The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 511

His weight was entirely supported by the bodyguard holding him up, his head hanging lifelessly against his chest, his breathing shallow and erratic.

The older guard rested the bloody club on the floor, took one look at Garrison's condition, and turned to Grant. "Mr. Lennox, we can't keep hitting him. He'll die."

Grant had been watching from the sidelines the entire time.

He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

Hearing the guard, he nodded, looking entirely satisfied with the performance. Straightening up, he strolled over to Garrison.

He stared down at the man collapsed in the pool of blood. After a two-second pause, he slowly raised his foot—his spotless Italian Calfskin Loafers shining in the dim light—and planted it squarely on Garrison's head.

He ground his heel down, pressing Garrison's bloodied face hard against the floor.

Then, Grant crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees. Tilting his head, he carefully scrutinized Garrison's face.

The once handsome, striking features were swollen beyond recognition. His cheekbones were a bruised, dark purple, his left eye swollen shut, his lip split and bleeding, and a fresh scrape marked his temple where the shoe had ground into his skin.

"Look at yourself."

Grant smirked. "Look at what you are now. Nobel laureate, the youngest MD, the pride of the Foster family, Riverdale University's shining star—Garrison."

"What do you look like now? Huh? You're worse than a dog."

His voice climbed higher, turning into a desperate roar.

"He chose you. Every time he mentioned your name, his eyes lit up! But what about me?"

"I pulled all-nighters in that lab too! But all he ever said was, 'Grant, you need to work harder'—Harder? I worked my ass off for ten years! And I still ended up as his discarded pawn! And you? You just stood there doing nothing, and he chose you."

His voice shook, and his hands trembled. His knuckles turned white as he grabbed a fistful of Garrison's hair, veins bulging on the back of his hand.

He glared at Garrison's battered face, waiting for an answer he had sought for a decade.

"Garrison, tell me. Just tell me—why are you better than me?"