The Real Heir Just Wants to Live

The contempt around me felt almost solid enough to pierce straight through my body as I knelt on the floor, still holding the tail end of my mocking little bow.

I had been in this world for less than a minute, yet I already understood exactly where I stood.

I was the thing everyone here wanted scraped off their shoe.

Every person in the room wanted me gone before my existence offended them any further.

My biological sister, Vanessa Grayson, wrenched me to my feet, face dark with rage. She took a thick bundle of cash from Gerald Pike, the house manager, and hurled it directly at me.

Bills burst through the air, their stiff edges scratching thin red lines across my cheek.

Her red lips curled. "Micah, money is all you want, isn't it? Is this enough? You're greedy, calculating, and disgusting."

I knew the ten thousand dollars in cash was nothing more than a rich family's idea of humiliation.

The tiny diamond set into Tristan Grayson's cuff probably cost more than that.

And the tailored suit he wore would take me ten lifetimes of gig work to afford, never mind the unlimited family charge card in his pocket.

In their eyes, I shared their blood and was still worth less than the dirt beneath Tristan's shoes.

It was ridiculous, and it was sad.

But I didn't care.

All I could think was that I had landed inside a book and immediately been handed the closest thing to a winning lottery ticket.

A peaceful residential wellness campus was not somewhere someone like me could normally afford.

Now I was being offered free housing, free meals, and ten thousand dollars every month with no work attached.

They called it exile. I called it an all-expenses-paid vacation.

Ignoring my swollen forehead and stinging cheek, I carefully gathered every bill from the floor.

Then I solemnly tucked the money into my bag.

"Thank you. You're all incredibly kind."

They had clearly expected screaming, resistance, and tearful repentance.

Instead, they traded uneasy glances with one another.

Beside them, Tristan looked bright and immaculate enough to belong in a magazine. After studying the room, he suddenly spoke.

"Micah is Mom and Dad's biological son. If he resents me for taking everything that should have been his, I understand. Maybe I should be the one to leave so he can stay."

His eyes reddened as he forced out a brave, wounded smile.

Everyone immediately rushed to reassure him.

Vanessa's concern for Tristan turned into fury the second she looked at me. She kicked me aside and grabbed my collar.

"You're the one who needs to leave. You think this little performance will guilt Tristan out of his own home? Keep it up and I'll throw you into the ocean myself."

I had barely been shoved away like trash when my biological mother stepped forward and slapped me hard across the face, disappointment and disgust filling her eyes.

"How did I give birth to someone this vicious? Maybe being switched at birth was the best thing that ever happened to this family."

Terrified that Tristan might truly leave, everyone crowded around him and soothed him in gentle voices.

Then they told Rosa, the housekeeper, to throw my belongings outside Grayson Manor.

Several faded T-shirts and old jeans scattered pathetically across the front drive.

I looked down at myself and realized my clothes were cheaper than anything worn by the household staff.