THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER

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 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?"