It was eight o'clock at night. A sleek black car raced down the road as if its driver had mistaken it for a jet plane. The phone rang repeatedly—Dad Calling flashed on the screen. The driver ignored it. The call would stop, only to ring again moments later. Yet, he refused to answer. Each time the phone buzzed, he pressed harder on the accelerator.
Finally, exasperated, he slowed the car just enough to pick up the call—but remained silent.
"John! I've been calling you for ages! Why weren't you answering?" Jaffar's authoritative voice boomed through the phone.
"I don't answer calls while driving," John responded coldly, his tone sharp as a blade.
Jaffar inhaled deeply, attempting to keep his anger at bay. "That's not right. Someone might have an emergency."
"Why were you calling?" John interrupted, completely ignoring his father's concern.
Jaffar clenched his jaw, struggling to keep calm. His wife, Shazia Begum, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, silently urging patience.
"We're hosting a party next week to celebrate your recent deal. You should come." Jaffar's tone was restrained, but John could sense the controlled frustration beneath it.
A smirk touched John's lips. "Is my presence necessary?" He already knew the answer, but provoking his father was too tempting.
Seeing Jaffar on the verge of an outburst, Shazia Begum quickly took the phone. Her voice softened as she spoke, "Honey, we'll be waiting for you."
John, expecting his father's anger, frowned slightly at his mother's interference.
"Alright," he muttered before hanging up. His car swerved sharply as he changed his destination—from his penthouse to his private apartment.
---
The House of Power Plays
Shazia Begum placed the phone down and turned to Jaffar, who was staring at her, eyebrows raised in question. She understood his silent inquiry.
"He said he'll come," she reassured him.
Jaffar exhaled sharply, his anger slightly subdued.
"You should talk to him more gently. Maybe then he'll listen," Shazia suggested as she watched him pour a glass of wine.
"I was speaking gently! But the boy behaves like he walks on clouds, detached from reality," he grumbled, handing her a glass.
Shazia chuckled. "Jaffar, you're impossible!"
Before he could argue, Jaffar raised a hand, signaling the conversation was over.
"Where's Hannan? I haven't seen him." His tone was noticeably softer now.
"Honey, he went hunting with his friends."
"Oh? When?" Jaffar asked, sipping his wine.
"Yesterday morning. He wanted us to come along."
"Yes, he mentioned it, but I didn't have time. It's good he went." Jaffar's gaze lingered on his wife, who, despite the years, still held the charm of a youthful beauty.
He reached for her hand, a rare warmth in his expression. "What do you say, Shazi? Dinner out tonight?"
Shazia's lips curled into a smile. "Are you even asking? I'll be ready in two minutes. You change too."
She rushed off to pick an outfit while Jaffar went to get dressed.
---
A Hideout or a Disaster Zone?
John unlocked the apartment with a duplicate key. Though it belonged to him, Derek had practically claimed it as his hideout whenever he was in trouble.
And John was certain—Derek was here.
He scanned the apartment. The main bedroom echoed with muffled sounds, but the rest of the place was drowned in darkness. Tossing his coat carelessly onto the sofa, he strode towards the room.
The moment he opened the door, the dim glow of the LCD illuminated the chaotic scene inside.
Chip packets, chocolate wrappers, an empty pizza box, and scattered bottles lay across the floor like a crime scene. The TV blasted a horror movie at full volume.
And there, sprawled across the bed, was Derek—dead asleep, shoes still on, completely unbothered.
John sighed and walked to the kitchen. Filling a glass with ice-cold water, he returned to the room and—without hesitation—emptied the entire glass over Derek's face.
"Sh*t, John! Couldn't you wake me up nicely?" Derek sputtered, jerking upright, his face drenched.
"You don't do 'nice.' And I knew you were awake," John replied, setting the glass aside.
Derek groaned. "Who told you I wasn't sleeping? That was a great nap!"
John shot him a look. "Cut the nonsense. Tell me, what did you do this time that you've been hiding here for three days?"
Derek's amusement faded.
"Dad probably told you."
"No. I have my own sources."
Derek sighed. "If you already know, why ask me?"
"Just confirming. So? Spill."
Derek flopped back onto the bed. "I swear, I didn't do anything crazy this time. I just went for a modeling audition—and would've gotten it if my dad hadn't interfered."
John leaned against the wall, observing him. Derek had a striking appearance—fair skin, mischievous green eyes, long hair tied back in a ponytail, and a well-groomed beard. He was undeniably handsome. Yet, while his father wanted him in the family business, Derek's heart was set on the modeling industry.
"And that's why you fried his laptop?"
Derek didn't even pretend to be ashamed.
Silence hung between them for a moment before John casually remarked, "I need a model. You could work with me."
Derek's eyes brightened—only to dim at the next second.
"What about Dad?"
"I'll handle him. I'll let you know when to come. But…"
Derek, who had been about to hug him in joy, froze. "But what?"
"You have to clean up this mess."
Derek grimaced, glancing around. "Man, can't you just pretend it's not there?"
John arched a brow.
Derek groaned dramatically but nodded.
"I'm going to freshen up. By the time I return, this place better be spotless," John warned as he grabbed fresh clothes.
Just as he was about to enter the bathroom, he turned back with a knowing look.
"Oh, and Derek—don't think about stuffing the trash under the bed again."
Derek laughed. "Relax, dude. No complaints this time."
The moment John disappeared into the bathroom, Derek smirked.
Opening the closet, he neatly folded all the snack wrappers and stuffed them into John's jacket pockets. Afterward, he threw a few wrappers into the trash—to make it look believable.
By the time John emerged, towel-drying his hair, Derek lay back on the bed, arms behind his head, looking smug.
John surveyed the room, ensuring Derek hadn't pulled another stunt. Satisfied, he finally asked, "So? You fried your dad's laptop, but what did you do to the guy who refused to hire you?"
Derek grinned. "Nothing big."
John wasn't buying it. He picked up his phone, found something, and played a video. Turning the screen toward Derek, he smirked.
"Nothing big, huh?"
The screen showed a man in a studio, frantically pulling his hair, scratching his head like a madman, and even trying to bang his head against the wall—stopped only by his panicked employees.
"Isn't that the studio owner?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.
Derek watched for a second—then burst into uncontrollable laughter.
"Hahaha! Man, I missed seeing this live, but you saved it for me! Legend!"
John shook his head in mock pity.
"What the hell did you do?"
"The same thing I did to Professor Richard."
"You mean… that powder?"
Derek grinned devilishly.
"Yup. But this time, I glued it under his wig. That thing ain't coming off anytime soon!"
John sighed. This wasn't going to end well.
---