Rise Of The True Heir

Chapter 6

"Get out of my way, Terry," Richard said, his voice low and controlled. "I need to see my mother."

Terry laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. "Oh, you need to see her? That's precious. Tell me, Richard, do you think hospitals run on good intentions and scholarship badges?"

"What are you talking about?"

Bella finally looked up from her phone, her lips curving into a vicious smile. "He's talking about money, you pathetic little rat. The kind you've never had and never will."

Terry pushed off the wall, taking a leisurely step closer. "I just got off the phone with DPO.

It was truly a fascinating conversation. 

He told me you somehow escaped custody after assaulting three officers during a prison riot."

Richard's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "You know exactly what happened tonight."

"I know you killed a man with my stolen vehicle," Terry replied smoothly. "I know you fled from justice. And I know your mother is currently receiving surgery that costs two hundred thousand dollars."

The words hit Richard like physical blows.

"Surgery that the Simpson Medical Foundation has been generously funding," Terry continued, his tone becoming mockingly sympathetic. "Unfortunately, due to recent complications with our family's driver, we've had to redirect those charitable funds elsewhere."

A middle-aged nurse at the station glanced up nervously, then immediately buried her face back in her paperwork. 

"You're lying," Richard said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Terry reached into his jacket and produced a folded document. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to walk back to that police station tonight. You're going to confess to vehicular manslaughter. You're going to sign this service extension acknowledging full liability for the accident."

He held the paper out between two fingers like he was offering scraps to a dog.

"Do that," Terry said, "and I'll authorize payment for your mother's surgery within the hour. Refuse, and we all get to watch how long someone can survive without medical support."

Bella giggled softly. "It's really quite simple, even for someone with your limited intelligence."

Richard stared at the document in Terry's hand. His mother's face floated in his mind—pale against white hospital pillows, surrounded by machines that breathed for her, kept her heart beating, and filtered her blood.

"Sign it," Terry commanded, his patience wearing thin. "You're not in a position to negotiate."

Richard could hear his own pulse pounding in his ears.

"No."

The word fell into the corridor like a stone into still water.

Terry blinked. "What did you just say to me?"

"I said no." Richard's voice was quiet but absolutely steady. "I'm not signing anything. I'm not turning myself in. And I'm done taking orders from you."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Bella's phone slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the linoleum floor. The duty nurse's head snapped up despite herself. Even the distant hum of the air conditioning seemed to pause.

Terry stared at Richard for a long moment, his expression cycling through disbelief, shock, and finally settling on something cold and dangerous.

"You have a death wish," he said softly. "You actually have a death wish."

"He's completely lost his mind," Bella whispered, her voice shaking with disbelief. "Terry, he's actually saying no to you."

Terry's smile returned, but now it was razor-sharp and utterly without warmth. "No, he hasn't lost his mind. He's just forgotten what happens when people from the slums start believing they have options."

He turned toward the nurses' station, raising his voice. "Nurse! The patient in Room 302 is being transferred immediately. Arrange for her discharge."

The duty nurse looked up with a visible alarm. "Sir, the patient is in critical condition during active surgery. We can't possibly—"

"The Simpson Foundation is withdrawing all financial support effective immediately," Terry announced, his voice carrying the absolute authority of generational wealth. "Which means she's now an uninsured patient with no payment guarantee. Your hospital's policy on that situation is quite clear, isn't it?"

The nurse's face went white. "Mr. Simpson, please, if we stop the procedure now—"

"Then she dies," Terry finished pleasantly. "And that's entirely Richard's choice. Have her belongings packed and her room cleared within the hour."

He turned back to Richard with cold satisfaction. "The gutters are where she came from, Richard. She'll be comfortable there."

Richard's vision narrowed. The rage that had been building for three years—through every humiliation, every sleepless night, every morning he'd swallowed his pride to keep those machines running—rose to a level that frightened him with its intensity.

His hands were shaking. Blood seeped between his fingers where his nails had cut into his palms.

"You would let a dying woman suffer just to cover up your drunk driving," Richard said, his voice trembling with suppressed fury.

"I'm not letting her die," Terry laughed. "You are. This is your choice. Be a good son and take the punishment you deserve, or be a selfish coward and watch her flatline."

Bella picked up her phone, dusting it off with theatrical disgust. "Just call the police, Terry. People like him don't actually care about anyone but themselves. He's probably relieved he won't have to pay her medical bills anymore."

The sheer cruelty of the words struck Richard like a physical blow.

For three years, he had bent his knees, lowered his head, and accepted every insult, every degrading task, every cruel joke they threw his way. He had done it all for the woman lying in that bed, fighting for her life while machines kept her heart beating.

He squeezed his fists so tightly that warm blood dripped onto the pristine hospital floor.

He thought about the police station. The bought officers. The system is designed to crush people like him.

Then he thought about an old man with sharp eyes and a plain white business card.

You are not their heir. You are mine.

Richard reached into his pocket with bloody fingers and pulled out the card. No logo. No title. Just a single phone number printed in black ink.

Terry noticed the movement and laughed. "What's that? A business card for a public defender? Richard, you can't afford a lawyer."

Richard didn't respond. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the keypad for three heartbeats.

He'd told the old man not to expect a call.

He dialed anyway.

It rang once.

"I wondered when you'd call," came the calm, authoritative voice of the true Richard Simpson.

Richard kept his eyes fixed on Terry's face as he spoke. "I'm ready to accept the offer. All of it."

Terry's laughter grew louder. "Who the hell are you talking to?"

"I need a location," the old man said.

"City General Hospital, cardiac intensive care unit, third floor," Richard replied, his voice completely steady now. "My mother needs emergency surgery authorized immediately. And there are two people on this floor who need to be removed from the premises."

"Consider it done."

The line went dead.

Terry had been watching this exchange with growing confusion. "Was that supposed to impress me? Richard, whatever game you're playing?"

"Do you think you know anyone enough that can rescue you?" Bella blinked with mockery floating through every part of her response. 

Even the doctor couldn't help it but sneer.

"The sheer audacity of helpless people lately.”