching the door of my tiny apartment, I pulled out my keys with fingers that felt heavier than they should have. The metal scraped against the lock as I twisted it open, the familiar creak of the old wooden door greeting me like an old companion. Stepping inside, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holdin
THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER Chapter 2: Professor Jenny
I walked into the lecture hall, heading straight for the farthest row. It was where I always sat—out of sight, out of mind. The perfect place to keep my head down and focus. Dropping my bag onto the desk, I pulled out my battered notebook and the thick textbook I carried everywhere. The cover was creased, the pages dog-eared from months of use. I had barely slept, my body running on nothing but sheer willpower and caffeine, but I couldn’t afford to fall behind. The lecturer hadn’t arrived yet, and the room buzzed with conversation, the voices of privileged students filling the space like an unbearable hum. Their designer clothes, their expensive perfumes, their casual arrogance—it was a world I didn’t belong to. I tuned it all out and focused on my book. Until a hand suddenly snatched it away. I looked up, my jaw tightening. Stella. She stood before me, twirling my book between her fingers, a smirk playing on her perfectly glossed lips. “Hey there, ex-boyfriend.” I exh
THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER Chapter 3: A Rare Feeling
Professor Jenny and I made our way back to the lecture hall, and I could feel every single pair of eyes on us. The whispers started immediately—hushed murmurs, stolen glances, judgmental smirks. Some students nudged each other, others discreetly pulled out their phones, probably to record whatever was happening. I didn’t care. I kept my head straight, matching Ms. Jenny’s pace as she walked beside me, completely unfazed by the attention. If anything, she exuded an air of quiet authority, her presence commanding the room before she even said a word. We entered the lecture hall, and the moment we did, the whispers intensified. I ignored them. My focus shifted to my book, still lying on the floor where Dylan had crushed it. I walked over and bent down, picking it up. The cover was bent, the pages slightly torn, but I didn’t care. I ran a hand over the creases before tucking it under my arm and making my way to my seat at the far end of the hall. Ms. Jenny, on the other hand, st
THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER Chapter 4: A Strange Connection
We continued eating, the atmosphere between us surprisingly light despite how unusual this situation felt. Jenny had this way of making things seem normal—even though nothing about this was normal. “So, tell me about yourself,” she said, twirling her fork between her fingers. “What do you like to do when you're not fighting in lecture halls?” I smirked. “You make it sound like I do that often.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?” I sighed dramatically. “Alright, maybe I’ve gotten into a few… misunderstandings.” She chuckled. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” I shrugged. “Well, when you don’t have much in life, you tend to fight to keep what little you do have.” Her eyes flickered with something unreadable, but she didn’t press. Instead, she took a sip of her drink and asked, “Okay, what about hobbies? Do you have any?” “Hobbies?” I repeated, thinking for a moment. “Uh… I guess I like reading. And fixing things. You know, like repairing old gadgets, computers, stuff
Latest Chapter
My Father's Enemies
The grin didn’t fade as I turned away from the mirror, my mind racing. Fun. That was one way to put it. Insane was another. I ran my fingers over the expensive watch, the weight of it foreign against my skin. The bruises on my knuckles, the ache in my ribs, the ghost of Dylan’s boot against my side—those felt real. But this? The palatial estate, the staff treating me like royalty, the ten million dollars sitting in my account? It was like stepping into someone else’s life. And maybe that wasn’t a bad thing. I took a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scent of cedar and wealth, then crossed the room to the massive walk-in closet. Rows of suits in deep charcoals and midnight blues hung perfectly pressed, their designer labels whispering a price tag I didn’t even want to guess at. The shelves held rows of polished Italian leather shoes, and the glass display cases glinted with cufflinks, tie bars, and watches worth more than my old bartender’s salary in a year. I ran my fingers
Chapter 6: Now A Lancaster
My fingers trembled around the phone, my breath coming in short, disbelieving gasps. Ten million dollars. Ten million dollars. The number burned itself into my mind, searing away the pain, the humiliation, the despair. "Who… who are you?" I managed, my voice hoarse but no longer weak. There was something new in it now—something raw, electric. Hope. The man chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "My name is Vincent Cole, Master David. I’ve been searching for you for a very long time." Vincent Cole. The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it—like it should have carried weight—made my pulse quicken. "You’re telling me," I said slowly, forcing my thoughts into some semblance of order, "that I’m the heir of Andrew Lancaster. The billionaire Andrew Lancaster." "Not just the heir," Vincent corrected, his voice dropping into something almost reverent. "His only heir. His son." The world tilted. Son. The word hit me like a freight train. My father—if he even was my father—had
Chapter 5: The Life-changing Phone call
I pushed open the bar’s creaky door and stepped inside, immediately hit by the familiar scent of alcohol, sweat, and stale smoke. The place was already busy, dimly lit with the usual crowd of regulars hunched over their drinks. Back to reality. I sighed, rolling my shoulders before making my way behind the counter. “Look who finally decided to show up,” a gruff voice called. I turned to see Mark, my manager, wiping down a glass with his ever-present scowl. He was a burly guy in his late forties with a permanent five o’clock shadow and a personality that swung between grumpy and mildly tolerable. “You’re two minutes late,” he added. I sighed. “Traffic.” Mark grunted but didn’t push it further. He didn’t actually care as long as I did my job. I grabbed an apron and tied it around my waist, my mind still replaying everything that had happened today. Jenny, her car, her laughter, the way she looked at me… I shook my head. I needed to focus. The night dragged on like it
Chapter 4: A Strange Connection
We continued eating, the atmosphere between us surprisingly light despite how unusual this situation felt. Jenny had this way of making things seem normal—even though nothing about this was normal. “So, tell me about yourself,” she said, twirling her fork between her fingers. “What do you like to do when you're not fighting in lecture halls?” I smirked. “You make it sound like I do that often.” She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you?” I sighed dramatically. “Alright, maybe I’ve gotten into a few… misunderstandings.” She chuckled. “That’s a diplomatic way to put it.” I shrugged. “Well, when you don’t have much in life, you tend to fight to keep what little you do have.” Her eyes flickered with something unreadable, but she didn’t press. Instead, she took a sip of her drink and asked, “Okay, what about hobbies? Do you have any?” “Hobbies?” I repeated, thinking for a moment. “Uh… I guess I like reading. And fixing things. You know, like repairing old gadgets, computers, stuff
Chapter 3: A Rare Feeling
Professor Jenny and I made our way back to the lecture hall, and I could feel every single pair of eyes on us. The whispers started immediately—hushed murmurs, stolen glances, judgmental smirks. Some students nudged each other, others discreetly pulled out their phones, probably to record whatever was happening. I didn’t care. I kept my head straight, matching Ms. Jenny’s pace as she walked beside me, completely unfazed by the attention. If anything, she exuded an air of quiet authority, her presence commanding the room before she even said a word. We entered the lecture hall, and the moment we did, the whispers intensified. I ignored them. My focus shifted to my book, still lying on the floor where Dylan had crushed it. I walked over and bent down, picking it up. The cover was bent, the pages slightly torn, but I didn’t care. I ran a hand over the creases before tucking it under my arm and making my way to my seat at the far end of the hall. Ms. Jenny, on the other hand, st
Chapter 2: Professor Jenny
I walked into the lecture hall, heading straight for the farthest row. It was where I always sat—out of sight, out of mind. The perfect place to keep my head down and focus. Dropping my bag onto the desk, I pulled out my battered notebook and the thick textbook I carried everywhere. The cover was creased, the pages dog-eared from months of use. I had barely slept, my body running on nothing but sheer willpower and caffeine, but I couldn’t afford to fall behind. The lecturer hadn’t arrived yet, and the room buzzed with conversation, the voices of privileged students filling the space like an unbearable hum. Their designer clothes, their expensive perfumes, their casual arrogance—it was a world I didn’t belong to. I tuned it all out and focused on my book. Until a hand suddenly snatched it away. I looked up, my jaw tightening. Stella. She stood before me, twirling my book between her fingers, a smirk playing on her perfectly glossed lips. “Hey there, ex-boyfriend.” I exh
My Daily Life
The cab rolled to a stop in front of a worn-down apartment complex, its tires crunching against the gravel-strewn pavement. The driver barely spared me a glance as I dug into my pocket, fishing out the last few crumpled bills I had for the ride. It wasn’t much, but it got me home. I handed him the money, murmured a quick “Thanks,” and stepped out into the early morning chill. The street was quiet—eerily so. The distant hum of the city had softened into a lazy murmur, and the streetlights flickered, casting elongated shadows against the cracked sidewalk. I adjusted my bag over my shoulder and trudged toward the building, exhaustion clinging to my limbs like a second skin. Reaching the door of my tiny apartment, I pulled out my keys with fingers that felt heavier than they should have. The metal scraped against the lock as I twisted it open, the familiar creak of the old wooden door greeting me like an old companion. Stepping inside, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holdin
