The Williams family used to be the pride of the South Side—classy, loaded, strict as hell.
But the strongest fortress cracks from the inside.
After digging through the red ledger, Victor knew that cold.
First target: second son, Mark Williams. Classic high-school bully straight out of every teen drama—the spoiled golden boy with a dumb superiority complex.
No need to rehash the details. Victor turned that healthy kid into an HIV-positive quadriplegic after one "accident." Spinal damage so bad he couldn't control his bowels.
He's alive, but it's worse than death. A living monument that bleeds the family dry—money, time, hope—while they watch him rot.
Every time Victor pictures Mark twisted in that hospital bed, eyes screaming, a dark rush of satisfaction floods him.
This isn't murder. This is ongoing punishment. A stain on the Williams bloodline.
Next: the youngest daughter. Naive, desperate for attention and approval.
Victor played the long game—dirtier, more twisted. He bought off her vain "besties" with layers of cash and favors.
Corruption started in the sparkle:
Designer makeup, limited-edition fits, midnight joyrides in borrowed Lambos.
They crowned her princess, then nudged her into the trap.
Interest-free "loans" at first. Then iron-clad bank terms. One ring after another.
Handbags, jewelry—shiny poison.
Two years was enough to turn an innocent girl into a slave to debt and craving.
Her private videos? Locked in Victor's finance-company vault. Best leverage on the planet.
Her "freedom" was just heavier chains.
Sometimes Victor flips through the surveillance pics—her forcing a smile, flexing new gear. The emptiness behind those eyes? That's the thrill. He didn't break her body. He erased her soul and future—with nothing but interest.
Interest forces the choice: tell Daddy… or turn seven-hundred-dollar tricks.
Last: the eldest son.
Heir apparent. Seemed rock-solid. Inherited Dad's connections, cushy state government gig.
Victor found the perfect crack—his wife. Social butterfly, hollow inside.
He slipped her into a rigged "high-stakes" poker circle.
Sweet wins at first—big cash, ego strokes.
Then the games turned. Trap snapped shut.
When she was drowning, hubby dove in to "save" her.
From bailing her out to chasing the rush himself. Husband and wife sank together.
Four hundred grand in markers—tight noose.
Desperate, big bro started greasing palms for Victor's crew. Every favor bought a few more weeks.
Every dirty deal? Another poison pill Victor held over his political throat.
From rising star to gambling-addicted, embezzling wreck.
Victor watched the couple tear each other apart in the debt swamp. A happy family shattered. The ice in his chest burned hotter—revenge fire.
·······
Old man Williams was a hard-ass, just like his climb.
After his wife—sixteen years older, loaded—died, his life became a shrine to success and respectability.
Iron fist over the company. Same grip on the kids:
Eldest, Edgar—groomed successor, fancy title, big connections.
Little Isabella—his trophy. Gorgeous, graceful, the belle of every gala. Meant to carry the torch.
The paralyzed middle son? Already written off.
What he didn't know: the foundation of his empire was hollowed out, quiet as termites.
The guy holding the drill? A name he'd nearly forgotten—Victor. Just some fired lowlife.
But the stage was set.
The Williams charity gala—black-tie, A-listers, media sharks. Old man loved the spotlight.
Victor knew: perfect detonation point.
Night before the gala, Victor pulled the final string.
Through buried channels, two "gifts" landed exactly where he knew the old man would look—redwood desk drawer, speech notes.
Gala night. Mansion blazing with lights. Glamour everywhere.
Old Williams in bespoke tails, hair slicked perfect. Life in order.
He worked the room. Smiles, handshakes, humble-brags.
Flawless.
Until—habit—ten minutes before his speech, he ducked into the study for one last glance at the notes.
Opened the drawer.
No speech.
Two stacks of hell.
First: iron-clad proof on Edgar.
Bank records—state funds funneled to cover futures losses.
Printed emails—selling tech secrets to mob contacts.
Underground loan docs—millions owed, family company stock as collateral. Edgar's signature.
Old man's hands shook.
His golden heir. His pride. So stupid. So greedy. Gambling the empire on red.
Dizzy, he grabbed the second stack.
Photos.
Crystal clear. Gut-punching.
Isabella—lost in drugs and filth. Tangled with strangers in penthouse suites and private clubs. Eyes vacant.
Memory card beside them. Full videos.
Pride. Discipline. Legacy.
Smashed to dust by paper and pixels.
Downstairs, orchestra warming up. Laughter floating like another planet.
Study? Tomb silent.
Color drained from his face—yellow as old newsprint.
Fingers crushed the papers. Nails dug into palms. Blood. Didn't feel it.
His world didn't tilt.
It exploded.
He could almost hear Victor whispering:
Look at your masterpieces, Mr. Williams. This is what your "discipline" grew. You built a castle on rot.
Rage?
Yeah.
A white-hot inferno. Wanted to storm downstairs, choke Edgar, lock Isabella in a tower.
But rage lasted a heartbeat.
Then came the avalanche—failure.
Total. Soul-crushing.
He'd controlled everything. Demanded perfection.
Now? He'd never controlled shit.
His parenting? Joke.
His authority? Delusion.
His precious reputation? Tissue paper.
Soon the whole city would laugh.
Shame.
Bile-in-the-throat shame.
Those photos flashed—overlaid with baby Isabella's giggle, her first dance recital hug.
He gagged.
Debt numbers coiled around his heart like pythons.
Despair.
Bottomless.
Everything he lived for—gone.
Why grind a lifetime?
For these kids who gutted his empire and humiliated him?
For the gala crowd about to whisper behind champagne flutes?
The mental blow buckled his knees. He gripped the desk, gasping like a fish.
Emcee downstairs calling him to the stage.
Voice warped, miles away.
He couldn't go.
Couldn't face the eyes—some already knowing.
His lifetime image? About to shatter into dust finer than powder.
He stumbled out of the study. Dodged staff. Fled upstairs to the master bedroom.
The louder the party, the deeper his silence.
·······
Gala ended weird.
Host never showed.
Butler—awkward—announced Mr. Williams taken ill. Event over.
Guests filed out, buzzing with curiosity and mild annoyance.
Mansion fell heavy. Suffocating quiet.
Edgar and Isabella felt the storm but didn't know the eye.
They knocked on Dad's door.
Only answer: a beastly, hoarse "GET OUT!"
Deep night.
Old Williams sat in the dark. Statue crumbling fast.
Rage, shame, despair—all settled into nothing.
He reviewed his life: cold deals, iron rules, this ugly end.
What was left?
He stood. Shuffled to the bathroom.
Movements slow. Wind-up toy running down.
Turned the tap. Hot water roared into the huge porcelain tub.
Steam rose. Blurred the mirror. Blurred his eyes.
Didn't undress. Stepped in—full tails.
Scalding water wrapped his cold body. Fake comfort.
He slid down. Water over chest. Chin. Face.
Eyes open. Staring at ceiling blur.
Mind flashed glory—then Edgar's timid A+ paper, Isabella's toddler hug…
Overwritten. Torn apart by debt docs and filthy photos.
Water cooled.
Hot to warm to chilly to freezing.
He didn't feel.
Body numb long ago.
Soul died the second he opened that drawer.
This was just a shell still breathing.
Cold crept in—slow, merciless—like Victor's revenge. Sucked the last heat from his bones.
Teeth chattered. Body shook.
Old Williams didn't want to die.
Panic hit. Thrashing to get out.
But Edgar and Isabella were suddenly there.
Two pairs of hands shoved him under.