Chapter 3: Humiliation for a Price

The door was unlocked, left ajar. On the spacious leather sofa, Savannah wore a tight skirt and black stockings, slithering onto Tyler Monroe’s lap like a snake.

The living room reeked of expensive perfume and whiskey. The TV blared some reality show, but neither of them noticed.

“Master, I’m your little puppy, please love me!”

She giggled, crawling into his lap, her voice high and breathy. Tyler smirked, loving every second.

In that instant, it felt like lightning struck me.

I’d survived fists and boots, but this—this was worse than any beating. My hands balled into fists, but I couldn’t touch a thing.

How ironic. I never shed a tear while being beaten bloody in the ring, always holding on for the chance to see my wife and son again.

All those nights I’d limped home, dreaming of a warm meal, a soft word. It was all for nothing.

But who would have thought—the wife I cherished, the woman I worshipped, was curled up in another man’s arms, acting like a dog in heat.

My stomach churned. I wanted to scream, but the words died in my throat.

Tyler grinned wickedly, unfastened the leather collar from the Doberman at his feet, and buckled it around Savannah’s neck.

He did it slow, making a show of it. Savannah giggled, nuzzling his hand, eyes shining with anticipation.

“Be good. Let’s take you out for a walk, okay?”

He tugged on the leash. Savannah barked playfully. The Doberman watched, tail thumping.

“Okay, Master! Woof woof!”

She wagged her hips, playing her part to perfection. Tyler laughed, loving every second.

Outside the door, my son couldn’t hold it in anymore. He burst in, eyes red.

He slammed the door open, fists clenched, voice trembling with hurt and anger.

“Mom, how could you?”

His voice echoed through the room, sharp as a whip. Tyler and Savannah froze.

“How could you do this to Dad, to me?”

He blinked back tears, chest heaving. Savannah’s face went pale.

Savannah turned around, stunned for a moment. “Baby, why are you back?”

She scrambled to her feet, smoothing her skirt, trying to look innocent. “You don’t understand. Mommy’s sick, and Tyler is helping me get better.”

She forced a guilty smile. “See? Every time I get help from Tyler, I feel so much better.”

She put on her best ‘concerned mom’ face, but Mason wasn’t fooled.

“You have to understand, Mommy’s under a lot of stress!”

She sighed dramatically, as if that excused everything. Tyler just grinned, enjoying the show.

Tyler laughed too, letting go of Savannah.

He swaggered over, tossing a wad of cash onto the coffee table. “Come here, I’ve got a reward for you!”

The bills fanned out, crisp and new, taunting.

“I heard you asking for money on the phone earlier, right?”

He nodded toward the dog bowl in the corner, his grin even more twisted.

“There. Finish everything in the bowl, and the money’s yours.”

His voice dripped with mockery. Savannah giggled, watching Mason’s reaction.

I let out a despairing wail, wanting to rush over and stop my son, but my hands passed right through him.

I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the walls. I was helpless, trapped in my own nightmare.

“No! Don’t!”

I heard myself screaming, but my son still squatted by the dog bowl.

He hesitated, glancing around, then at Savannah. His shoulders slumped as he gave in.

Savannah made a show of trying to stop him.

She clucked her tongue, shaking her head. “Tsk tsk, you father and son only care about money. You have no idea how hard I work.”

She shot me a look, full of contempt. “Now you’ll learn—making money isn’t easy.”

Dark red liquid soaked my son’s fingers as he trembled.

The smell of whiskey stung his nose. Still, he forced himself to drink, eyes squeezed shut.

After finishing the last drop of whiskey, he reached for the cash on the table. Suddenly, the Doberman lunged at him.

The dog’s jaws snapped shut on his wrist. Mason yelped, dropping the money. Blood welled up where the teeth broke skin.

“Ah!”

Caught off guard, my son clutched his wrist in pain, tears springing to his eyes. In the next instant, Tyler stomped on his wound. “What’s the rush? Your mom’s a dog, you’re a dog too. If you’re a dog, why don’t you bark for us?”

Tyler’s boot ground into Mason’s hand, twisting cruelly. Savannah just watched, arms crossed.

The room went dead silent.

You could hear the ticking of the clock. The heavy breathing. The distant thunder outside.

My son’s face turned pale, his trapped hand clenched into a fist, nails digging into flesh.

He blinked away tears. Refused to cry out. His jaw set, stubborn as ever.

Quietly, he said, “Woof.”

The word barely escaped his lips, but it was enough. Tyler’s grin widened.

Tyler burst out laughing, grinding his shoe into my son’s fingers. “Didn’t hear you! Louder!”

He leaned in, eyes glinting with malice. “Come on, show us what you’re made of.”

“Woof! Woof woof!”

Mason’s voice cracked, but he barked again, louder this time. The humiliation burned in his cheeks.

“Woof woof woof woof woof!”

He kept going, each bark more desperate than the last. Savannah and Tyler laughed, the Doberman joining in with frantic yips.

The room was a circus, and Mason was the main act. He wiped his eyes, scooped up the money, and ran for the door.

Behind him, Tyler called out maliciously, “Come back tomorrow! Earn enough for your dad’s coffin!”

The words echoed after him, cruel and cold. Mason didn’t look back.

My son ran straight into a supermarket.

He pushed through the automatic doors, breathless, clutching the cash to his chest.

I drifted after him, watching his small figure dart among the aisles.

He moved with purpose, grabbing anything that might help—blankets, food, anything to keep me warm and fed.

Blankets, down coats, bread, milk…

He filled seven or eight shopping carts, the piles of goods towering over him.

He could barely see over the mountain of supplies. Still, he kept piling more on, determined.

“Dad’s afraid of the cold,” he muttered, tossing in two more packs of hand warmers.

He remembered every little thing I’d ever said, every comfort I’d ever given him.

“Three hundred eighty-five dollars and sixty cents.”

The cashier eyed the carts, unimpressed. Mason fumbled for the cash, hands shaking.

He pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket and handed it over. The cashier’s face darkened.

He stared at the bills, brow furrowing. “What’s with this money? It’s fake!”

The words were barely out before the bills were slapped back in my son’s face, scattering everywhere.

The bills fluttered to the floor like fallen leaves. Mason’s cheeks burned with shame.

He stood frozen, not expecting that the little bit of dignity he’d given up would only buy him counterfeit bills.

His eyes widened, realization dawning. All that humiliation—for nothing.

The cashier grabbed his collar. “Kid, don’t leave! I’m calling the police!”

He yanked Mason back, voice rising. Shoppers turned to stare.

My son’s lips trembled. “Mister, my dad, my dad’s still waiting for me.”

He pleaded, voice breaking. “Please, I have to get back to my dad.”

The cashier’s face hardened. He started cursing.

He spat, “I knew it. What do kids know? It’s always the parents who teach them this crap!”

He waved the fake bills in Mason’s face, disgusted. “Your dad’s a real piece of work, teaching you nothing but rotten tricks!”

“Why hasn’t karma caught up to him yet?!”

He slammed his hand on the counter, drawing more attention. Mason shrank back, tears streaming down his face.

“Don’t talk about my dad like that!”

Suddenly, my son snapped, stomping on the cashier’s foot. While the man yelled in pain, distracted, my son bolted from the store.

He darted through the sliding doors, the alarm blaring behind him. He didn’t stop running until he reached the bridge.