Chapter 3A Feast for the Desperate

The moment the SUV came to a halt, the man waiting by the entrance stepped forward with a polished, professional cadence.

"Good evening. I am Jason Albright, the general manager of Beryl Manor—"

Before Mr. Albright could finish his introduction, Travis pushed through the door and gripped the manager’s hand in a tight, theatrical grasp.

"Right, right, Mr. Albright! Marcus gave me the rundown. Excellent work. Come on, lead the way inside."

A brief flicker of confusion crossed Mr. Albright’s face, followed by a polite, cautious nod. He gestured toward the sweeping double doors. "Of course, sir. Right this way."

Watching from the steps, I realized immediately what had happened: Mr. Albright had mistaken Travis for the 'Mr. Bennett' Marcus had alerted him about over the phone.

The relatives swarmed Travis, showering him with praises as they crossed the marble foyer. I swallowed the words on the tip of my tongue.

If Travis wanted to orchestrate his own public execution, I was more than happy to let him set the stage.

My mother lingered behind, tugging gently on my coat sleeve. Her brow furrowed as she took in the soaring vaulted ceilings and the limestone fireplace. "Felix... isn't this the countryside property you mentioned buying for us two years ago?"

I nodded quietly. "It is."

After the acquisition, my parents had looked at the architectural renderings and gently declined, saying the acreage was too isolated from their lifelong friends and lacked the warmth of a neighborhood. So it had remained a private corporate retreat.

I patted her hand reassuringly. "If this place feels too drafty, I’ll find you something far cozier once we get down to Florida."

Somehow, my quiet murmur drifted forward. Travis halted abruptly on the parquet floor, turning around with a sharp, mocking bark of laughter.

"Felix, you really have lost your mind, haven't you? You spin these absurd fairy tales without even blushing!" He gestured wildly at the crystal chandeliers. "You think you could afford a single square foot of Beryl Manor? Your parents are about to be homeless, selling off their old house to pay your startup debts, and here you are turning your nose up at my estate, claiming you'll buy them something better!"

Aunt Brenda chimed in with an exaggerated sneer. "It’s pure jealousy, Travis! He sees how successful you are, how powerful you’ve become, and he’s green with envy!"

"Exactly," another relative chimed in, glaring at me with open disgust. "Felix, what happened to you? All that higher education just turned you petty, jealous, and shameless!"

Travis held up both hands in mock magnanimity, soaking in the collective flattery. "Well, wealth naturally attracts bitterness. It’s only human for Felix to feel inadequate."

My father’s jaw clenched. He moved to step forward, but I placed a firm, calm hand on his forearm.

This was the cleanest wake-up call my parents could ever receive. For decades, they had been the chronic peacekeepers of the Bennett family, constantly extending grace to relatives who viewed their kindness as weakness. Even before my father retired, these same uncles and cousins had invented endless sob stories to extract loans—over eighty thousand dollars over the years, not a single penny of which had ever been repaid.

Let them see the monsters they had nurtured.

Dinner was lavish, though Travis barely touched his plate, too intoxicated by his own performance. As the dessert plates were cleared, he reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a crisp, legal-sized real estate purchase contract, and slammed it down in front of my father.

"Uncle Arthur, I know your finances are on the brink," Travis said, leaning over the mahogany table. "Three hundred thousand cash, closing within forty-eight hours. I’m doing you the favor of a lifetime here. Don't spit on my charity."

My father stared at the contract, his eyes scanning the predatory terms, and the harsh reality finally sank into his bones: Travis and Uncle Greg genuinely believed my career had collapsed, and they were circling like vultures to strip the family’s primary asset for scraps.

A deep, humiliated crimson flushed my father’s neck. "All these years, Greg... I treated you like a brother. And you come to pick my bones clean while you think I'm down?"

Uncle Greg waved a dismissive fork. "The world moves on, Arthur. You spent twenty years bragging about your Ivy-league son. Turns out my boy is the one who actually understands how the world works."

A younger cousin at the end of the table had pulled out his phone, googling the estate’s corporate filings. He suddenly sucked in a sharp, rattling breath.

"Holy shit... look at this listing! Beryl Manor is valued at twenty-five million dollars! Travis, you actually bought this entire compound?!"

"Wait, look at the parent company!" Aunt Brenda gasped, peering over his shoulder. "It’s held under the Bennett Enterprise Group! Isn't their chief executive a Bennett?"

"The multi-billion-dollar Bennett Group?!" Uncle Greg shouted, his eyes gleaming with frenzied pride. "My god! Travis, you’re the CEO of the Bennett Group?! Why didn't you tell us?!"

Travis, drunk on the room’s worship, threw his polished oxfords onto the edge of the dining table and leaned back, his chest expanding to its absolute limit.

"I didn't want to terrify you all with the numbers," Travis drawled, waving a careless hand. "But since you figured it out on your own, I won't hide it anymore."

He pinned me with a triumphant glare. "So, Felix? A man of my stature—do you honestly think I care about your little three-hundred-thousand-dollar shack? Sign the damn deed. Once you hand it over, if you beg properly, I might find you an entry-level clerk position in one of my satellite branches so you can afford your parents' nursing home."

The relatives erupted into frantic murmurs, swarming around my father, practically physically pulling his arm toward the contract.

"Sign it, Arthur! What are you waiting for?!"

"Travis is a billionaire! You cross him now, you’ll never survive in this state!"

Uncle Greg reached over, grabbing my father’s hand to force a pen into his fingers. "My future daughter-in-law is the regulatory commissioner’s daughter! Arthur, you can't afford to make an enemy of our branch of the family. Sign the papers, and we’ll keep you fed!"

They were practically dragging my father’s hand toward the signature line when the grand oak doors swung wide with a thunderous crash.

Marcus rushed through the entrance, followed closely by a stunning young woman in a tailored camel-wool coat.

Marcus took one look at the chaotic struggle around the dining table, his face draining of all color.

"Get your hands off him!" Marcus bellowed, signaling two security guards behind him to tear the relatives away from my father.

Wiping cold sweat from his forehead, Marcus hurried past the frozen crowd and dropped to one knee beside my chair.

"Mr. Bennett... I am so sorry. Traffic on the turnpike was backed up—I came the second I got your ping."

Beside him, Hannah folded her arms, her icy glare sweeping across the room until it locked onto Travis.

"I hear somebody’s been running around town claiming to be my boyfriend," Hannah said, her voice dropping into a razor-sharp register. "I came to see which pathetic clown had the nerve."