Rise of the Rich and Powerful Jamie Ashford

Chapter 2

Jamie stepped out of the hospital into the gray morning, his mind spinning with grief, confusion, and a gnawing dread he couldn’t quite place. His mother’s final words played on repeat in his head, and though they should’ve comforted him, they only left him with more questions. “You’re not a nobody… You matter more than anyone else in this world.”

He didn’t feel that way now.

At the entrance to the hospital, two familiar figures stood waiting: Billy Carson, his best friend since sophomore year, and Stacy Reynold, his stepsister. They rushed to him as soon as they saw his slumped shoulders and red eyes.

“Jamie…” Stacy said softly, stepping forward with outstretched arms.

He collapsed into her embrace, his body trembling. She held him like a sister should—not bound by blood, but by shared struggle.

“I’m so sorry we’re late,” Billy said, voice quiet. “We were trying to finish your final essays and those lab reports. You know, to keep your grades intact. Thought it’d give you more time with her.”

Jamie nodded. “Thanks. She… she didn’t suffer. She just… stopped.”

They said nothing, letting his silence fill the air.

“Where are you headed now?” Billy finally asked.

Jamie exhaled heavily. “Back to the house. I have to tell Ben.”

Stacy’s face tensed. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He looked at her, eyes hollow. “He needs to know. And… maybe he can help. With the bills. The hospital’s on me for $110,000, or they’ll…” He trailed off, the doctor’s threat too grotesque to repeat.”

They didn’t argue. Stacy offered to drive. Her white Lexus sat under the covered parking lot, a sleek car she'd gotten for her nineteenth birthday from her father, Benard Reynold. Jamie had nothing to show for his birthdays except leftover cake, a sideways smile from the staff, and that insulting $500 transfer like he was being paid for existing.

The three of them rode in silence. Los Angeles glared with its usual contrast—opulence brushing shoulders with despair. And soon, they turned onto one of the most exclusive streets in Beverly Hills, lined with homes that looked more like embassies than residences. At the end of the cul-de-sac stood the Reynold Estate—a $25 million mansion, complete with its own vineyard, ten-car garage, and two fountains out front.

Ben’s fortune topped $400 million, built on his Hollywood freelancing empire, yet Jamie had never felt its warmth.

Jamie used to dream of living there fully, like a true son. But dreams, he’d learned, had expiration dates.

As they pulled up, the thump of music rattled the air. A party. Cars lined the driveway—Bentleys, Ferraris, Teslas—each screaming wealth. Jamie’s stomach churned. He stepped out, Billy and Stacy trailing, and pushed through the ornate double doors into a sea of laughter and champagne flutes.

Jamie frowned. “Is… is that a party?”

Stacy killed the engine. “He wouldn’t…”

Billy looked at Jamie. “You ready?”

“No,” Jamie muttered. “But let’s go.”

They walked past the imported rose gardens, around the back patio—and found over fifty guests, dressed in cocktail attire, drinking champagne and dancing by the Olympic-sized pool. Laughter floated into the air like confetti. Jamie felt like he’d just stepped into the wrong timeline.

Jamie wove through the crowd, heart pounding, until he reached the man who’d married his mother but never claimed her son. Benard Reynold—his stepfather—in the center of it all, a king in his court. Six-foot-two, silver hair slicked back, he wore a tailored suit that cost more than Jamie’s entire existence. Guests orbited him—producers, actors, moguls—Hollywood’s elite basking in his glow.

“Ben,” Jamie called out, trying to keep his voice steady. “Can I talk to you?”

Ben turned lazily. His face shifted the moment he saw Jamie—first surprise, then mock sadness.

Ben turned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. “What’s it now, boy?” His tone dripped with disdain, a familiar venom.

“It’s my mom,” Jamie said, heart pounding. “She’s gone. She passed this morning.”

For a brief moment, Ben put a hand to his chest. “Oh no…” he said dramatically.

The music stopped. The chatter died down. People turned to look at them.

“She’s really gone?” Ben asked.

Jamie nodded.

Then Ben threw his head back and laughed, a barking, brutal sound that shattered the silence. The crowd joined in, a chorus of mockery, glasses clinking in cruel celebration.

“Oh, thank Christ,” Ben roared, wiping a fake tear. He shoved Jamie aside, nearly knocking him into a waiter. “Listen up, everyone! The whore’s finally dead! Her bastard’s not my problem anymore!” He raised his glass, grinning wide. “To freedom!”

The sound hit Jamie like a slap to the soul. He blinked in disbelief. Stacy gasped. Billy froze.

People raised their drinks. Some chuckled awkwardly. Others looked confused.

Jamie stood there, rooted, breath stolen from his chest.

Stacy surged forward, face red. “Dad, what the hell? That’s my stepmom—Jamie’s mom! How can you—”

“Quiet, girl,” Ben snapped, waving her off like a fly. “This party’s for me. That witch is gone, and I’m free of her leeching spawn. Took long enough.”

He turned to the crowd again. “Ladies and gentlemen, this isn’t just a random soirée—this is my liberation party! No more Elizabeth. No more playing the loving husband. No more enduring that bitter wench! And most of all—” he looked directly at Jamie “—no more of her bastard bleeding me dry.”

The crowd murmured, unease settling over the festivities.

Jamie stood frozen, the words a blade through his ribs. He’d known Ben was cold—years of insults and servitude had taught him that—but this? A party to celebrate his mother’s death? The room spun, faces blurring into a gallery of sneers. He caught snippets—“bastard,” “gold-digger’s kid,” “good riddance”—each a dart sinking deeper.

Billy grabbed his arm, steadying him. “Jamie, are you okay?”

“Ben…” Jamie whispered, voice barely audible. “Why?”

“Why?” Ben snarled. “Because your mother was a leech who trapped me with a responsibility that was never mine. You? You were never mine. And now, you’re no longer my responsibility. You were a charity case I tolerated because she begged.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only Jamie could hear. “Your whole life was a favor. A disgusting reminder of a mistake.”

Ben married Elizabeth when Jamie was ten; he had just ended his previous marriage and needed a woman to help him with his children. Edward, the oldest, was 14; Nathan was 10 and a few months older than Jamie. Jonathan, the hothead, was 9. And Stacy, the lastborn, was just 7. Its been twelve years now. 

Jamie felt his hands clench into fists, his jaw lock tight. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something. But he knew better.

Instead, through trembling lips, he asked, “Then at least help me with the bills. Her hospital fees, the funeral. It’s over $100,000. They won’t even release her body if I don’t pay. The doctor said they’ll sell her body to organ harvesters if I don’t pay by tomorrow.”

Ben blinked, then smirked. “Let me help you out.”

He took out his phone and, in full view of everyone, dialed a number.

“Yes, is this Dr. Conrad? Yes. This is Ben Reynold. Listen, that body of Elizabeth Oman? Do what you want with it. I won’t be paying a cent. Let the vultures have it for all I care. Chop it up, sell it, I don’t care. This kid’s got nothing, and he’s getting nothing from me.” 

Jamie’s heart dropped.

Ben hung up and turned to him, his grin venomous. “There. Problem solved.”

Stacy stepped forward. “Dad—”

“Don’t. You’re not taking his side in this.”

She stared at him in horror. “You’re sick.”

Stacy had always had a soft spot for Jamie and his mother; she was unlike her father and   who saw them as a purge that needed to be done with.

“And you—” he pointed at Jamie “—get off my property. You’re done here. You’re not my son. You’re not even family. Go dig up the fool who knocked up your slut of a mother—maybe he’s got cash. Maybe he has a couch for you to sleep on.”

Tears burned Jamie’s eyes as he staggered outside, the laughter chasing him into the dusk. Stacy and Billy shouted after him, but he didn’t stop. His feet hit the gravel, then the road, running blind, sobs ripping through him. His mother—gone. Her body, a bargaining chip. Ben’s cruelty, a final boot on his neck. Everything he’d endured—the chores, the taunts, the $500 scraps—crystallized into this moment of utter ruin.

Stacy and Billy ran out of the house minutes later, searching, but Jamie was already gone.

He ran for blocks. His legs ached. His phone buzzed. He almost ignored it—until he saw the name.

“Mr. Dalton - Manager” 

The gruff manager at the nightclub where he slung plates and served drinks for minimum wage. Jamie barely pressed answer before the tirade hit.

“Jamie!” The voice on the other end barked. “Where the hell were you last night? Don’t tell me you flaked again!”

“I—my mom died. I was at the hospital.”

“You’ve been missing shifts, Jamie. This is not a charity. We’re short-staffed. You think grief exempts you from responsibility? Show up tonight, or don’t bother coming back. Got it?”

The line clicked off.

Jamie stood there, in the middle of a sidewalk, surrounded by luxury cars and empty wealth, heart shattered, life dismantled in one hellish morning.

No mother.

No family.

No home.

No money.

And now, no job.

He sat down on the curb and stared at the pavement, chest tight with a helpless ache.

His phone buzzed again—this time, a message from Stacy.

“Please tell me where you are. Don’t disappear. You’re not alone.”

Jamie didn't reply. He couldn't.

The world felt too loud, too cruel.

But beneath all the pain, somewhere deep in his chest, his mother’s words burned like a quiet ember.

You are not a nobody.

He didn’t understand what she meant.