"In your dreams! You think a worthless piece of trash like you is going to make me get on my knees and call you 'Father'?" Julian Low’s voice cracked as he shrieked the words, his vocal cords straining under the weight of his pure, unadulterated rage.
The high-ceilinged lobby of the Harbor Point Estates sales center, usually a sanctuary of hushed whispers and the rustle of high-end brochures, was suddenly charged with a voyeuristic electricity. A crowd of prospective buyers—men in tailored charcoal suits and women draped in silk—began to gravitate toward the commotion. The air grew heavy with the scent of scandal, far more intoxicating than the expensive ambient perfume pumped through the vents.
"Are you truly refusing to honor the bet?" Liam Livingston asked, his voice a stark contrast
