I sat in the spotless house, a familiar ache spreading through my chest.

My uncle and my mother had been twins. When I was two, a car accident stole both my parents in a single night.

The siblings had always been close. My uncle could never bring himself to sell this place. He came often to clean it himself, saying he could still see traces of my mother here—in the kitchen where she'd cooked, in the garden she'd tended.

He'd never married. He raised me instead, becoming both father and mother, giving me everything he had.

So why—why—would he leave his fortune to a stranger?

I couldn't accept it. I watched the will video over and over, convinced something was wrong.

My hand froze on the mouse. My pupils contracted.

There.

George Acevedo wasn't in the video.

Great-Uncle George was the most respected elder in my mother's family. My uncle had been explicit: a will was only valid if George witnessed it in person.

I scrambled to find the video of my uncle's first will—the one leaving everything to me.

George was right there, clear as day.

I shot to my feet, heart pounding. I was going to expose Russ Finch for what he really was.

I drove back to the villa and slammed through the front gate, ready to storm inside—but Butler Lambert blocked my path.

"Young Master Abbott." His voice was ice. "This is no longer your home. If you cause another disturbance, I'll call the police."

This was the same man who'd fussed over me for years, who'd snuck me extra desserts and asked if I was sleeping enough. Now he looked at me like I was a trespasser.

The rejection stung more than I wanted to admit.

"I need to see Russ Finch," I said, forcing my voice steady. "Let me in."

"Mr. Finch has retired for the evening. Come back tomorrow."

I checked my phone. Just past eight.

The man's nightlife hadn't even begun, and he was already asleep? What kind of young person kept the same hours as my elderly uncle?

I didn't leave.

I stood outside the gate all night.

At seven the next morning, Russ Finch emerged in my uncle's Maybach. I stepped directly into its path.

"Russ Finch." My voice rang out in the cold morning air. "I can prove you're not the legal heir. You're coming with me to see my great-uncle. Now."

Finch studied me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he nodded.

"Alright." A half-smile curved his lips. "I'm curious to see what proof you think you have."

The moment we arrived at George's house, the words tumbled out of me.

"Great-Uncle George, do you know my uncle left everything to this man?" I jabbed a finger at Finch. "You're not in the will video. Tell me the truth—he forged it, didn't he? He coerced my uncle into this. That's what happened, isn't it?"

George stared at me, genuine confusion creasing his weathered face.

"I know about the will, Simon. Your uncle told me himself." He shifted in his chair, wincing. "I was supposed to be there as witness, but I got into an accident on the way. Broke my leg—see?"

I looked down. Bandages wrapped his leg from knee to ankle.

"I recorded a video testimony before my surgery," he continued. "Confirming the will's validity. They didn't show you?"

He pulled out his phone and handed it to me.

The video was short. But George's words were unmistakable: the new will was real, made of my uncle's own free choice.

I stood there, paralyzed.

My gaze swung between George and Finch.

Had Finch bought him off?

The accusation left my mouth before I could stop it.

"Great-Uncle George, did he pay you? How much did it take? How could you do this to my uncle? How could you betray my parents?"

George's expression hardened, all warmth draining from his face.

"Simon." His voice dropped, sharp as a blade. "What nonsense are you spouting? I met Mr. Finch for the first time today. I'm an old man—what would I do with his money? This was your uncle's decision. His choice."

"No!" The word tore out of me. "My uncle would never abandon me!"

I spun and seized Finch by the collar, hauling him close, glaring into his face from inches away.

"Who the hell are you?" I snarled. "Why would my uncle willingly give you everything? Tell me—what did you use to threaten a dying man into signing away his legacy?"

The composure Russ had maintained finally cracked.

"Enough!" He wrenched my hands away. "If you weren't Harvey's nephew by blood, I'd have called the police on you for harassment long ago. Keep this up, and I won't be so lenient!"

George limped toward me, his voice weary. "Simon, I know this is hard to accept. Your uncle must have had his reasons. You're young—your future achievements might surpass his. Why torture yourself like this?"

"Why torture myself?" I stared at him in disbelief. "We're not talking about thousands or even millions. We're talking about a billion-dollar fortune—my uncle's entire life's work. Doesn't it strike you as strange that he suddenly changed his mind right before he died?" My gaze cut to Russ. "What do you have on them? What leverage?"

George's expression hardened. "Suspect what, exactly? Simon, your uncle is gone. I expect you to respect his final wishes."

Russ let out a cold laugh. "All this drama—you're trying to insinuate your uncle and I had some kind of sordid relationship, aren't you? He was your own flesh and blood, Simon. And you'd drag his name through the mud like this?"

Heat flooded my face. The shame of being exposed burned through me.

The servants and the family doctor exchanged glances, their eyes filled with contempt.

"Listen to him, all those high-minded words. He's just bitter someone else got the money. Calling his own uncle a deviant—disgusting!"

"If you ask me, Mr. Dickerson saw right through him years ago. That's why he cut him out. Ungrateful wretch."

"Mr. Dickerson raised him for twenty years like his own son. And this is the thanks he gets? Slander from beyond the grave. Shameful."

"Get out! Money-grubbing backstabber. You're dirtying our floor just standing there!"

A maid brandished her broom, sweeping furiously at my feet until I was backed against the doorway.

The humiliation crashed over me like a wave. My eyes burned as I scanned the room, my voice breaking.

"I'm not doing this for the inheritance! I just want to understand why. Was he in some kind of trouble? Did I do something wrong? Were twenty years of being father and son all a lie?"

My voice cracked. "Even if the truth turns out to be exactly what you say—that this was his choice—I'll accept it. But I can't keep living like this, in the dark, completely powerless!"

Tears spilled down my cheeks before I could stop them. George hobbled over, looking at me with something close to pity.

"Simon, stop overthinking this. If your uncle didn't love you, why would he have set up a trust fund in your name?"

I froze.

Uncle Harvey's dying words echoed back to me—his hand gripping mine, his voice barely a whisper.

"Simon, I've set aside a trust fund for you. A substantial one. Don't touch it unless you absolutely have to. The password... only the true heir would know."

I'd been too grief-stricken to process what he meant.

I'd assumed it was just a safety net—his way of protecting me if my business failed.

But now I understood. He'd been preparing for something. He'd seen this coming.

My gaze locked onto Russ, sharp as a blade.

"One last time, Russ. Come to the bank with me. Prove you're really the heir."

He studied me for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he scoffed.

"Fine. I'll go. But when they confirm I'm the legitimate heir, you—Simon Abbott—will never show your face in front of me again."

I didn't hesitate. "Done."

We arrived at the bank and were escorted to the Trust Department.

Evelyn Parker, the trust manager, approached carrying a safe-deposit box with careful hands.

"This box contains the trust documents Mr. Harvey Dickerson established for Mr. Simon Abbott," she explained, "along with a trust fund card. The withdrawal password and the box combination are known only to the heir."

He gestured politely toward Russ. "Please, Mr. Finch."

Russ walked to the safe. His head turned left, then tilted right—checking that no one stood close enough to see. Then he raised his left hand, pinky finger lifted, and pressed his index finger to the keypad.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The electronic tones filled the room, each one tightening the invisible wire around my chest. My palms were slick with sweat. My heart hammered so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Wrong password. Wrong password. Wrong password.

I chanted it like a prayer.

I couldn't be wrong. Uncle Harvey must have had reasons he couldn't explain. This "Russ Finch" had to be a fraud. Uncle Harvey loved me—he loved me.

Any second now, the truth would come out. The con artist would be exposed.

Uncle Harvey, I'll protect everything you built. I swear I will—

The final digit dropped.

The air turned to glass.

No one breathed.

Click.

The safe door swung open.

The blood in my veins turned to ice. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, drowning out everything else.

Around me, voices swirled—congratulations, flattery, sycophants tripping over themselves to praise "Mr. Finch."

And me? I was the punchline.

"So desperate for money he's lost his mind. The court already confirmed Mr. Finch is the legal heir, but he just wouldn't accept it. Bet that stings now, huh?"

"Must've done something awful in a past life. Parents died on him, and now even his own uncle doesn't want him. Karma's a bitch."

"Some people just aren't meant for fortune. Give it up already!"

I stood frozen, trembling like a leaf in a storm.

How?

How could this be?

Great-Uncle George had vouched for a man he'd never met. Uncle Harvey had signed that will like a man betting everything on one last hand. He'd given this stranger his most guarded secret—the password no one else knew.

Every single piece of evidence pointed to the same conclusion: Russ Finch was the legitimate heir.

Who the hell is Russ Finch?

No.

No.

Something didn't add up. I was missing something.

My thoughts churned into chaos—

Then my phone buzzed.

Blake Morgan. The private investigator.

I opened the file he'd sent, and my head snapped up. My eyes locked onto Russ like crosshairs finding their target.

"Russ Finch." My voice cut through the noise. "I know who you are."