She Left When I Was Broke, Regretted When I Was King.

Ethan's POV The phone rang again before I could process what I was seeing. My thumb hovered over the decline button. Every instinct screamed scam. Fraudsters were getting sophisticated. They could fake bank balances, create convincing apps, steal your information while you stared at numbers that couldn't possibly be real. One hundred million dollars. My hand shook so badly I nearly dropped the phone. I answered. "Before you hang up again, young master, please listen carefully." Winston's voice carried the patience of someone who'd delivered shocking news many times before. "I understand this is overwhelming. I understand you don't believe me. But I need five minutes of your time. Just five." "How did you do that?" My voice came out hoarse. "The bank account. How did you fake it?" "I didn't fake anything. The transfer is genuine. If you'd like, call your bank directly. Use the number on the back of your card, not one I provide. They'll confirm the deposit." I pulled the phone away, staring at the screen. The balance still showed those impossible numbers. Blinking. Real. Waiting. "This is identity theft," I said. "You hacked my account. You're going to drain it and disappear." "Drain an account I just filled?" Winston chuckled softly. "That would be rather counterproductive, don't you think?" "Then what do you want?" "I want to bring you home, young master. To the family you were taken from twenty-three years ago." The sidewalk felt unsteady beneath my feet. I leaned against a lamppost, the metal cold through my thin shirt. Around me, the city moved like normal. Cars passing. People walking. The world continuing like mine hadn't just tilted sideways. "I'm not from any rich family," I said. "I grew up in a group home until I was eight. The Crosses adopted me. That's my story. That's all there is." "That's the story you were told." Papers rustled again. "But it's not the truth. Your name isn't Ethan Cross. It's Ethan Sterling. You were born to Richard and Catherine Sterling on March 15th, twenty-three years ago. You were taken from your family when you were only six months old." "Taken? Like kidnapped?" "Yes." The word hung in the freezing air. Kidnapped. Me. A baby stolen from some wealthy family, raised in poverty, adopted by people who treated me like a charity case. "That's insane," I said. "If I was kidnapped, there would have been news coverage. Police investigations. Amber alerts. You can't just steal a rich person's baby and get away with it." "You can if you're thorough enough." Winston's voice turned grave. "Your kidnapper was never caught. The case went cold after two years. Your parents searched for you until the day they died. Your grandfather, Sterling Cross, never stopped looking. He hired investigators, spent millions, followed every lead for over two decades." Sterling Cross. That name again. I tried to remember if I'd heard it before. In the news maybe. On some billboard or magazine cover. Nothing. "Why should I believe any of this?" "Because of your birthmark, young master. You have one on your left shoulder blade. Roughly the size of a quarter. Shaped like a crescent moon." My free hand went to my shoulder automatically. I couldn't see it, couldn't touch it through my shirt, but I knew exactly what he was talking about. I'd had it my whole life. The kids at the group home used to tease me about it. Said it looked like someone had burned me with a cigarette. "Lots of people have birthmarks," I said weakly. "Not that exact shape in that exact location. We have your medical records from when you were an infant. Before you disappeared. The birthmark is documented. Along with your blood type, AB negative. Quite rare. Only one percent of the population." AB negative. I'd donated blood once in college. They'd told me I had a rare type, asked me to come back regularly. I never did. Too busy working. "This is crazy." I started walking again, needing to move, to do something other than stand still while my world rewrote itself. "Even if what you're saying is true, why now? Why after twenty-three years?" "We found new evidence six months ago. A photograph from the group home where you lived. One of the workers kept personal albums. She passed away last year. Her daughter was sorting through her belongings and posted some photos online, reminiscing about her mother's work. One photo showed a group of children. You were among them. Eight years old." "So?" "So your grandfather has been using facial recognition software for years. Scanning every database, every photo, every image he could access. The software flagged your face. A ninety-eight percent match to computer-aged projections of what you should look like. We investigated further. Found your adoption records, sealed though they were. Confirmed your birthmark through a source at your last medical checkup. Verified your blood type. Everything matched." I stopped walking. A couple passed me, giving me strange looks. I probably looked insane. Standing in the freezing cold without a coat, staring at my phone like it held the secrets of the universe. Maybe it did. "The Cross family," I said slowly. "My adoptive family. Did they know? Did they know who I was?" Silence stretched for three heartbeats. "Yes," Winston said finally. "They knew." The pavement tilted again. I pressed my palm against the brick wall of the nearest building, steadying myself. "How long?" "From the beginning. They were paid to adopt you. To keep you hidden. To raise you as their own and never speak of your true origins." Paid. They were paid to take me in. To pretend to love me. To treat Michael like gold while I wore hand-me-downs and worked myself to exhaustion. "How much?" The question came out as a whisper. "Two million dollars. Deposited in installments over eight years." Two million dollars for my childhood. For my identity. For twenty-three years of lies. "Why would they do that? Why would someone pay them to hide me?" "That's still under investigation, young master. Your grandfather believes it was someone who stood to inherit if you disappeared. The Sterling fortune is considerable. With you gone, other relatives gained access to portions of it." "So someone kidnapped me for money." "Yes. And the Cross family helped them finish the job." My legs gave out. I slid down the wall, landing hard on the cold concrete. The purse, still clutched under my arm, pressed against my ribs. Two thousand dollars. I'd spent two thousand dollars trying to prove my love to a woman who chose my fake brother. My fake brother who'd grown up with money that should have been mine. Who'd driven cars and worn clothes and lived a life built on my stolen inheritance. "The one hundred million," I managed. "Is that real?" "Completely real. It's a small portion of your trust fund. You have considerably more, but it's tied up in stocks, properties, and business holdings. Your grandfather wanted you to have immediate access to liquid capital. For security. For comfort." "For revenge," I said quietly. Winston paused. "That's entirely up to you, young master. But yes. The resources are there should you choose to use them." "What else do I have? You said business holdings." "Several. The largest is Zenith Corporation. The premier financial enterprise in the city. Assets valued at over fifty billion dollars. Your grandfather has been running it as trustee. Upon your return, controlling interest transfers to you." Zenith Corporation. I'd heard of them. Everyone had. They owned half the commercial real estate downtown. Financed major developments. Their logo was on buildings, billboards, investment firms. "I'd own that?" "You'd be the majority shareholder, yes. Fifty-one percent. Your grandfather retains thirty percent. The remaining nineteen percent is distributed among board members and investors." "I don't know anything about running a corporation." "You'll have advisors. Experts. Your grandfather himself. And you're quite intelligent, young master. Your tutoring records show a remarkable aptitude for mathematics and business theory. You simply lacked opportunity." Opportunity. The word felt bitter. I'd lacked opportunity because someone had stolen it. Had buried me in poverty while they lived off wealth that belonged to me. "The CEO will contact you soon," Winston continued. "Her name is Margaret Chen. She's been with the company for fifteen years. Loyal to your grandfather. She'll help facilitate your transition." "When?" My brain struggled to keep up. "When does all this happen?" "It already has, young master. The moment the money transferred, certain legal mechanisms activated. You're listed now as the beneficial owner of Zenith Corporation. The paperwork is being filed as we speak. By tomorrow morning, it will be public record." Tomorrow. In twelve hours, my life would be completely different. "I need to meet him," I said. "My grandfather. I need to see proof. Real proof. Not just money in an account and stories on the phone." "Of course. He's eager to meet you as well. But we must be cautious. The people who took you are still out there. They may react badly to your return. We need to ensure your safety first." "So what do I do? Just wait?" "For tonight, yes. Stay somewhere public. Somewhere safe. Don't go home. Don't contact the Cross family. We'll arrange a secure meeting location for tomorrow. I'll call you in the morning with details." The phone felt hot against my ear. My mind raced through implications, possibilities, questions that had no answers yet. "Why are you doing this?" I asked. "Why do you care about finding me?" "Because your grandfather is a good man who lost his only son and daughter-in-law in the same accident that led to your kidnapping. Because you're the last of his bloodline. Because he's eighty-seven years old and won't rest until he sees you home." Eighty-seven. Old. Running out of time. "Winston?" "Yes, young master?" "Thank you. For finding me." "It's my honor, sir. Now please, get somewhere warm. You'll catch your death in this weather." He hung up before I could respond. I sat there on the freezing sidewalk, phone in one hand, designer purse in the other, trying to understand what had just happened. Kidnapped. Heir. One hundred million dollars. Zenith Corporation. The words didn't connect. Didn't form a coherent picture. My phone rang again. Mom. My adoptive mother. The woman who'd raised me on stolen money. Who'd watched me work myself to exhaustion while Michael lived in luxury. Who'd known, the entire time, exactly what she'd done. I almost didn't answer. But I did. "Ethan Cross." Her voice came through sharp and furious. "Where the hell are you?" "Out." "Michael just called me. He said you broke into Lena's apartment and attacked him. He said you assaulted him over some girl." "That's not what happened." "I don't care what happened." She was screaming now. Full volume. I pulled the phone away from my ear. "You stole your brother's girlfriend. You put your hands on him. You're a disgrace." "He's not my brother." "What?" "I said he's not my brother. And you're not my mother." Silence. Long and cold. "Come home," she said finally. Her voice had changed. Lower. Dangerous. "Come home right now, Ethan. We need to talk." "I don't think so." "That wasn't a request. You live under my roof. You follow my rules. Get home. Now." The line went dead. I stared at the phone, at the missed call notification, at the bank balance still showing numbers that couldn't be real but were. Then I stood up, brushed the dirt off my jeans, and started walking. Not home. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.