Frappuccino

Damien 1

A 13 year old Leon Shapiro tightened his grip on the strap of his backpack as he walked through the polished hallways of Trinity School in New York. The echo of sneakers squeaking against marble floors mixed with snickers behind him.

"Hey, Shapiro," one of the boys called, his voice dripping with mockery. "How's it feel knowing Mommy and Daddy bought your grades?"

Laughter erupted from the group, and Leon kept his eyes fixed on the floor.

Another chimed in, "What's it like living in a penthouse and still being the biggest loser here?"

The words stung, but it was the tone that burned—a viciousness that came not from knowing him but from resenting him. The Shapiros were oil money. Old money. And Leon's presence at the private school was a constant reminder of a world of wealth most of his classmates could only dream about.

"And your mom," the first boy continued, "my dad said she's just counting the days till she get's the inheritance if you know what I mean."

Leon clenched his fists, but before he could respond, a voice cut through the commotion.

"Enough."

The group turned, their sneers faltering. Kayla Stein stood there, her arms crossed and her expression stone-cold. She was tall for a 14 year old girl, with a sturdy build that made her presence impossible to ignore. Her dark curls framed her sharp features, and the confidence in her voice carried weight.

"Find something better to do Dean," she said, stepping forward. "Or do you want to be known as the kid who fought the same girl twice in one year and lost both times?"

The boys exchanged glances, grumbling something inaudible. They walked away.

Kayla turned to Leon, who still hadn't looked up. "You good?"

He nodded, finally meeting her gaze.

"Don't let them get to you," she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "They're just mad their parents can't afford to be friends with yours." She smirked. "Besides, it's honestly their loss. There goes their chances of going to your Bar Mitzvah this week".

Leon cracked a small smile. Kayla had been there for as long as he could remember—a family friend who treated him like a little brother. She talked to him at school all day, cheered for him at debates, and stood by him when no one else did.

A 24 year old Leon stood in his father's study, the smell of leather-bound books and expensive cigars suffocating him. His father, a towering man with graying hair and sharp eyes that missed nothing, sat behind a massive mahogany desk.

"You're twenty-four, Leon," his father said, his voice gravelly but firm. "It's time to think about your future. The Shapiro legacy depends on it."

"I know."

"Do you?" His father leaned forward, clasping his hands together. "I've given you options. Kayla's family, for instance—she's smart, Jewish, and understands our world. Or the Cohens. Someone with status. Someone who's... one of us."

Leon's jaw tightened. "Dad, I'm not marrying someone just because they're rich."

His father scoffed, shaking his head. "This isn't about wealth—it's about breeding. People like us, Leon, we're a different breed. We've won the competitive edge of life. You think the average person can understand that?"

Leon stood silent.

"Marry someone who strengthens the family," his father continued. "Someone who doesn't drag us down."