Chapter 1: The Price of Loyalty

Most folks just call me a lackey. Preston Hawthorne’s shadow. The guy who fetches his coffee and tries not to stare at the price tags. I’ve seen up close what it means to live in obscene luxury—the kind that makes you forget regular people even exist. Sometimes I wonder if the smell of fresh money clings to my clothes just from standing too close to him.

That rich kid’s name is Preston Hawthorne. He’s got a polished look, always wears gold-rimmed glasses, tall and slim with skin so pale you’d think he never left the country club. Even if he lost every dime, women would still go crazy for him. There’s just something about the way he walks into a room—everyone turns, not just for his looks, but because he’s got that “I own the place” swagger. You see him at the country club or striding downtown, and you just know he’s never worried about rent a day in his life.

Last month, Preston picked up a young model and took her to a food truck parked on a crowded Savannah street. He flicked a couple of cigarette butts onto the sidewalk, totally ignoring the ashtray right there on the folding table. An old city sanitation worker shuffled over, muttering as he swept—probably grumbling about Preston’s lack of manners. The air was thick with humidity and passing cars, but I could still hear that world-weary mumbling, the kind old folks make when life’s let them down too many times.

Preston immediately stood up, bent down, and picked up all the cigarette butts himself. He flashed the old man a smile and said, “Sorry for the trouble.” For a second, I wondered if the kindness was real—or just another rich kid’s act, like the last time I fell for this sort of performance. The model blinked, as if she’d never seen a guy with money stoop before.

She leaned in, her voice sticky-sweet, like she was trying out for a reality show. “Don’t pick those up, they’re so dirty...” You could tell she cared more about Preston’s hands than the city worker’s dignity.

Preston shook her hand off, face suddenly hard. “Shut up. What’s dirty about it? That man’s working an honest job—that’s a hell of a lot more respectable than you strutting around for attention.”

A hush fell over the tables. Even the guy frying hush puppies behind the window stopped mid-scoop. The whole block froze, the way people do when the weather turns suddenly cold.

After Preston’s public smackdown, the model’s face drained of color. She shrank into her seat, staring anywhere but at Preston. Folks at the next table kept sneaking glances, and I heard someone whisper, “Damn, he just called her out.”

Once the old man left, Preston cheerfully whipped out his phone and called us over. The mood shifted, stormy and electric. He looked almost giddy, fingers tapping out something on his screen.

“You called, Preston?” Derek showed up with shampoo foam still in his hair, probably bolted out mid-shower. He wore mismatched flip-flops, pants barely hanging on, but he was all eager energy.

“See that old man?” Preston pointed at the sanitation worker, then tossed a debit card onto the table. The plastic card caught the neon glow from the taco truck, shining like a golden ticket. “Whoever puts him in the hospital gets this card.” The card skidded across the cheap plastic, and everyone’s eyes tracked it like cats on a laser pointer.

Derek and the other thugs’ eyes lit up. Everyone knew any card Preston carried had at least six zeroes on it. The air thickened with hungry silence, the kind you get before a dogfight. Even the model looked ready to puke.

That night, six young men beat a seventy-year-old man for a full twenty minutes. The old man’s face was covered in blood, four ribs broken, bleeding in his skull. I kept my eyes glued to the sidewalk, but the sound of fists hitting flesh was loud enough to haunt my dreams. A reporter, furious and righteous, rushed over to stop them, holding up his phone to protect the old man. “Stop! I’ve already called the cops!” The street was awash in red and blue lights, sirens echoing through the Spanish moss.

Derek jabbed a finger at him. “Mind your own business. Get lost.” He glared, but the reporter stood his ground, voice trembling but stubborn. I remember thinking he had more guts than all of us put together.

The journalist kept recording, catching every face. Soon the police arrived and hauled Derek and the others to the station. Normally, criminals would try every trick to dodge responsibility, but to the police’s confusion, they all scrambled to confess, each claiming it was their idea to start the fight. The reason was obvious: whoever took the fall got Preston’s card. I watched, realizing some folks will do anything for a taste of easy money—even sell their souls for bail.

I didn’t lay a hand on anyone that day. I just stood behind Preston like a fool, watching Derek and the others beat that poor old man. My hands shook so hard I jammed them in my pockets, praying nobody noticed.

Don’t they have parents? How could they do this to an innocent person? For a second, I thought of my mom, how she used to say, “You’re only as good as the company you keep.” My stomach twisted so hard I thought I’d puke, and I wiped my palms on my jeans, hoping nobody saw.

Preston glanced at me, a chilling smile on his lips, but he didn’t force me to join in. He just took a sip of cheap soda, the ice clinking against his teeth. For a second, I saw something hollow in his eyes, like he was watching reruns of a bad sitcom instead of a real-life beating.

The next day, the story of a rich heir beating an old man on the street made headlines. Preston actually held a press conference, standing under harsh white lights, reporters snapping photos like he’d just won the Masters.

“First, I must apologize to that poor city worker. I promise that aside from covering all his medical expenses, our Hawthorne Holdings will compensate him with a million dollars for emotional damages. Second, I must apologize to the public. This was a failure in our company’s management. The ones who assaulted him were indeed our employees. I was present and tried desperately to stop them, but they were blinded by rage and ignored my pleas.” (As he spoke, Preston took off his jacket to show the cameras bruises on his chest and arms—just makeup, of course.) “I am ashamed that our company was involved in such a scandal. I hereby announce the firing of those six employees and the dismissal of our HR manager. Finally, I call on all sectors of society to pay more attention to the well-being of the elderly. Hawthorne Holdings will soon establish a charity fund for elder care, focusing on building nursing homes and community hospitals...” The guy could sell a bridge in Brooklyn and get a five-star Yelp review.

After Preston’s speech, the audience was moved by his performance and applauded. The applause was polite, but I caught a few older journalists exchanging skeptical looks. Still, nobody wanted to mess with a Hawthorne.

Just like that, he spun a scandal into a PR windfall. Hawthorne Holdings’ stock price even rose for a week. The headlines the next morning were full of “compassionate,” “responsible,” and “model corporate citizen.”

This man isn’t human—he’s terrifyingly clever. Scarier still, he’s got enough wealth to rival a small nation. His presence is like a nuclear bomb, ticking quietly, ready to flatten everything. Sometimes, when he grins at you, you get the sense he’s already calculated the fallout.

The day after the press conference, he set his next target: the young journalist who’d tried to protect the old man. It was like watching a cat toy with a wounded mouse, dragging out the agony just for fun.