My Bratty Wife
Chapter 249 - Two Hundred And Forty Nine

Chapter 249: Chapter Two Hundred And Forty Nine

{ ELIAS BACKSTORY ll }

The "hearing" was a farce. Lord Collin seated like a king, while Elias and Michael stood before the stern-faced parliament. No real investigation was conducted. Lord Collin presented the ring, repeating his accusations of deliberate fraud. He spoke of the insult to his noble house, the attempt to stain their honor.

Elias tried to speak, to explain. "Please, honored Parliament," he begged, his voice thick with desperation. "My father has worked his entire life to build his reputation. Our shop... it’s all we have. My mother is gone, this shop is how we survive. We would never risk it all by selling a fake. There has to be a mistake. The supplier..."

"Silence, boy!" one of the men snapped, his jowls quivering. "You speak of suppliers? Do you take us for fools? Lord Collin, a man of impeccable taste and knowledge, has identified this as a forgery. His word is enough."

"But it’s not true!" Elias pleaded, tears welling in his eyes. "We are innocent!"

Lord Collin watched, a cruel smile hidden behind a feigned expression of sorrow. He had them exactly where he wanted them.

Michael, a man broken by the swift and unfair judgment, stood silently, his shoulders slumped. The fight seemed to have drained out of him. He had always believed in honesty, in the fairness of men. To see it all crumble before his eyes, to be branded a cheat and a liar, was more than he could bear.

The judgment was swift and brutal. "The Parliament finds Michael and Elias guilty of attempting to defraud a noble house and selling falsified goods," the head Parliamentarian declared, his voice cold. "As recompense for this grave offense and to rid our city of such harmful business, their shop and all its contents are to be confiscated and destroyed. Let this serve as an example."

Elias felt his world collapse. "No! Please! It’s our home! Our livelihood! Everything we have!"

His pleas were ignored. Two guards grabbed Elias and his father, their grips like iron. He struggled, but it was useless. They dragged him out of the council chambers, his cries echoing unanswered.

The destruction of the shop began almost immediately. Under the watchful eyes of the parliament’s guards, a small group of hired thugs descended on the little artisan store. They were rough men, their faces impassive as they began their work.

Elias, held back by the guards, could only watch in horror. He saw them smash the polished wooden counter his father had built with his own hands. He heard the sickening crunch of glass as the display cases were overturned, the delicate ornaments and jewelry scattering across the floor, only to be trampled underfoot. Years of his father’s hard work, his skill, his passion, were being reduced to splinters and dust.

"Stop!" Elias screamed, tears streaming down his face. "Please, stop! That’s my father’s life!"

The guards just tightened their grip, their knuckles white. One of them shoved Elias hard, sending him sprawling to the dusty ground. "Stay down, boy, unless you want more trouble."

Elias looked up, his body aching, his spirit crushed. He saw his father standing a short distance away, a hollow, broken man. Michael didn’t speak, didn’t move. He just watched, his eyes reflecting the ruin of his life’s work. The shop wasn’t just a building; it was his legacy, his pride, the means by which he had provided for his family after his wife, Elias’s mother, had passed away. Now, it was gone, declared a "harmful business" by a biased parliament and a lying noble.

The thugs were relentless. They ripped covering from the walls, broke pottery, and tossed tools into the street. The carefully organized drawers of beads, wires, and precious metals were emptied, their contents scattered like dirt. The sign above the door, bearing Michael’s name, carved with such care, was torn down and snapped in two.

The crowd that had gathered watched in a mixture of fear and satisfaction, swayed by the noble’s power and the council’s decree. Some whispered about the shame Elias and his father had brought upon themselves, never questioning the truth of the accusation. Lord Collin was nowhere to be seen; his work was done.

When the destruction was complete, the shop was a ruin, a gaping wound in the street. The guards released Elias, pushing him towards his father. "Get out of here," one of them grunted. "And don’t let us see your faces in this city again."

Elias stumbled towards Michael. "Father..." he whispered, his voice hoarse.

Michael didn’t look at him. His eyes were fixed on the wreckage, a vacant, desolate stare. The vibrant spark that had always defined him, the quiet confidence of a master craftsman, was extinguished. He seemed to have aged a decade in a few short hours.

They walked away from the ruins of their lives, with nowhere to go and nothing left but the clothes on their backs and the crushing weight of injustice. The city, once their home, now felt like a hostile, unfamiliar place.

The next few days were a blur of despair. They found shelter in a forgotten corner of the city, a crumbling, abandoned shack near the river. Michael barely spoke. He refused to eat, refused to look Elias in the eye. The shame and the injustice had eaten away at his soul. He, a man who had lived his life by a strict code of honor, had been publicly disgraced, his name ruined, his livelihood destroyed, all because of a noble’s lie.

Elias tried to talk to him, to offer some comfort, but his words were like stones dropping into a deep, dark well. He felt a growing dread, a terrible fear of what his father might do. The light in his father’s eyes was gone, replaced by a chilling emptiness.

One morning, Elias woke to find his father gone. A cold fear gripped him. He searched the tiny shack, then the surrounding area, his calls of "Father!" growing more frantic.

He ran towards the river, his heart pounding in his chest. And then he saw it – a small crowd gathered at the riverbank, their faces grim, their voices hushed. Pushing his way through, Elias saw a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Lying on the muddy bank, his clothes soaked, his body still, was his father. Michael, the honorable artisan, the loving father, had chosen to end his suffering in the cold embrace of the river. He had jumped, unable to bear the weight of the false accusations and the destruction of his life.

"No... Father!" Elias screamed, a raw, agonizing sound that tore from his throat. He fell to his knees beside the still form, the reality of what had happened crashing down on him with unbearable force. The people around him murmured condolences, but their words were distant, meaningless.

He gently touched his father’s cold cheek. The injustice of it all washed over him in a suffocating wave. His father, an innocent man, driven to death by the greed and cruelty of Lord Collin and the biased judgment of corruption. The image of the destroyed shop, the sneering face of the noble, the dismissive wave of the parliamentary’s hand – it all swirled in his mind, fueling a grief so profound it felt like a physical wound.

Elias stayed there by the riverbank, cradling his father’s lifeless hand, until the city guards came. They were indifferent, merely doing their duty. There would be no investigation into this death either. To them, Michael was just another casualty, a disgraced merchant who had taken the coward’s way out.

But Elias knew the truth. His father was no coward. He was a victim. A victim of a lie, a victim of injustice, a victim of a wicked noble who valued a ring more than a man’s life and honor.

As he stood alone, watching them take his father’s body away, a new feeling began to smolder beneath the grief: Revenge.

Now alone, a noble , probably the same age or slightly younger walked towards him and stretched out his hand. " Do you want to take revenge on the Parliament? I can help you."

Elias blinked out the last tears that fell on his cheek. " And who are you?" He inquired.

The noble let out a soft charming smile, his hand still stretched out " I am Byron but you can address me as Lord Byron."