When Parker exited the mansion, he turned to look at it one last time.
Although the Blackwoods couldn't be counted as the most powerful or one of the riches of the families in the Beverly Hills, the Blackwoods commanded a name here.
Trousdale Estates feature sprawling mansions with large gardens, perfect for the millionaire family like the Blackwoods who were already inching into billionaire family status soon. This neighborhood offered privacy, prestige, and proximity to elite shopping areas like the Rodeo Drive.
The Blackwoods' mansion loomed like a fortress, its shadow stretching across the driveway. The ornate, dark exterior made it look as if it belonged more in a Victorian ghost story than in modern-day Los Angeles, at least in his view.
Parker stopped in his tracks, staring up at the towering spires and intricate balconies. Luxury cars—sleek, black and other colours, and polished to perfection—lined the front, almost mocking him with their glossy arrogance.
For most, this might've been the dream home. For Parker Black, it was a reminder of years spent drowning in contempt, cruelty, and dismissal.
His hand clenched instinctively at his side as his memories surfaced—Helena's biting scorn, Robert's cold indifference, Julian's endless ridicule, and Annabelle's mischievous torment.
Even Vivian, the neutral one, had never offered a single word of comfort, although he never needed one.
Parker forced a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. A sad, empty look flickered across his face as he whispered under his breath, "Blackwoods…"
He remembered being just four years old when it all began—when the jabs stopped being playful and started leaving bruises on his soul.
Sure, he'd tried to endure it, tried to stay strong, but somewhere along the way, his resolve fractured, unleashing a version of himself even he couldn't fully recognize but one he liked the most: cold, calculating, and sharp-edged.
Parker gave the mansion one last lingering look before turning his back on it.
He'd be back soon enough, but he wouldn't return the same. He had two weeks to lay the groundwork, and when he came back, they'd finally see the real Parker Black.
The distant honk of the bus brought him back to the present. "Time to go," he muttered, shoulders squaring up with newfound determination.
From the window, Julian watched the scene unfold with a smirk. "Self-improvement boot camp? Seriously?" he scoffed under his breath. "That's like saying Leonardo DiCaprio will finally date someone over 25."
His chuckle was low, but the others—Helena, Robert, and even Vivian—watched Parker silently as he stepped into the bus.
The scene resembled a horror movie, where dark spirits loomed, watching with sinister glee as their prey fled from home, fully aware that he would soon return to their grasp.
The bus itself was flashy—a rolling billboard for the "elite boot camp" plastered across its side.
The wraps were colorful, depicting glowing teens with abs of steel and confident smiles that screamed, You'll be unrecognizable in two weeks! It was all part of Parker's carefully laid plan.
Parker grinned to himself as he climbed the steps. "When Parker Black cooks…"
"Shall we, kid?" the driver asked, shooting him a casual glance.
The man looked rugged, somewhere in his forties, with a well-maintained beard and a sharp look in his eye. He wore a leather jacket over a black shirt, and his confidence screamed that he was no stranger to shady jobs.
"Yes," Parker replied coolly, sliding into a seat toward the middle. "The earlier, the better."
The driver's brow quirked slightly. "You sure about this, kid? You running away from home or something?" His voice had a paternal edge to it, like he was used to dealing with rebellious teens.
Parker shot him a look, his tone sharp and unyielding. "I didn't hire you to play therapist, old man. Do your job, keep the curiosity, and don't ask questions." He turned to face the window, his demeanor as cold as the leather seat he sat on.
The driver chuckled lowly, stepping on the gas. "Fair enough kid." The bus roared to life, the engine growling as it pulled away from the mansion gates.
Parker pulled out his battered iPhone, the cracked screen barely functional but sufficient for his needs. As he swiped through his recent activities, a familiar dark interface appeared—a black-market web portal.
It was here that he orchestrated the first phase of his elaborate plan.
Through meticulous research, Parker had hired someone to pose as the bus driver for the fake boot camp program. The man's sole task was simple: customize a bus with professionally made wraps advertising the program. The wraps bore catchy slogans and vibrant graphics, just enough to sell the illusion.
Everything else, from the narrative to the testimonials, was Parker's handiwork.
With a few keystrokes and some clever manipulations, he created fabricated identities—accounts linked to people long inactive on social media or those without digital footprints.
Parker exploited these "ghost profiles," crafting glowing reviews and before-and-after testimonials to lend credibility to the fictitious boot camp. He sourced images and stories from obscure corners of the internet, ensuring no one would trace them back.
It was a meticulous effort to fool his guardians, leveraging his skills in digital trickery and manipulation. Parker had built a convincing façade, one detailed enough to pass scrutiny from even the most skeptical eyes.
Satisfied, he looked through his phone. Penthouses of Blackstone Tower was next on his list of research. If he was going to make his move, he needed to know the kind of properties he'd be dealing with.
The Blackstone Tower was one of the most prestigious landmarks in downtown LA, towering above the city skyline like a monolith of power and wealth. Owning a share—even a fraction—of something connected to it was like holding a golden ticket.
Parker scrolled through listings for it's penthouses, noting layouts, features, and—most importantly—prices. Each one was a statement: marble floors, panoramic views of the city, private pools. He smirked. "Soon."
As the bus hummed down the freeway, Parker switched tabs and pulled up Blackstone Tower's corporate history. He skimmed through articles about its from it's mysterious owner, to manager, board members, and key investors. He memorized names, noting alliances and rivalries. The more he knew, the easier it would be to navigate his next steps.
His name too, Parker Black, appeared, he after all has 10% shares of the property now.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, watching Parker with a mix of amusement and curiosity.
The kid was silent the entire ride, his focus glued to his screen as if plotting a global takeover. He didn't fidget, didn't scroll mindlessly—everything he did seemed deliberate, planned.
"Kid," the driver said after a while, "you got a name?"
Parker looked up from his phone briefly, his sharp gaze meeting the man's, he was quite persistent, now it was the second time he was asking more than his job required. "Why? Gonna write me a Christmas card?"
The driver barked out a laugh. "Alright, alright. Forget I asked."
The rest of the ride passed in silence.
By the time the bus reached the Blackstone Tower, the sun was hanging more dominant in the sky, painting Los Angeles in hues of gold and crimson. Parker grabbed his small backpack, pulling it over one shoulder before stepping off the bus.
"Good luck, kid," the driver called out, giving a casual wave as the door hissed shut behind him. He had reached where everything will start—his journey.