Chapter 1 - The Price of Clay
The crystal chandelier,
Of the Alpha Delta lounge,
Caught the light.
It fractured it,
Into a thousand expensive pieces,
Across the mahogany floor.
To anyone else,
It was the epitome,
Of Harvard’s historical prestige.
To Ethan Vance,
It was just another surface,
He had to buff.
Until his hands bled.
"Hey, scholarship.
I’m speaking to you."
Julian Sterling’s voice,
Cut through the ambient chatter,
Of the room.
Like a silver blade.
He sat perched,
On the edge,
Of a leather chesterfield.
His Tom Ford suit,
Immaculate.
Surrounded by a court,
Of laughing legacy students.
Ethan didn't look up,
Immediately.
He wiped down,
The marble countertop,
Of the private lounge.
His fingers tightening,
Around the damp rag.
He was a straight-A,
Pre-law student.
But to the Sterling family,
Who practically owned,
Half the buildings,
On campus.
Ethan was nothing,
More than hired help,
In a university uniform.
"Julian,
Leave the stray dog alone,"
One of the girls giggled.
Sipping her champagne.
"He might get fleas,
On your shoes."
"Actually,
He already ruined them,"
Julian said.
His voice dropping,
Into a dangerous,
Calculated purr.
He stood up.
Deliberately kicking over,
An open carton,
Of dark, iced espresso.
That Ethan had set down,
Beside his cleaning bucket.
The dark liquid,
Splashed aggressively,
Across Ethan’s worn-out sneakers.
And the pristine floor.
"Look at that.
You made a mess,
Vance,"
Julian sneered.
Stepping closer,
Until he loomed,
Over Ethan.
"Clean it.
With your shirt."
Ethan finally stopped.
He raised his gaze.
His gray eyes steady.
Refusing to show,
The humiliation,
Burning in his chest.
"There’s a mop,
Right outside,
Julian.
I’ll clean the floor.
But I’m not using,
My clothes."
A heavy silence,
Dropped over the lounge.
No one talked back,
To Julian Sterling.
Julian’s face twisted,
In an instant.
From arrogant amusement,
To pure,
Unadulterated rage.
"What did you just say,
To me?"
Before Ethan could,
Even blink.
Julian lunged forward.
His hand gripped,
The collar,
Of Ethan’s shirt.
Shoving him backward,
With explosive force.
Ethan stumbled.
Losing his footing,
On the slick,
Wet floor.
He went flying,
Into a heavy,
Glass-top display table.
Crash.
The sound,
Of shattering glass,
Echoed violently,
Through the hall.
The table collapsed,
Under Ethan’s weight.
A sharp,
Jagged shard,
Of the thick glass,
Sliced deeply,
Across Ethan’s right forearm.
While another,
Grazed the edge,
Of his jawline.
Ethan gasped.
Dropping to his knees,
Among the wreckage.
Red, hot blood,
Instantly began,
To bloom,
Through the sleeve,
Of his shirt.
Dripping steadily,
Onto the shattered glass,
Beneath him.
A thin line,
Of crimson,
Trickled down his neck,
From his cheek.
The room went,
Dead silent.
A few of Julian’s friends,
Took a step back.
Shocked by the,
Sudden physical brutality.
Julian, however,
Didn't flinch.
He walked over.
Picked up a fresh cup,
Of iced coffee,
From a nearby tray.
And coldly poured it,
Directly over,
Ethan’s head.
The sticky,
Dark liquid,
Mixed with the,
Fresh blood,
Running down Ethan's face.
"Remember your place,
Charity case,"
Julian whispered.
Leaning down,
So only Ethan could hear.
"You’re a ghost,
In this school.
You don't exist,
Unless we let you."
Ethan sat,
In the glass.
His body shaking,
From the pain.
His blood pooling,
With the spilled coffee,
On the floor.
He clenched his fists,
So hard,
His knuckles turned white.
Staring at the floor.
Absorbing every ounce,
Of the agony,
And the insults.
He didn't say,
A word.
He didn't cry out.
He just stared,
At the reflection,
Of his own blood,
In the broken glass.
A silent,
Burning fire,
Igniting deep within,
His eyes.
They thought,
He was nothing.
They thought,
He was a nobody,
With a broken background.
They had no idea,
That every single scar,
They gave him.
May you like
Would soon be paid back,
In full.
