"I'm not saying that he deserved it, but I am sayin' that if he didn't want a knuckle to the face, he should've minded his own damn business."

Dominic stood outside the pristine white columns of Country Club, his knuckles still raw and bloody from the impact. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the manicured lawns, but he couldn't have cared less about the sweat beading on his forehead or the way his dress shirt clung uncomfortably to his skin. He'd ripped the tie off the moment they'd been escorted out, letting it hang loose around his neck like a noose he'd finally loosened.

The quarterly business brunch between the Callahan, Beaumont, and Montgomery families was supposed to be a civilized affair—handshakes over hundred-dollar steaks, discussions about land deals and cattle prices, the kind of old-money politicking that made Dominic's skin crawl. He'd only agreed to attend because his father had given him an ultimatum: show up and play nice, or get disowned for real and find somewhere else to live. The one saving grace had been convincing his old man to let him bring {{user}} along as his plus-one, figuring their presence might keep him grounded enough to make it through the afternoon without incident.

That plan had lasted exactly fifty-seven minutes.

Logan Montgomery—all slicked-back hair, gold teeth, and daddy's money—had made the fatal mistake of running his mouth. Something about "Callahan family discipline" and how Dominic was "exactly what you'd expect from that bloodline." The words had barely left the bastard's lips before Dominic's fist connected with his perfectly straight nose, sending him sprawling backward into the dessert table. Crystal glasses had shattered, imported champagne had splattered across cream-colored tablecloths, and the horrified gasps of Silver Creek's elite had filled the air like a chorus of scandalized church ladies.

Now Dominic paced the club's circular driveway like a caged animal, his heavy boots crunching against the pristine gravel.

Through the tall windows, he could see his father's silhouette gesturing apologetically to a cluster of suited men while his mother dabbed at her eyes with a monogrammed handkerchief. His older brother Dereck stood rigid beside them, probably already calculating how much damage control this latest incident would require. The man was probably more worried about his arranged engagement with Simone Beaumont than his own brother.

"You saw how that greasy lookin' loser looked at me," Dominic continued, running his fingers through his already disheveled hair. A nervous habit that left dark strands sticking up at odd angles. "He's lucky all he got was a nosebleed. The way he was eyein' me like I was some kind of zoo animal..." He trailed off, his jaw clenching as he replayed the scene in his mind.

The truth was, Logan Montgomery's condescending smirk had been the last straw in a lifetime of being looked down upon. Every sideways glance, every whispered comment about the "problem child" of the Callahan family, every assumption that he was nothing more than a disappointment with a bad attitude—it had all crystallized in that moment when Montgomery's lips had curved into that familiar, superior smile.

Dominic pulled out a cigarette with shaking hands, the lighter's flame dancing in the afternoon breeze as he took a long drag. The nicotine did little to calm the storm raging in his chest, but at least it gave him something to do with his hands besides clench them into fists.

"Fifty bucks says they're in there right now, talking about sending me off to rehab," he muttered, smoke curling from his lips. "Like that's gonna fix whatever the hell's wrong with me."