6• We Will See Whose Face Will Be Laughed At

“So because you are the manager of some family business then you think you can mock me?” Matthew asked with a voice that even though was calm, carried his frustration of everything he had been through today.

“Ah, so the hick can talk, hm?” Spencer Delacroix mocked, a shark-like grin on his face. “You should learn to watch your mouth. My family is very powerful. We even have deep ties with the Houston family, which is even why I'm here; to discuss business and cooperation. But instead, I have to endure the presence of a beggar like you, sullying this reception hall with your rags.”

“You are the one who should learn to watch his mouth,” Wellington said with a stern voice. “The Delacroix family is a small enterprise, your family is barely worth half of the Houston family’s wealth. The matriarch of the family hasn’t even granted you an audience, and yet you dare to humiliate the young master of the Houston family?”

Spencer's eyes widened with amusement and he glanced at Matthew, who was still fuming with silent anger. Suddenly, he burst into laughter, pointing at Matthew and mocking him.

“The Young Master of the Houston family?” he repeated mockingly. “What kind of joke is that? It’s well-known that there is no heir to the Houston fortune. So, tell me, where would a beggar like him come from?”

“Stop calling me a beggar!” Matthew warned, fists still clenched. “Everything I own, I got it through my own hard work!”

Spencer looked at him with an unimpressed smile that broke into a louder laughter. When he was done laughing, he snapped his fingers and pointed directly at Matthew. “Guards, get this worthless piece of trash out of the Houstons’ property!”

The guards glanced at each other and refused to move. They recognized Harold Wellington, and they knew he was the family lawyer, which meant he represented more power than Spencer Delacroix.

“You should think very carefully before you act, Spencer Delacroix,” the lawyer said coldly. “No one, not even you, would dare offend the Houston family like this.”

“Hah!” Spencer laughed. “Why do you keep saying that? This pauper is not a member of the Houston family and you're defending him? When exactly did you start bringing ragamuffins off the street into the illustrious walls of the Houston Manor? Do you know what the matriarch would do to you, and to him?”

A smile appeared on Wellington’s face. “So you think you are in the matriarch’s favor? She has never even regarded your presence before, she doesn't know who you are, and she doesn't care about your family. You think you have her favor more than me, her own personal lawyer? Or Micheal, her only grandson and one true heir to the Houston Empire? You are a pretentious fool treading on waters you do not comprehend!”

Spencer laughed nervously, but his thoughts were swirling turbulently in his mind. ‘Could he really be the Young Master? The heir that has been missing for so long? No! No! It can't be! Look at him. No heir wears such horrible rags as clothes. He's just a mere riffraff!’

“I don't know what your game is here, Mr. Wellington,” he responded to the powerful lawyer. “You pick a smelly, beaten up beggar from the dumps and bring him into this exclusive place! Then you have the audacity to call him the Young Master! That is disrespectful to the matriarch and her family's name. You will get fired for this, and I can't wait to see the look on your face when she does it!”

“Very well then,” Wellington said with an icy voice. “When the matriarch arrives, we will see whose face will be laughed at — mine or yours. But don't say you weren't warned, Spencer Delacroix. The matriarch’s punishment is very swift.”

Wellington paused, listening to the sound of a car arriving outside. “In fact, I think that is her right now.”

Spencer's sneer wavered for a fraction of a second, his eyes showing how anxious he was. But the Delacroix head manager had a big ego and his pride was even larger. He didn't back down and opened his mouth to retort once more, but before he could say a word, the grand doors of the manor swung open with a booming echo that silenced everyone in the hall.

Every head turned as two teams of bodyguards in striking black and gold suit uniforms marched into the room. Their boots pounded on the ground with a dum… dum… dum as they marched in. Soon, anticipation filled the air.

Matthew glanced at Wellington, who smiled and nodded assuringly. Still, he was confused as to what was happening.

Suddenly, all the bodyguards arranged themselves in lined formations, slammed their feet in attention and their right hands on their forehead, fingers straight and firm. Then, they all chorused;

“Welcome home, Young Master!”

Spencer Delacroix's face went ashen and the blood drained immediately from his features as he realized the situation had just crashed down on him. His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but he was suddenly unable to form words.

Few moments ago he had a confident smirk on his face, and now, dawning horror was plastered all over it. ‘It can't be possible!’ he thought. ‘Him?! The Young Master? The heir? I just insulted and ridiculed the heir of the Houston family!’

Matthew, who had not even finished processing the enormity of the day’s events, gaped at the bodyguards in disbelief. ‘Is all this for me?’ he asked himself.

His heart pounded in his chest as he slowly began to grasp the full weight of his true identity. This wasn't just some random wealthy family he was a part of, this truly was a powerful empire, something to be taken seriously.

Spencer stumbled backward, his bravado utterly shattered, and as he did, he saw the faint, dangerous smile tugging at the corners of the lawyer’s mouth. ‘Maybe the bodyguards are misinformed! Yes! The matriarch hasn't approved of him yet! He's still just street trash!’

“Are you satisfied now, Mr. Delacroix?” Wellington asked him.

Spencer shook his head. “This doesn't mean anything. He's still street scum until the matriarch comes and approves of him herself!”

Suddenly, the doors swung open once again, pushed by two more polished guards, and an aged woman — in her elegance — stepped into the reception hall.

Wellington smiled. “Speak of the devil.”