Chapter 6 - THE ONE QUESTIONAlexander walked back toward the table, his posture slumped, every ounce of his billionaire arrogance stripped away by the harsh, unforgiving light of public exposure.
"Fine," Alexander spat, his voice shaking with venom. "You win, kid. You want the wire transfer? Give me your mother’s bank details. You’ll get your blood money."
Ethan slowly stood up. He was shorter than Alexander by two feet, but as he looked up into the billionaire’s panicked, bloodshot eyes, he looked ten feet tall.
He didn't give him a bank account number.
Instead, Ethan looked down at the board, then straight into Alexander’s eyes, and asked a single question.
"Mr. Hartwell... when you look in the mirror tomorrow morning, and you see a man who lost everything because he couldn't beat an eleven-year-old boy with no shoes... what language are you going to use to lie to yourself?"
The question hit Alexander like a physical punch to the solar plexus.
He staggered backward, gasping for breath, clutching his chest as if his heart had suddenly forgotten how to beat.
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The crowd fell completely silent. The cameras flashed.
Alexander turned around, pushed past his driver, threw himself into the back of the Mercedes, and screamed at the driver to speed away into the gathering night.
