A Job Offer

Arthur poured the liquor until it almost crested the rim of the glass. He ignored the rigid posture of his future son-in-law sitting just a few seats away. "Good man," Arthur boomed, his tiger eyes crinkling with genuine joy. He nudged the glass toward Dante. "Here. Have another drink with your father. We have ten years to catch up on."

Dante picked up his drink, unperturbed by the heavy, awkward silence settling over the other side of the table. "I’ll toast you then, Dad." He clinked his glass against Arthur’s and drank, eating the simple appetizers as if they were the only two men in the room.

Trent Osborne stewed in his seat. He gripped his tailored trousers, his knuckles turning white under the heavy linen tablecloth. He was the wealthy prospective son-in-law, the man paying for this entire banquet, yet Arthur treated him like discarded trash. The humiliation gnawed at him.

Clara noticed the dark storm brewing in Trent’s eyes. She shifted her chair closer, pressing her shoulder against his arm. She took his rigid hand, her thumb tracing his skin to soothe his bruised ego. "You are the Mercer family’s true son-in-law, Trent," she whispered tenderly, ensuring only he could hear. "Don’t mind what Dad just said. He’s just being stubborn." Her gaze flicked toward Dante with thinly veiled disgust. No matter how much Arthur favored this rugged gatecrasher, Trent held the money, the status, and the future. Trent had won her.

The tension in Trent’s jaw loosened. He forced a strained, polite smile onto his face. "How could I mind?" he replied, keeping his voice smooth. "I’m already used to Dad being so straightforward." Behind his pleasant mask, however, his thoughts turned venomous. He didn't dare cross Arthur in public, but he swore a silent oath. I will teach you a severe lesson, Dante Thorne. I will grind your arrogant face into the dirt.

The banquet carried on. The surrounding guests flocked to the VIP table, eager to curry favor with the rich in-law. They raised their glasses to Trent, praising his exceptional background. Basking in the continued adulation, Trent deliberately played the generous savior. He handed out business cards, promised to push resumes to his HR department, offered casual business loans, and bragged about pulling strings with local government officials. The crowd practically worshipped him.

Clara sat beside him, glowing with immense pride. The spotlight bathed them both. She looked at Trent’s designer suit and then at Dante’s plain attire. Thank goodness she had the foresight to choose a powerful, magnanimous fiancé. Marrying a penniless drifter like Dante would have condemned her to a life of misery.

The clinking of glasses paused when Martha Gorman pushed her chair back. The older woman looked troubled. She gripped a wine glass in her shaking, wrinkled hands and lowered her head, humbling herself before the young heir.

"Trent," Martha began, her voice cracking with hesitation. "Your family runs such a massive business. You must be in need of more trustworthy staff. Dante just retired from the army. He’s currently unemployed." She swallowed hard, raising the glass a fraction higher. "I’ve never asked you for a single favor since you started dating Clarie. But I’m begging you now. Help me arrange a job for him. Please."

A heavy melancholic weight settled in Dante’s chest. He looked at Martha’s graying hair and her hunched, apologetic posture. She subjected herself to this humiliation out of pure maternal sincerity. To her, he was still a child who needed protection and guidance in a harsh world.

Dante reached out and covered her trembling hand. "There is no need for that, Mom," he said, his tone gentle but firm. He declined the offer. He was the legendary Lord of Strike, a commander who held the fate of nations in his grasp. He was a man who bowed to no one.

Clara seized the moment to strike. "Mom, can you not make a scene?" she snapped, her voice cutting through the quiet room. She glared at Dante. "Trent’s company is a high-end enterprise. It isn't a charity case for the unskilled. Every position requires men with professional skills, chosen through multiple rounds of strict selection. Dante has no education and no technical background. How is he going to earn his keep? What would the other workers think of Trent if he brings in dead weight?"

Arthur slammed his chopsticks onto his plate. "You disrespect your own mother before you even marry into his family?" Arthur growled, his face darkening. "You have some nerve."

"Dad! Why do you always side with him?" Clara argued, her face flushed with indignation.

"Alright, alright," Trent interrupted, raising his hands in a grand display of feigned magnanimity. He chuckled, playing the reasonable mediator. "Father, Mother, let’s not fight. Clarie is right. My company employs highly skilled technicians, so it won’t be easy to get Dante a job on the floor. But since you asked, I will do my best."

Trent paused, tapping his chin as if lost in deep thought. A malicious glint flashed in his eyes. He turned to Dante with a wide, mocking smile.

"How about this? We are currently short-staffed in the sanitation department. We still need a janitor for the washrooms. I think it would be a very suitable position for you. Just the usual mopping, scrubbing the company toilets, and cleaning the urinals. It’s quite an easy job. What do you say?"

Dante’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.

Arthur's face flushed a furious red. He surged to his feet, his heavy wooden chair scraping harshly against the floorboards. He lunged across the table and swung his arm in a wide arc.

Smack.

Arthur fiercely slapped the wine glass directly from Trent’s hand. The crystal flew through the air, hitting the floor and shattering into dozens of glittering shards.

"Bullshit!" Arthur roared, his voice shaking the crystal chandeliers above. "You arrogant little twerp! You dare offer my son a job scrubbing your toilets? What the hell were you thinking?"

Trent staggered back, his polite facade cracking. "Father, calm down. All labor is equal. You’re overthinking my intentions." He reached for a fresh glass, trying to salvage his dignity. "Let me offer a toast so you can calm—"

"Who are you calling 'father'?!" Arthur bellowed, his chest heaving with rage. He pointed a calloused finger straight at Trent’s face. "Get out of here now! You are no son-in-law of mine! Stay far away from my daughter!"

The surrounding crowd erupted into shocked murmurs. Trent’s face instantly darkened into a thunderous scowl.

The relentless pressure of the evening finally broke Clara. Tears streamed down her beautifully made-up face, smudging her expensive cosmetics. She slammed her hands on the table, her body trembling as she aggressively defended her fiancé.

"Dad, you have gone way too far!" Clara cried, her voice cracking with hysteria. "On what grounds are you treating Trent like this? You know the kind of hell we’ve lived through these past few years! If it weren’t for Trent’s vital financial support, our struggling family would have starved to death long ago! He saved us!"

She spun toward Dante, pointing a vicious, accusing finger right at his face. "And him? We raised him! We fed him! And he abandoned us for a full decade! Ten years without a single word, without contributing a single cent to this house! What has he done for this family? What right does he have to compete with Trent?"

Dante sat still amidst the screaming. He knitted his brows, countering the accusation with a calm, steady tone. "Didn't I explicitly leave a land title before I departed ten years ago? A thousand-acre plot on the east side." He looked between Clara and Arthur. "Even if you did nothing with it, the annual rent alone was easily worth two to three million. I merely assumed you were being overly frugal by choosing to remain in this rundown, dilapidated home."

Clara let out a raw, bitter shriek. "You have the nerve to bring up that land, Dante Thorne?!"

Arthur’s face drained of color. Panic seized his features. "Zip it! Do not say anything more!"

"Why can't I say it?!" Clara screamed, overriding her father’s frantic, desperate attempts to silence her. "I am saying it no matter what! Because of that cursed land title, our family faced a catastrophic disaster!"

She gasped for air, pointing at her father's legs. "Dad was targeted by Silas Croft! The ruthless chairman of the Chamber of Commerce of the Iron Tide! Those animals were cruel and merciless. They ruthlessly stole the title deed!"

Dante froze.

"When Dad tried to stop them," Clara sobbed, her voice echoing over the dead silent hall, "they mercilessly shattered his leg! To this day, his right leg has agonizing metal implants in it. He writhes in pain every time it rains! It aches like hell! And it is all because of you!"

A sudden, explosive rage buzzed in Dante's mind. The blood roared in his ears, drowning out Clara’s crying.

Dante pushed his chair back. He stood up slowly. His towering frame cast a long, suffocating shadow over the dining table. The entire banquet hall was gripped by a dead silence. Only Trent Osborne stood near the back, watching with a gleeful, vindictive smirk, eager to see the great prodigal son break under the weight of guilt.

Martha secretly wiped her tears with a napkin.

Arthur stepped back, his gaze turning evasive. He discreetly drew his right leg behind him, waving his hands in a panicked motion. He forced a strained, unconvincing laugh. "Don't listen to that girl, Dante. It’s nonsense. Just a superficial wound from my old special ops days. You know how it is. Those hooligans got hurt way worse in the end. It healed up fine."

Dante ignored the desperate excuse. He walked around the table, his footsteps silent on the floorboards. He approached his adoptive father, dropping to one knee beside Arthur's chair.

"Dante, get up," Arthur pleaded, trying to pull away.

Dante’s grip was unyielding but gentle. He held Arthur’s right leg in place. He reached down and rolled up the stiff fabric of Arthur’s trousers, exposing the calf.

His sharp eyes locked onto the ruined flesh. A grim, jagged ten-centimeter scar twisted across the leg, the skin heavily discolored and raised. Beneath the aged, scarred tissue, the rigid shapes of metal implants bulged outward, a clear and permanent monument to the brutal violence inflicted upon him.

Dante did not cry. He did not yell. The terrifying fury simmering in his chest froze his features into a mask of stone.

He reached out with a steady hand. He pressed his fingertips softly against the ruined, metal-laced skin.

He looked up into Arthur’s aging eyes.

"Does it hurt?" Dante asked in a chillingly quiet voice.