Nine Ungrateful Sisters

"Mr. Chamberlain, I'm sorry." The doctor slid the lab report across the desk. "Brain cancer. Late stage."

Oscar Chamberlain stared at the doctor for several seconds, then lowered his gaze to the two words on the page. The paper was still warm from the printer. The sharp, chemical smell of ink hit him, and his stomach tightened.

The doctor continued in a careful, practiced tone, "In the best-case scenario, you have about two years."

Oscar did not respond. He folded the report with steady hands and slipped it into the deepest pocket of his jacket, as if hiding it there could buy him time.

Outside the hospital, the sun burned white. People streamed past him in both directions, occupied with errands and lunch plans. No one knew his life had just begun counting down.

His phone rang.

"Ozzy, add a few extra dishes tonight," a bright voice said. "Your sisters are all coming home."

The nine sisters were always busy, always away. It was rare for all of them to gather at once.

Oscar swallowed the tightness rising in his throat and arranged his expression into something normal. Whatever else happened, he could at least give them one good night. One meal where they laughed and ate their fill.

He quickened his pace. The moment he stepped through the front door, he stopped short.

A young man sat in the center of the living room, surrounded by his sisters as though he were the guest of honor. The young man wore an awkward, shy expression, his cheeks faintly pink. The women around him took turns trying to coax a smile from him.

They were smiling too, not the polite smiles they wore at business dinners and photo ops, but genuine ones.

Oscar's mouth went dry.

"Amara, who is he?" he managed.

Amara Chamberlain was the eldest. She was the one who made the decisions and the CEO of the Chamberlain Group. In this house, her word ended every argument.

She flicked her gaze toward Oscar. The warmth on her face vanished, replaced by a cold composure that settled like a mask.

"Let me introduce him," she said. "The future head of the Chamberlain Group, Jason Chamberlain."

She lifted her chin toward the young man, as though presenting him.

For a moment, Oscar could not process what he had heard. Then Amara reached into her pocket, withdrew a bank card, and set it on the table with a flat tap.

"200,000 dollars. Consider it payment for the 'family reunion' meal you made for us." Her eyes remained hard. "Starting today, you can leave the Chamberlain family."

Sharp, insistent pain throbbed behind Oscar's eyes.

"Leave the Chamberlain family?" His voice came out rough. "What does that mean?"

"Do you really need us to spell it out?" another voice cut in.

Bella Chamberlain, the second sister, strode forward. She was a police superintendent and wore her authority like armor. Her temper ran hot, and her view of the world allowed little room for gray.

"We found the Chamberlain bloodline we lost back then," she said. "You're a fake. From today on, you have nothing to do with the Chamberlain family."

Oscar's gaze shifted to the young man.

Yes, he looked shy, yet beneath that shyness lay something sharper. It was a quick glint that did not match the obedient posture. It looked like a smile held back on purpose.

"Jason Chamberlain," Oscar said slowly. "The youngest son, the one Father claimed went missing?"

"That's right," Amara replied. "Father had a son late in life. He never got to raise him at home, and then Jason was lost."

Her tone remained even, but resentment edged her words. "He died depressed because of it."

She leaned forward slightly. "Now he's back. So you, the adopted son, no longer need to exist."

With a single motion, Amara extended her palm toward the door. "Leave."

Oscar's brows drew together. "Amara—"

"Enough." Bella's voice cracked like a baton striking a table. "I said we should not have come to see him at all. We should have notified him and had someone remove him."

Her gaze traveled over him with open contempt. "With our family's status, plenty of people would beg for a place here. We're talking about being the young heir of this house. A useless loser like you would never give up that kind of fortune."

The room seemed to tilt.

Oscar took two unsteady steps and caught himself on the edge of the entry table.

"Bella, how can you say that?" His voice sped up, as if he could talk his way back into the life he had just lost. "You chased criminals and came home covered in bruises. Who applied medicine to your wounds? When you had stomach pain in the middle of the night, who cooked your soup? You—"

"Menial tasks," Bella interrupted icily. "And you're proud of them?"

She sneered, "You call yourself a Chamberlain heir. Are those duties meant for you? A man should stand tall and carry the family name. Instead, you hide in the house all day, pretending to be a housekeeper."

Oscar looked at her, then at the others.

One by one, the sisters stepped forward. Not to stop it, but to stand behind it.

"So you all think that?" he asked quietly.

For years, he had kept the house running. He did the laundry, cooked the meals, cleaned every room, and memorized each sister's preferences. He tracked their moods so that when they returned home, they could relax and feel warmth.

Now the memory sat in his chest like a cruel joke.

Amara lifted her chin. "A Chamberlain man should protect the family and expand its power. You spend your days in the kitchen and the laundry room. How does that honor our name?"

Her tone sharpened. "You are not one of us. That low, timid blood in your veins only seeks comfort. Look at us. Now look at you."

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you even deserve the Chamberlain surname?"

Voices overlapped behind her.

"Kicking you out is for your own good."

"Stop wasting time. Leave."

The noise piled up until Oscar felt pressure behind his skull. The earlier ache surged.

These were the sisters he had protected. Did they truly believe he only wanted comfort and wealth?

No. That was not the truth.

Amara's voice flattened. "Oscar, our family has treated you with more kindness than you deserve. If you refuse to leave, we will handle it legally."

The words struck clean. The dizziness cleared. The pain remained, but his thoughts turned cold.

Oscar looked at them, and whatever had been pleading inside him went still.

"Fine," he said. "I'll leave."

He pushed through the cluster of bodies and walked toward the door. He did not slow down. He did not look back.

'A dog would not accept love given freely,' he thought. 'Neither would the Chamberlain family.'

He had pulled the Chamberlain Group into the top tier of Silverton City with his own hands. At least that repaid his adoptive father's years of guidance.

"Wait." Amara's voice followed him. "Take the money. Otherwise, people will say we're heartless."

She flicked the bank card at him. It sliced through the air and struck his face with a sharp snap.

Oscar did not move.

Amara frowned. "What? You're not going to pick it up? Still trying to look pitiful and earn our sympathy?"

Oscar smiled without warmth. "If you have the nerve to do this, have the nerve to own it."

He stepped on the card.

"A big family, but small hearts." His calm, cutting gaze passed over Jason. "Keep it for your precious young heir."

Then he walked out.

Rain poured in sheets outside. Thunder rolled over the Chamberlain estate.

Oscar stepped into the storm without hesitation, his figure thinning in the downpour.

"Amara," a softer voice said behind him. "It's raining. Maybe let Ozzy leave tomorrow…"

It was Irene Chamberlain, the ninth and youngest sister. She was the only one who still sounded as if she remembered he was human.

"He brought it on himself," Amara replied. "He rode on the Chamberlain name for years and still ended up like this."

Then she shifted her tone with ease. "Jason, you must be hungry. Come eat."

She paused, catching an old habit. "That kid actually cooks pretty well."

Inside, the lights shone bright. Laughter rose now and then, easy and warm.

In Oscar's ears, there was only thunder.

He was adopted. Years ago, his adoptive father, Arthur Chamberlain, had nine daughters in a row. Desperate for a son, he had searched for remedies and finally had a baby boy.

On his deathbed, Arthur had gripped Oscar's hand and confessed the truth in a ragged whisper. The child had been injured in the womb and never survived. To comfort the girls, and because the Chamberlain family cared too much about bloodline, he had claimed the boy was merely lost.

He had made Oscar promise never to tell them.

The sisters had spent their lives chasing the dream of bringing their brother home. That dream shaped them.

Arthur had looked at Oscar as though he were already family.

"Protect the Chamberlain family," he had said. "Protect them for me."

Oscar tightened his grip on his phone as rain streamed down his face.

If Jason was not the lost son, then who was he?

Oscar almost unlocked the screen. He almost called someone to investigate. Instead, he slapped himself hard. The sting cut through the cold rain.

"Oscar, you really are pathetic," he muttered, disgust thick in his voice. "You lived for them for more than 20 years. They cast you out like a dog, and you're still thinking about them."

He drew in a breath, rain filling his lungs like cold smoke.

"Good." His jaw clenched. "I have two years left. This time, I'm living for myself."

His phone rang again. He answered.

"Sir," a crisp, controlled voice said at once. "The market will swing tomorrow. The Chamberlain Group could take a hit. I can send you the details—"

"No." Oscar's tone turned flat. "There's no need."

A pause followed.

"From now on, the Chamberlain family has nothing to do with me. Notify Red Hawk. Pull every resource we have out of the Chamberlain Group," Oscar instructed.

"Sir, you built the Chamberlain Group with your own hands. If we withdraw everything—"

"Do I need to repeat myself?"

"Understood, sir."