The Retired CEO's Guide To Being Spoiled-Chapter 204: Fine Fabrics and Filthy People

At that exact, high-tension moment, Julian Sterling heard the thunderous, indignant roar of Kian Foster erupting from directly behind him: "Hey, Vince Sutton! What on earth do you think you are doing? Have you completely lost your mind?"

Vince Sutton did not even bother to acknowledge the verbal assault. He merely spared Kian Foster a fleeting, sideways glance, his eyes narrowing into thin, venomous slits. The look was saturated with a blatant, unabashed contempt, as if Vince Sutton were gazing upon a piece of discarded filth from the absolute lowest rungs of society, something too stained and insignificant to warrant a proper response: "Where did this annoying fly come from? It keeps buzzing around, making such a grating, deafening noise." Vince Sutton remarked to the air, his voice dripping with icy disdain.

Then, with a deliberate and calculated motion, Vince Sutton shifted his weight, pressing his sturdy, expensive heel down even harder onto the electronic device lying beneath his boot. He allowed a thin, cruel smile to curl his lips, a look of faux-sympathy that didn’t even attempt to reach his eyes as he uttered a mocking apology: "Oh, I am terribly sorry about that. My apologies. I suppose I wasn’t being careful enough where I was walking, and my foot just happened to find its way onto your pathetic little machine."

The young master, whose garish and neon-drenched wardrobe was an affront to everyone’s vision, spoke with a heavy, sarcastic drawl. As he taunted Julian Sterling, he reached up with one hand to adjust the oversized, glittering earring, a massive stone that caught the artificial light, clamped onto his ear. With his other hand, Vince Sutton reached into his pocket and casually withdrew a thick, substantial wad of cash. The bundle of bills was held together by a designer clip, a blatant display of the sudden wealth of the Sutton family: "Since this scrap-metal tablet is clearly ruined, why don’t I just use some of this spare change to compensate you for the damages? Think of it as an act of mercy, a little bit of charity to help out the poor."

Before Julian Sterling could find the words to respond or even process the sheer audacity of the gesture, the movements of Vince Sutton became lightning-fast. With a condescending flick of his wrist, he released the wad of cash, letting the bills rain down in a messy, scattered heap right next to the damaged tablet. He then tilted his head back, looking down his nose at Julian Sterling, who was still kneeling on the ground. Vince Sutton stepped over Julian Sterling with an air of unearned victory. Of course, as he strode forward, he made it a point to grind his heel once more against the fragile glass screen of the tablet. Behind him, the small army of sycophants and flatterers who had latched onto him like parasites followed his lead. They marched over the debris, their footsteps accompanied by synchronized bursts of mocking, malicious laughter that echoed through the room.

By this time, the professor had long since departed the lecture hall, leaving the students to their own devices. Several people remained at their desks, slowly packing away their supplies, but the atmosphere was thick with a heavy, uncomfortable silence. Aside from Kian Foster, whose face was distorted with a rage so intense he looked ready to charge at the group of bullies, the rest of the witnesses remained frozen. No one spoke up, no one stepped forward to express a single word of indignation or protest.

Perhaps they were all gripped by a shared sense of trepidation, a lingering fear that getting involved in someone else’s business would only invite a similar catastrophe onto themselves. Or perhaps the silence was rooted in something deeper, a quiet awareness of the reputation Vince Sutton had built for himself. Rumors of his family’s aggressive rise and his own unchecked arrogance had likely reached the ears of many. The fact that he had already managed to gather a devoted group of lackeys on his very first day suggested that the power backing him was not something to be trifled with.

Beside Julian Sterling , Kian Foster was breathing in ragged, heavy gasps, his skin flushed a deep, angry red. It was clear that in their shared past, Kian Foster had likely endured countless similar provocations from Vince Sutton, leading to a deep reservoir of pent-up resentment. Seeing that Kian Foster was at his breaking point and about to throw himself into a physical confrontation with the larger group, Julian Sterling moved quickly. He reached out, his grip firm as he snagged the hem of his friend’s shirt, anchoring him in place. Julian Sterling kept his voice calm and steady, a sharp contrast to the chaos of the moment: "Kian, stop. What are you planning to do? There are so many of them and only one of you. If you start a fight now, there is no way you can win against all of them at once."

"But it’s not right! We didn’t do a single thing to deserve this!" Kian Foster shouted, his voice cracking with frustration: "Are you really just going to sit there and swallow this humiliation? Are you going to let him treat you like this?"

Swallow the humiliation? In the internal dictionary of Julian Sterling, the concept of being a weak, submissive victim did not exist. If someone went out of their way to provoke him or inflict an injustice upon him, he would engrave the memory into his mind with absolute precision. He was not the type to bow his head and accept a strike. He was the type to wait, calculate, and retaliate with twice or three times the original force. There was no universe in which he would simply endure this, especially not when he had the immense, shadows-reaching power of Ethan Caldwell standing directly behind him as his absolute support.

Julian Sterling slowly rose to his full height, his movements deliberate and poised. He reached out to pat the shoulder of Kian Foster, signaling for his friend to regain his composure. He casually brushed a few stray specks of dust from his hands, looking down at the scattered money with a cold, detached expression. When Julian Sterling finally spoke, his voice was clear and resonant, possessing a volume that was not loud, yet carried enough weight to ensure that every student remaining in the vicinity could hear him perfectly.

"People often say that fine fabrics make the person." Julian Sterling 2began, his eyes fixed on the retreating back of the youth in the neon jacket: "But looking at this situation, I find myself deeply confused. I wonder why, no matter how much expensive silk and high-priced gold they drape over themselves, it never seems to make the children of Sutton family look any less filthy."