The Punk Who Claimed My Son

Right before graduation, Rhys Maxwell convinced me to sneak in and taste the forbidden. I bit back the pain, but inside, I was ecstatic all night long, believing that my years of silent longing had finally paid off.

It wasn’t until the day the SAT scores were posted that Rhys threw my pregnancy test results right into my mother’s face.

“Ms. Reed,” he sneered, using her professional title like a slur, “didn’t you say getting involved with a punk was disgusting? Well, now your daughter is just as disgusting, knocked up by the very trash you hate.”

“Too bad her kid will be just like her—a fatherless bastard with no one to claim him.”

He left without a word, dropping a thick envelope on the counter—hush money, nothing more.

Seven years later, I saw him again. He was Rhys Maxwell, the ruthless Head of the Maxwell Syndicate, a man whose name commanded fear. And I? I was just a disposable asset, the mistress of one of his mid-level crew chiefs.

But Rhys, the kingmaker, was suddenly back—and acting like a madman, desperate to claim the role of father.

1

I was telling my six-year-old son, Leo, to go to bed early when my sugar daddy called me in to “entertain.”

Just as I reached the door of the private lounge, I heard the casual, dismissive tone of the men inside.

“Derrick, your girl is definitely top-shelf,” a voice drawled. “Heard she’s been with you since she was barely legal?”

“Even the best product gets boring eventually. Marcus, if you’re interested, take her for a spin.”

Derrick Shaw’s voice was thick with undisguised pride, as if he were discussing a trophy on his mantel. “She’s just a little pet I keep on the side. If you like what you see, Marcus, she’s all yours for the night. Have fun.”

I’d been Derrick Shaw’s mistress for years; I knew how he liked to perform. He especially loved using me as conversation fodder, seeing it as proof of his status.

So I pushed the door open, my expression blank, and that’s when I heard the familiar, chilling voice.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but my fiancée isn’t much of a drinker. I’ll take her glass.”

The second my eyes locked with his, the crystal glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the Italian marble floor. His arm froze mid-gesture, a tableau of shock and sudden, violent recognition.

I never imagined my reunion with Rhys would happen like this.

Seven years had etched a cold, commanding authority onto him. Every calculated movement, every hard line in his face, screamed of the ruthless power he now wielded. Next to him sat a woman: polished, elegant, and clearly expensive—Seraphina Lowell.

I suppressed the wave of nausea and fear, pulling up the practiced, sickeningly sweet smile I’d perfected over the years. I forced out the line that was now rote:

“Derrick, baby, I missed you so much.”

A heavy silence followed. The eyes in the room shifted: a few glances of raw appreciation, a flicker of pity, but mostly the flat, naked contempt I’d learned to ignore.

Derrick reached out, yanking me onto his lap, his oily hand making itself at home on my waist.

Rhys’s stare, which had started as a punch of shock, slowly curdled into undisguised, profound disgust.

I knew he’d recognized me—and immediately understood what I was.

Around the table, the men took turns toasting and encouraging me to drink. One expensive glass of scotch after another was poured into me. I pieced together the conversation and learned the identity of the woman next to Rhys.

Her name was Seraphina Lowell. She was Rhys’s fiancée, a perfect match from a powerful family. They were clearly smitten.

I remembered my mother’s words from all those years ago: Nothing good ever comes from getting mixed up with a punk.

She was right.

Now, my former punk boyfriend was draped in success, holding a beautiful woman.

And I? I was a twenty-something single mother, being passed around for entertainment by men old enough to be my father.

“Derrick, don’t keep all the fun to yourself! Let us see this beautiful girl’s talents!” Marcus King called out, his gaze glued to me, lingering greedily on my chest.

Derrick, ever the shrewd businessman, recognized the opportunity. A used toy for a valuable connection—a worthwhile trade. Despite the last vestiges of his possessiveness, he chuckled and pushed me toward Marcus.

“Marcus, she’s all yours. Enjoy.”

A cold laugh caught in my throat, but my face only registered a practiced, coy smile. I obediently settled next to Marcus and poured him a drink.

He was delighted, pulling a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket and tossing them directly into my face.

“Sweetheart, the night’s hot. Here’s a little something to cool you down.”

He smirked, leaning closer. “Tell you what—for every ten bills you pick up, you take off one article of clothing. How about that?”

The room erupted in loud laughter. The only sound that cut through the noise was the heavy, thudding impact of Rhys setting his glass down. I looked over, catching him in the act of watching Marcus’s crude display. His lips curled into a cold, mocking sneer. The contempt in his eyes was absolute.

Fighting back the burning humiliation, I used my face to catch the scattered cash, then slowly removed my blazer.

The second time, Marcus pointed to my blouse, urging me to continue.

My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned it. The silk slid away, revealing my pale shoulders and collarbones, the ambiguous curves underneath barely hidden. All around me, I heard the sound of men swallowing. Someone sneakily pulled out a phone to take a picture.

The third time, Marcus told me to choose between my skirt and my bra.

He scattered the money deliberately this time, sending over a dozen bills skittering across the floor.

I bent down, picking them up one by one. As my fingers reached for the last bill, a black leather dress shoe suddenly stamped down on my hand. The force was so heavy it felt like my bones were about to shatter.

Rhys loomed over me, his voice colder than ice. “Women who choose to be mistresses truly are pathetic.”

Ignoring his cruelty, I looked up, keeping that professional smile plastered on my face. “Sir, could you please lift your foot?”

He held the pressure for a few agonizing seconds. It was Seraphina who lightly touched his arm, prompting him to reluctantly draw his foot back.

I gathered the last of the money, preparing to take off the skirt, when a clear voice cut through the drunken clamor. “Wait a minute!”

Seraphina Lowell stood up. “I’m feeling a little unwell,” she said softly. “I need to ask this young lady to accompany me to the restroom.”

She was with Rhys; no one dared object.

As we walked out, Seraphina slipped her cashmere shawl off her shoulders and draped it over me, covering my exposed skin.

In the restroom, Seraphina didn’t rush to fix her makeup. Instead, she took out a moist wipe and began carefully cleaning the fingers Rhys’s shoe had pressed into the marble. They were already bright red.

“You don’t look much older than I am,” she said quietly. “Why do this? Why make this kind of money, this way?”

I studied her. Her Chanel suit was impeccable, her demeanor graceful. She radiated the pampered luxury of a life steeped in privilege.

A person so wrapped in good fortune would never understand why someone with two working hands and a sound mind would choose this humiliating path.

How could I explain it to her?

Because I was desperate for cash.

Because my six-year-old son needed to eat.

Because my mother was lying in a hospital bed, needing an astronomical surgery fee to save her life.

And the man responsible for the entire nightmare—the architect of my destruction—was her arrogant fiancé.

When we returned to the room, the expected heckling didn’t resume.

Because Tara Shaw, Derrick’s wife, had arrived.

The sudden presence of the legal wife instantly killed the ambiguous mood. Everyone settled in, waiting for the inevitable fireworks, eager to watch me get publicly torn apart.

I expected Tara to lose it, rush forward, call me a whore, and claw at my face.

But she did none of that. She didn’t even look at me, as if I were an irrelevant piece of furniture. Tara simply smiled politely, socializing with Derrick and the other Crew Chiefs, her words perfect, leaving no room for complaint.

I sat there next to her, my face expressionless, completely numb to the lack of shame.

I was nothing more than an unsavory mistress, and I had long grown used to being ignored.

When the night finally wrapped up, Derrick went to settle the bill. Only Tara and I were left in the lounge.

She finally dropped the facade. She lunged, throwing her weight on me, straddling my chest, and delivering a resounding, stinging slap across my face.

“You bitch! You slut who only knows how to use her body to please men!”

“A piece of paid trash, how dare you show your face in a place like this? You fatherless tramp, you’re an embarrassment!”

Her voice was sharp, a piercing, ugly sound.

I wanted to tell her that she was right, I didn’t have a father. I wanted to tell her my mother was now a vegetable because of an accident, and no one was left to teach me how to live a respectable life.

But I said nothing, simply enduring the barrage of hits and curses.

My silence infuriated her. She shrieked, grabbing a wine bottle from the table and bringing it down hard on my head.

Blood immediately gushed out, running down my forehead and into my eyes, turning my vision scarlet.

Tara was preparing to strike again when a strong arm suddenly grabbed her wrist. “Enough! This is my club, don’t stain my carpet!”

Rhys had returned. His face was thunderous, his entire body radiating a terrifying hostility.

Tara, recognizing his authority, didn’t dare push it further. She shot me a final, venomous glare and stormed out.

Clutching my bloody forehead, I stumbled out of the lounge and into the street. The accumulated injustice and agony of the night finally broke me. I collapsed next to a street dumpster and sobbed uncontrollably.

I don’t know how long I cried. Behind me, the roar of an engine grew louder.

A black Bentley pulled up beside me. The window slid down, revealing Rhys’s hardened face.

“Get in.”

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

Rhys frowned, saying nothing more. He got out of the car, scooped me up, and put me into the passenger seat.

The pounding pain in my head made me dizzy. I didn’t bother to struggle, only managing to give him my address.

Rhys didn’t use a GPS. He drove straight there.

It was my old apartment. He remembered.

Seven years ago, in the days leading up to graduation, he used to sneak over and we’d watch the stars from my fire escape. Now I knew that all that supposed tenderness was just a carefully orchestrated act.

As we neared my building, Rhys broke the silence, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “It’s been years. How’s Ms. Reed doing?”

My hand, resting on the door handle, froze. I stayed silent for a long time.

It was long enough that Rhys lost patience. He reached over and seized my throat, his voice low and ice cold. “I remember Ms. Reed despised high school sweethearts. Does she know her precious daughter was dumped by a punk and now sells her body to lowlifes in the Syndicate?”

“Oh, right. She’s not a teacher anymore. Is she spending the money you earn selling yourself?”

Before I could process the words, he leaned down and bit my collarbone—hard. The pain was shocking, and I struggled against him.

“Does Ms. Reed know how many times you’ve slept with that sugar daddy? So many times your body is covered in hickeys and bite marks!”

Rhys spat out my mother’s name with mocking disdain.

A bitter laugh echoed in my head. If he knew that my mother’s current state was entirely his fault, he’d probably be even more smug.