Chapter 6: A Showdown at the Marriott

Jordan stood firm in the narrow stairwell, facing the two towering thugs. Onlookers might have thought he was at a disadvantage.

They were bigger, heavier, stronger.

But they weren’t faster.

The first swung a fist, aiming for Jordan’s ribs.

Jordan sidestepped with ease. With a smooth motion, he leaped onto the staircase railing and struck—a sharp kick landing directly on the thug’s face.

Crack!

Blood gushed from his nose.

“Damn! That hurts!” the man howled.

Jordan smirked.

“I’m a fourth-degree black belt.”

The thug, red-faced, snarled back.

“I’m a ninth-degree black belt!”

Jordan tilted his head, unimpressed. “Really? Funny, because the average age of a ninth-degree black belt is 55.”

The thug lunged again, kicking wildly.

Jordan landed gracefully, dodging with ease, then struck again—a powerful punch straight to his gut.

Bang!

The man doubled over, gasping.

Then came the finishing move.

Jordan launched into a series of rapid strikes, Bruce-Lee-style, forcing both opponents to vomit acid from the impact.

With a final over-the-shoulder throw, Jordan slammed one of them onto the concrete floor.

Boom!

It was over.

The so-called “professional fighters” were sprawled out, groaning in pain.

Jordan stood over them, voice calm, but firm.

“Tell Old Mrs. Camden that I’m not her dog anymore. No one orders me around unless I choose to listen.”

With that, he hopped onto his motorbike, leaving them behind as he finished his final delivery shift.

---

The Camden’s Next Move

At the Marriott Hotel, Orlando’s finest guests gathered for Old Mrs. Camden’s 80th birthday banquet.

But her mood was sour.

Herman leaned in, whispering, “Mom, the fighters I hired? Jordan crippled them.”

“What!?”

The entire Camden family stared in disbelief.

Jordan? The worthless live-in son-in-law? A fighter?

Old Mrs. Camden slammed the table, rage burning in her eyes.

“Isn’t there anyone who can deal with this beast!?”

Just then, a man in a suit walked over, carrying an expensive-looking bottle of red wine.

It was Ryan Dunn, the general agent of Ubereats in Orlando.

Herman’s expression shifted.

Ryan was nobody, but in recent years, he had made money and was desperate to climb the social ladder.

Herman greeted him warmly.

“Mr. Dunn! Welcome! Have you been well?”

Ryan grinned, shaking his hand. “Very well, thank you.”

He turned to Old Mrs. Camden, presenting the wine.

“Old Mrs. Camden, a 1990 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti for your birthday. Wishing you health and longevity!”

She smiled, pleased. “How thoughtful of you.”

But Ryan sensed the tense atmosphere.

“What’s wrong, Old Mrs. Camden?”

Herman sighed dramatically.

“You remember my useless son-in-law, Jordan Steele?”

Ryan’s eyes flashed with recognition.

Everyone in Orlando had heard of Hailey’s stunning beauty, and her shocking marriage to a nobody.

Herman continued, “That bastard cheated on my daughter and then beat up my son!”

Ryan’s brows furrowed. He was just a businessman. What did this have to do with him?

“I’d love to help, but I don’t have any connections in Orlando…” Ryan began.

Drew, still bruised, suddenly sneered.

“Jordan works for Ubereats. That means you control him!”

Ryan’s eyes lit up.

He had authority over Jordan.

Herman patted Ryan’s shoulder, grinning.

“Exactly! You can fire him! Make an example of him.”

Ryan nodded quickly, eager to impress.

He dialed a number.

“Hello, Claire. Find Jordan Steele’s employee number. Locate his current delivery.”

A pause.

“Assign him an order to Marriott Hotel.”

Click.

Ryan grinned, turning to Old Mrs. Camden.

“That sponger will be here soon. I’ll personally put him in his place.”

The Camdens smirked, anticipation gleaming in their eyes.

---

The Lure

Fifteen minutes later.

Jordan pulled up to the Marriott Hotel, scanning the entrance.

He dialed the customer’s number.

“Mr. Dunn, your takeout is here. I’m at the entrance. Please come out to collect it.”

Inside, Ryan was chatting with the Camdens, gloating.

He lifted his phone.

“Send it in.”

Jordan glanced up. A huge birthday banner hung above the hotel doors.

“Happy 80th Birthday, Old Mrs. Camden.”

His eyes narrowed.

They planned this.

Jordan’s voice remained steady.

“Takeout deliveries aren’t allowed inside. Please come out to collect it.”

Ryan covered the microphone, turning to Old Mrs. Camden.

“Your orders?”

The elderly matriarch’s lips curled into a cruel smile.

“Make him come inside. Let’s humiliate him properly.”

Ryan smirked.

“Wait for me at the door.”

Two minutes later, the Camdens stepped outside.

The trap was set.