After My Son Tripped a Billionaire, He Publicly Humiliated Him and Kicked His Prosthetic Leg — Then He Vowed to Ruin My Life
I arrived at Alaric Beaumont’s mansion, the same opulent facade that had hosted the Starfall Gala. This time, however, there was no red carpet, no valet, just the silent, imposing gates that swung open at my approach. His butler, a man whose expression remained perpetually neutral, led me through a hushed corridor to a private study.
The room was surprisingly subdued, not the grand, over-the-top display of wealth I expected. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with leather-bound volumes, and a single, large desk dominated the space. Alaric stood by a window, his back to me, gazing out at his manicured gardens. He didn’t turn immediately, a power play I’d expected.
“Mr. Beaumont,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.
He finally turned, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took me in. His face was paler than I remembered, lines of fatigue etched around his eyes. He didn’t offer a chair, forcing me to stand before his desk, but I matched his gaze, refusing to flinch.
“Elara Harrington,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth. “I trust you haven’t brought your lawyers. My patience for your dramatics has worn thin.”
“I haven’t,” I replied, placing the carefully wrapped diary and Vivian’s report on his desk. “I’ve brought you something else.”
His eyes flicked to the objects, a flicker of curiosity warring with his characteristic disdain. “More of your fabricated nonsense?” he scoffed. “Are you still trying to extort me with your ‘injured child’ story?”
“This isn’t a fabrication, Alaric,” I said, pushing the diary forward. “This is history. Your history.”
I calmly explained Dr. Albright’s findings, how she had uncovered Elias Beaumont’s diary, how it detailed a specific, inherited neurodegenerative condition that manifested with severe personality changes and disinhibition. I spoke not with anger, but with a quiet, factual concern.
Alaric picked up the ancient diary, his thumb brushing against its fragile leather cover. His face hardened, his jaw clenching. “This is ludicrous,” he spat, tossing the diary back onto the desk. “A family curse? Are you truly this desperate, fabricating some preposterous medical theory to justify your attacks?”
“It’s not a curse, Alaric,” I corrected him, my voice unwavering. “It’s a medical condition. A ‘blood anomaly,’ as Elias Beaumont called it. He meticulously described a specific physical mark, appearing after the onset of these fits of rage, a mark that is a known phenotypic marker for this inherited disease.”
His eyes widened, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift, but I saw it. He took a step back, his hand shaking slightly as he reached for a crystal decanter of water on his desk. “You’re insane,” he snarled, trying to regain his composure. “This is another one of your crazy schemes, designed to undermine me.”
As he railed against me, accusing me of conspiracy and delusion, a sudden, violent tremor seized his entire body. The decanter, heavy and ornate, slipped from his trembling fingers, shattering against the polished hardwood floor. Water and shards of crystal scattered, reflecting the harsh light.
His eyes, wide with fear, darted around the room, unfocused. A disorienting flash of a prophetic-feeling vision flickered across his face—a brief, horrifying image of his mansion crumbling to dust, just like in his nightmares. He gasped, clutching his head, his face contorting in pain.
A surge of uncontrollable rage, raw and primal, erupted from him. “Get out!” he roared, his voice thick with a guttural fury I’d only heard once before, at the gala. “Get out of my house, you witch! You’ve poisoned everything!”
He staggered, leaning heavily against his desk, his breathing ragged. The rage, as quickly as it had come, began to dissipate, leaving him pale and shaken, his face etched with a profound terror. His eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw not contempt, but a raw, broken vulnerability.
“I…” he began, his voice barely a whisper, thick with shame and a terrifying realization. “I’ve been… I’ve been seeing things. Experiencing these… these episodes for months.”
His denial shattered, replaced by a raw, guttural admission. “The tremors, the flashes, the rage I can’t control…” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on my face, then down to his trembling hands. “I’ve tried to suppress them. To ignore them.”
He looked up at me, his eyes clouded with a dawning horror. “When I was a child,” he confessed, his voice choked with emotion, “my Aunt Clara, she was dying. She told me about ‘the family shadow,’ about a mark that appears on some of the men.”
He paused, then slowly, hesitantly, reached up to touch his right temple. “She told me she saw it on me, a faint discoloration, when I was very young. She said it was ‘the mark of the Beaumonts’ and warned me to fight it, to keep it hidden, or it would consume me.”
He lowered his hand, his eyes wide and vacant. “The ‘blood anomaly’,” he whispered, the words echoing Elias Beaumont’s ancient observation. All the pieces clicked into place, a tragic puzzle spanning centuries, finally revealed in his private study, amidst the shards of a shattered decanter. His world, and mine, would never be the same.
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