Made My Boyfriend’s Family Pay for Disrespecting My Father’s Ashes

On the first day of military training, the campus beauty yanked the silver gourd necklace from my neck.

"Are you a dog? Who wears something like this in this day and age?"

She and a pack of her admirers tossed the necklace back and forth like a toy, laughing so hard they could barely stand.

"Look at her—baring her teeth over a cheap chain. Definitely a dog."

Then my boyfriend arrived. Relief surged through me—until he strode over, snatched the necklace from her hands, and dropped it to the ground with a look of disgust.

"Stop embarrassing yourself."

His voice carried across the empty field.

"How could my girlfriend wear such trash? Whose spare boyfriend gave it to you? You're shameless."

Anger flared hot in my chest. I pulled out my phone and dialed.

"Uncle Grant? Someone’s trampling on the ashes of a first-class hero."

——

Maxwell froze mid-smirk. The boys fell silent, the laughter cut short. All eyes turned to me.

Colette Fairchild was the first to move. She tore the phone from my hands and hurled it to the ground.

Snap!

The screen shattered into jagged pieces. She stepped forward, jabbing a finger at my face.

"Stop pretending. How could ashes fit in something that small? First-class hero? Please. Those would be in the Heroes’ Rest Memorial Grounds."

Her voice dripped with mockery. "You really think you can scare us? You’re dumber than you look."

She didn’t know the truth—that the gourd held the last of my father’s ashes.

But Maxwell knew. And still, he smiled.

"Don’t I know your family’s situation? Your father’s never home, and your mother ran off with another man years ago."

He looked me over with contempt. "You’re lucky I even date you. Dark, skinny… not even half as pretty as Colette."

"Accepting gifts from another guy? You’re a cheating slut, looking for trouble."

Then—crunch. He stomped the gourd flat, scattering the ashes into the dirt.

"First-class hero? Let’s see if his ashes hurt my feet."

"Stop!" My voice cracked. "Don’t touch my father’s ashes!"

I shoved him back and dropped to my knees, clawing at the ground to collect what I could.

Pain exploded through my hand. He had stepped down—hard—on my fingers.

There was a sharp crack. White-hot agony shot up my arm, and a scream tore from my throat.

"What’s going on here?"

Mr. Brown, our homeroom teacher, came running at the noise. But the moment he saw Maxwell Northcott, his face drained of authority.

"Sir Maxwell," he said quickly, his tone shifting into obsequiousness. Then he turned on me with a glare.

"Clara! Starting trouble again?"

I could only stare at him, trembling, as the truth hit me like a second blow—this university belonged to the Northcott family. And I was nothing to them.