The Golden Bloodline: A Slap That Woke an Empire
Chapter 1: Beneath the Crystal Lights
Le Rêve restaurant shimmered like a colossal diamond in the heart of the city tonight. Crystal chandeliers, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, cast a regal golden glow upon bespoke suits and diamond-studded evening gowns. This was no place for commoners. It was the playground of the elite, where multi-million dollar contracts were signed over clinking glasses, and power was measured by the rarity of the vintage on the table.
Daniel stood tucked away by the service station, adjusting his slightly loose bow tie. At twenty-four, he possessed sharp, angular features, eyes as deep as the ocean, and a composure strangely out of place for a night-shift waiter. None of the people in the room knew that to stand here, serving plates of truffles and caviar, Daniel had to work fourteen hours a day to pay for his foster mother’s hospital bills. He was an orphan, raised in a dilapidated orphanage on the outskirts of town. The only thing he had from birth was a rusted silver ring worn around his neck—an item the orphanage director said he had with him when he was found during a stormy night twenty years ago.
"Table 4, Château Margaux 1990. Be careful, Daniel. A single drop of that wine costs more than your entire month's salary," the restaurant manager sneered, his eyes filled with undisguised contempt.
Daniel nodded, carefully placing the precious bottle on a silver tray. Table 4 was the center table, where the Von Der Lart family—one of the city’s largest real estate powers—was entertaining honored guests. Sitting in the center was Isabella Von Der Lart. The arrogant blonde heiress wore a custom-made Haute Couture gown of pure white silk, encrusted with thousands of Swarovski crystals, commissioned from Paris for no less than a hundred thousand dollars.
Isabella was laughing loudly, her smirk dripping with disdain as she talked about the lower class. Surrounding her were sycophants, nodding and fawning at her every word.
Daniel approached, his demeanor professional and quiet as a shadow.
"Your wine, guests," Daniel said softly.
Just then, the fifteen-centimeter heel of Isabella’s shoe caught on the floor as she turned abruptly to laugh at a guest beside her. The impact wasn't heavy, but it was enough to throw off the balance of someone carrying a heavy tray. Daniel stepped back, trying to steady himself. But another guest sitting opposite inadvertently swung their arm, striking Daniel’s elbow.
Everything unfolded like slow motion.
The bottle of Château Margaux tilted. The deep red liquid cascaded downward. And its landing spot was none other than the lap of the pristine white silk dress Isabella was wearing.
Chapter 2: Two Slaps and a Deathly Silence
The red wine spread across the white silk, glaring and stinging like an open, bleeding wound.
The noisy space of Le Rêve suddenly fell silent. The violin music in the corner abruptly snapped. Dozens of eyes turned toward Table 4.
Isabella looked down at her dress. Her beautiful face shifted from shock to twisted, absolute fury. She stood up, shoving her chair back with a piercing screech against the marble floor.
"You bastard!" Isabella hissed, her voice as sharp as a blade tearing through the atmosphere.
Daniel immediately set the tray down, bowed low, and pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket: "I am terribly sorry, Miss. It was an accident, I didn't mean to..."
"An accident?" Isabella slapped Daniel’s hand away, her eyes reddening like a wild beast insulted. "Do you have any idea how much this dress costs? Your pathetic life, your entire family’s lifetimes wouldn't be enough to pay for a piece of this fabric!"
"Miss, I..."
SLAP!
A crisp, sharp sound echoed through the room. The force of Isabella’s slap left a red, five-fingered print on Daniel’s left cheek. The impact was so strong his head snapped to the side, and blood immediately trickled from the corner of his mouth.
The entire restaurant held its breath. No one dared to intervene. The manager stood frozen, his face drained of color. In this world, the wealthy had the power to do whatever they pleased, and the life or dignity of a waiter wasn't worth a penny.
Daniel slowly turned his head back. His deep blue eyes held no fear, nor the pathetic pleading of others. There was only a cold, repressed endurance. He swallowed the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, his voice remaining calm: "It was an accident, Miss. I will take responsibility for cleaning this dress..."
"Cleaning?" Isabella shrieked a delirious laugh. "Do you think the rags you use to mop the floors could touch this dress?"
Without letting Daniel react, she raised her hand again.
SLAP!
This time, the giant diamond ring on her finger grazed Daniel’s cheek, leaving a long, bleeding scratch.
"Perhaps next time, you’ll learn to be more careful, you trash," Isabella gritted her teeth, crossing her arms, savoring the dominance over those beneath her. "Manager! Fire this idiot immediately! And make him kneel and lick the wine off the floor for me!"
The restaurant manager rushed over, bowing repeatedly: "I am deeply sorry, Miss Von Der Lart! We will handle him right away. Daniel, get on your knees and apologize to the lady now!"
Daniel stood tall. The stinging pain on his face was nothing compared to the humiliation burning in his chest. He looked at the indifferent faces around him, those in luxury suits looking at him like he was a performing animal. He slowly took off his black apron. No matter how poor he was, he would not allow anyone to trample on his dignity.
But just as he turned to leave, a deep, gravelly voice—carrying the weight of thunder—echoed from the entrance.
"Stop!"
Chapter 3: The Scar of the Past
The crowd parted. A man stepped forward. He was in his sixties, his hair silver-white and meticulously groomed, wearing a jet-black tuxedo. The most striking feature was a large, reddish scar stretching from his temple down to his left chin, giving his face an aura of authority and intimidation.
It was Robert—the right-hand man and head butler of the Hawthorne family, the most powerful and mysterious family in the world, the ones who held the economic lifeblood of the entire nation.
Robert’s appearance caused the expressions of everyone in the room to shift instantly. Even Isabella recoiled her aggression. Her Von Der Lart family might be wealthy, but before the Hawthornes, they were nothing more than ants.
Robert walked slowly but firmly toward Table 4. However, his eyes didn't glance at Isabella for even a second. His aged, sharp eyes were locked onto the young man standing there with a bleeding face.
Robert approached Daniel. His black leather-gloved hand trembled as it reached out. The distance was close enough for Robert to see those deep blue eyes clearly, and... as Daniel’s shirt collar shifted during the scuffle, a faint, crescent-shaped birthmark appeared below his collarbone.
Thump.
The old butler’s heart seemed to stop. His legs, which had weathered countless business storms, suddenly felt weak. Tears welled up in his wrinkled eyes.
"Daniel...?" His call was soft, but in the quiet space, it echoed like a temple bell.
Daniel frowned, stepping back: "Sir... are you calling me?"
Robert couldn't hold it back any longer. He unexpectedly sank to one knee on the marble floor to the shock of hundreds of people.
"Daniel... Young Master..." Robert’s voice choked, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Your grandfather... The Patriarch has been searching for you for twenty years!"
A bomb had just been dropped inside Le Rêve.
The silence now turned into a terrifying dread.
"Grandfather? Twenty years?" Daniel’s mind spun. Patchwork memories of an accident, an orphanage, the rusted silver ring around his neck. He subconsciously reached up to touch the necklace hidden under his shirt.
Isabella stood there, mouth agape, taking several seconds to process the words. Then, she let out a forced laugh, though it was stiff: "Mr. Robert, are you joking? This lowly waiter... how could he be..."
"SHUT UP!"
Robert stood up abruptly. The fragility vanished, replaced by the murderous intent of an old wolf protecting its pack. He glared at Isabella, his eyes sweeping over the swollen mark and blood on Daniel’s face.
"You hit him?" Robert’s voice was as cold as eternal ice. "You dared to raise a hand against the sole bloodline of the Hawthorne family?"
The name "Hawthorne" hit Isabella, making her knees give way. She stumbled back, hitting the edge of the table and knocking several crystal glasses to the floor with a clatter. Those around her began to back away from her as if she were carrying a plague.
"I... I didn't know..." Isabella stammered, her arrogant face now as pale as a sheet. "He’s just a waiter... he spilled wine on my dress..."
"Even if the Young Master were to burn this entire restaurant to the ground along with your entire Von Der Lart family, you would have no right to touch a single hair on his head," Robert hissed. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed a number. Only three rings later, the other end answered.
"Patriarch," Robert’s voice became respectful yet full of emotion. "I have found Young Master Daniel. Yes, right here at Le Rêve restaurant. But... he has just been insulted and assaulted."
He hung up. Turning to the trembling restaurant manager, Robert smirked: "Lock every door. No one is allowed to leave until the Patriarch arrives in person."
Chapter 4: The Tyrant’s Wrath
Less than fifteen minutes later, the roar of helicopter rotors tore through the night sky above the rooftop. Moments later, dozens of armored black SUVs screeched to a halt in front of the restaurant. A team of bodyguards in black suits, armed to the teeth, stormed in, sealing off the entire area.
The massive oak entrance doors swung open.
Richard Hawthorne appeared.
Though he had reached his eighties, the stride of the man known as the "Tyrant of Finance" remained firm, radiating an overwhelming pressure. He leaned on a diamond-tipped cane, his eagle-like eyes sweeping across the room. Wherever his gaze fell, the elite guests bowed their heads, not daring to breathe.
The Patriarch walked straight to the center. When he saw Daniel, his footsteps faltered. The young man’s face, the high bridge of his nose, those resilient blue eyes... it was a perfect replica of his late son, Daniel’s father, who had been killed in an assassination plot twenty years ago, leading to the disappearance of his only grandson.
"My child..." Richard choked up, reaching out a wrinkled hand to touch Daniel’s face, carefully avoiding the swollen injury. "I am too late."
Daniel stood still. The warmth from this stranger’s hand brought a visceral, unseen connection he had never felt in his life.
But the moment of emotion passed quickly, giving way to rage. Richard’s eyes landed on the blood at his grandson’s lip.
"Who?" The Patriarch’s voice wasn't loud, but its power made the room tremble. "Who did this?"
Every eye immediately turned to the woman in the white silk dress hiding in the corner.
Isabella could no longer stand. She collapsed to the floor, tears smearing her expensive makeup. Her grandfather, the head of the Von Der Lart family, who happened to be at the party, stumbled out from the crowd and knelt at Richard Hawthorne’s feet.
"Patriarch Hawthorne... please have mercy! My granddaughter is ignorant, blind... Please spare her life, the Von Der Lart family will compensate you with anything!"
Richard looked down at the old man with half-closed eyes, his lips curling into a cruel smile.
"Compensate? With what will you compensate for the humiliation of the sole heir of the Hawthorne empire? With your life, or with the entire worthless fortune of your family?"
Richard struck his cane hard against the marble floor. The sound was like a death knell.
"Robert," the Patriarch ordered. "Call the Central Bank. Within ten minutes, I want the entire credit line of the Von Der Lart conglomerate frozen. Buy out all their stocks on the market first thing tomorrow morning. I want this family bankrupt, without a single penny to their name before the sun rises."
"As you wish, Patriarch," Robert bowed.
"No! No, you can't! Please!" Isabella screamed in despair. She crawled toward Daniel, her diamond-clad hands clutching his pant leg. "Daniel... no, Young Master Hawthorne! I’m sorry! I’m a wretch! You can beat me, slap me ten times, a hundred times! Please, I beg you, say a word to your grandfather, don’t destroy my family!"
The woman who had been supremely arrogant fifteen minutes ago, the one who had spat on a waiter's dignity, was now groveling at his feet like a stray dog.
Daniel looked down at Isabella. The pain on his cheek was still throbbing. He remembered the insults, the look of contempt when she called him "trash."
"I told you," Daniel’s voice rang out calmly amidst the silence, "it was just an accident. But your two slaps, that wasn't an accident. That was a choice. And now... you must pay the price for your choice."
He gently but firmly pulled his foot away from Isabella’s grasp.
"Restaurant manager," Daniel looked up at the man drenched in cold sweat. "The lady’s dress cost one hundred thousand dollars, right? Deduct it from my wages. Give the rest to her. Because starting tomorrow, she’s going to need that money to survive."
Having said that, Daniel turned to Patriarch Richard and nodded slightly: "Let's go home, Grandfather."
Richard laughed—a hearty, proud laugh, the most genuine he had felt in twenty years. He placed an arm around his grandson’s shoulder, and they walked out the grand doors together. Behind them, Isabella’s desperate cries and the collapse of a powerful family became nothing more than background noise to the return of a true king.
Chapter 5: The Wheel of Destiny (Epilogue)
Three months later.
The morning financial news played on all the giant screens in Times Square. The headline scrolled across: "The Historic Collapse of the Von Der Lart Real Estate Empire—Former heiress Isabella Von Der Lart spotted working as a server at a suburban fast-food joint."
Inside the office on the top floor of Hawthorne Tower, Daniel stood with his hands behind his back, looking down at the awakening city. He no longer wore the crumpled waiter’s shirt. Instead, he wore a perfectly tailored suit from Savile Row, accentuating his innate imperial aura.
The scratch on his face had faded completely, but the scar on his soul from those hard years always reminded him of the value of human dignity.
"Young Master, the car is ready for the Board of Directors meeting," Robert entered, speaking respectfully.
May you like
Daniel turned, smiling slightly: "Thank you, Robert. But before we go, call the secretary. Buy Le Rêve restaurant for me. Rename it 'Hope,' and establish an educational support fund for all the staff there."
The wheel of destiny had turned. A drop of wine fell, a slap echoed, unintentionally waking the sleeping dragon. Arrogance had paid the most expensive price, and those who stood at the pinnacle of power finally understood: Never look down on anyone who bows before you, for you never know if, tomorrow, they will be the one ruling over you.
