Chapter 7: Conflict
...Caught by a very troublesome person.
As Leston's fist drove into Oliver's stomach, a nauseating wave of agony surged up from his gut, curling into his chest. His throat burned with the taste of acid, and his vision blurred as if the world itself rejected his presence. His body instinctively curled inward, arms wrapping around his midsection in a desperate attempt to contain the pain. But Leston only chuckled at the sight.
"That was for disrespecting your elder brother in public," Leston sneered.
Before Oliver could recover, Leston grabbed the back of his head and slammed it against the cold marble floor. A sharp burst of pain exploded across his skull, white spots flashing in his vision, as blood burst from his nose.
"And that," Leston continued, his voice thick with cruelty, "was for trying to set me up with that noble woman. She was as ugly as your weak, white haired, dead mother."
Oliver barely heard him over the deafening pulse in his ears. The pain from his nose was a terrible ache, and that first punch had lodged itself deep in his stomach, a festering wound that made every breath an ordeal. It felt as though his insides threatened to spill out through his mouth. He gasped for air, but none came. He had felt this before. Many times.
In his past life, Leston had enjoyed bullying him—a sport as natural to him as breathing. But Oliver knew this hatred was more than simple cruelty. It was bloodline-deep.
Leston's mother came from a unique tribe known for their venomous bloodline, their beauty and pride reflected in their shimmering skin. But despite that, Richie von Rich had never favored her much. Even when he was supposed to visit his other wives, the rumors whispered that he always found his way to Oliver's mother's chambers instead.
That resentment had festered, passed from mother to son. But Oliver's existence alone was enough to fuel Leston's rage.