He Smashed My Villa Gate, I Smashed His Family’s Fate

To defend Jason, she flipped black to white in public and dumped the filth on me.

With her backing him up, Jason straightened, stepping in to grab my lapel.

“Will, I’ll be reasonable—take off the tux now and hand it back. I won’t press the credit-card theft, and you can walk.”

His buddies raised their phones, ready to film me being stripped, snickering about how it would go viral.

Emily added a tone of “kind” persuasion:

“Will, just listen to Jason. Take it off and spare everyone the trouble. If you’re short on cash, I can transfer you some—don’t make a scene you’ll regret.”

“A scene?” I laughed, looking at the pair.

“So you both think I’ll never afford a six-figure tux in my life?”

“Isn’t that the truth?” Jason scoffed. “You spent two years abroad recovering—no job, no income. Other than spending Emily’s money, what can you do? Take the tux off or we go to the station.”

He signaled his guys, and two of them rolled their shoulders and advanced.

“He’s a guest of the Lewis family. Who dares lay a hand on him?”

A resonant voice carried from the entrance, followed by steady footsteps.

The Lewis family’s butler appeared in a tailcoat with a silver crest pinned to his chest, two staffers in tow. He came straight to my side.

Before Jason could speak, the butler presented a gilt-edged document to the officers, his tone crisp:

“Officers, everyone—this tux is a private custom piece commissioned by Mr. Lewis for Mr. Johnson.

It was flown in from the atelier in Italy this morning to this hotel. The invoice bears Mr. Johnson’s name, measurements, and the atelier’s exclusive seal. It is not a ‘lost item,’ as alleged.”

Then he turned to Emily, a cool edge in his voice:

“Ms. Parker, you say you commissioned this for that gentleman?

To my knowledge, the Lewis family has an exclusive arrangement with the atelier. Without Lewis authorization, no identical piece can be made.

Could you produce your commissioning receipt?”

Emily’s face froze. Jason stared dumbly at the seal and my name on the document, speechless.

Murmurs rippled through the lobby; those filming lowered their phones.

“So he tried to hustle someone under the Lewis family’s protection? Bold move,” someone whispered.

The officers frowned at Jason and Emily.

“If you can’t provide evidence, this looks like false accusation. You’ll need to come to the station to make a statement.”

Jason blanched and tugged at Emily to leave, but she stayed rooted, eyes on me—shocked, embarrassed, and unmistakably rattled.

The butler bowed slightly to me.

“Mr. Johnson, apologies for the disturbance. Mr. Lewis is waiting at the banquet. Shall we?”

I smoothed my lapel, let my gaze pass over Jason and Emily—both in disarray—and felt nothing at all.

“Let’s go. We shouldn’t keep Mr. Lewis waiting.”

The Maybach’s window rose, sealing out the lobby’s noise.

The engine purred; soft classical music threaded through the cabin. I had barely touched my phone when the screen lit up.

Emily was calling.

I answered. Before I could speak, her urgent voice burst out:

“Will, how do you even know the Lewis family? The butler was so respectful—have you known them all along?”