STOLEN FORTUNE: THE RISE OF ETHAN BLACKWELL

Chapter 4: Claiming His Price

Ethan didn't sleep at all that night.

He lay on the thin blanket in the storage room, staring at the crack in the wall where he had hidden the lottery ticket. His heart hammered against his ribs with such force that he was certain the entire house could hear it. Every creak of the old mansion, every distant sound, made him jolt with paranoia.

What if someone found it? What if there was a leak in the wall and water damaged it? What if rats got to it?

The ticket. His ticket. $500,000,000 worth of paper, hidden in a crack in the wall like some worthless piece of trash.

But it wasn't worthless. It was everything. It was his life, his freedom, his future, his revenge.

The hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. Ethan counted the seconds, watched the faint light from under the door shift as people moved through the house. At some point past midnight, the mansion finally fell silent. The Orlando family had gone to bed, secure in their wealth and comfort, completely unaware that the man they treated worse than a dog was now richer than all of them combined.

Ethan's mind raced with plans. The lottery office opened at 9 AM on Saturdays. He needed to be there the moment it opened, needed to claim his prize before anything could go wrong. But how would he get there? The office was downtown, at least an hour away by bus. He had five dollars left. Was that enough for bus fare both ways?

More importantly, how would he escape the house without raising suspicion? The Orlando family would have tasks for him, as they did every day. If he simply disappeared, they would hunt him down. Rodriguez had friends in the police force. Mrs. Orlando had connections throughout the city. They would find him.

He needed an excuse. Something that would let him leave the house for several hours without anyone questioning it.

As the first grey light of dawn crept under the door, an idea formed. It was risky, but it might work.

At 6 AM, Ethan got up and went through his usual morning routine. Clean the bathroom. Start breakfast. Set the table. Move like a ghost through the house, invisible and obedient.

The family gathered for breakfast at 7:30. Mr. Orlando sat at the head of the table reading the morning newspaper. Mrs. Orlando sipped her tea. Rodriguez scrolled through his phone, smirking at something on the screen. Olivia was absent, still getting ready in her room.

Ethan served the food silently, his hands steady despite the storm raging inside him. He had to time this perfectly.

"Father," he said quietly as he poured Mr. Orlando's tea. "May I request permission to leave the house today?"

The newspaper rustled as Mr. Orlando lowered it. His eyebrows rose in surprise. In three years, Ethan had never asked to leave the house except when ordered to run errands.

"Leave? For what purpose?"

Ethan bowed his head, the picture of submission. "Rodriguez's dry cleaning. I need to find a way to earn the money to pay for it. I thought I could go to the labor market and find day work. Some construction sites pay cash for helpers."

It was a believable lie. The labor markets opened early on Saturday mornings, with contractors looking for cheap workers. It was the kind of degrading, backbreaking work that fit perfectly with Ethan's status in the family.

Mr. Orlando studied him over the rim of his teacup. "The labor market? You think you're fit enough for construction work? Look at you. You're skin and bones."

"I'll do whatever work they have. I need to get the money by Monday."

Mrs. Orlando snorted. "He'll probably collapse after an hour and come back crying. But let him go. Maybe hard labor will teach him to be more competent."

Rodriguez looked up from his phone, his eyes narrowing. "How much do they pay at the labor markets?"

"Usually fifty to eighty dollars for a day's work," Ethan answered. "Depending on the job."

"Hmm." Rodriguez leaned back in his chair. "Fine. You can go. But if you don't come back with at least sixty dollars by tonight, you're sleeping outside for a week. Understand?"

"Yes, young master. Thank you."

Ethan's relief was so intense it made him dizzy. They had believed him. He had his excuse.

"But before you go," Mr. Orlando said, folding his newspaper with deliberate precision, "you'll finish all your morning duties. I want this house spotless. If I find one speck of dust, one unwashed dish, you won't be going anywhere."

"Of course, Father."

The next two hours were torture. Ethan cleaned with frantic efficiency, his mind fixed on the clock. 9 AM. He needed to be at the lottery office at 9 AM. Every minute he spent scrubbing floors and washing windows was a minute wasted.

By 8:15, he had finished everything. He approached Mr. Orlando in the study, bowing low. "All duties are complete, Father. May I leave now?"

Mr. Orlando didn't even look up from his computer. "Go. And don't come back empty-handed."

Ethan rushed to the storage room. His hands shook as he pried the plaster away from the wall crack. For one heart-stopping moment, he couldn't find the ticket. His fingers scrabbled desperately in the gap, panic rising in his throat.

Then he felt it. The smooth paper. He pulled it out carefully, unfolding it with reverent hands.

03 - 17 - 23 - 31 - 42 - 08

The numbers stared back at him, more beautiful than any poetry, more precious than any jewel.

He folded it carefully and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket, the one with a zipper. Then he patted it twice, making sure it was secure. His entire future was in that pocket now.

Ethan left the mansion through the back door, his stride quick and purposeful. The morning air was cool and fresh, the sun just beginning to warm the streets. For the first time in three years, he felt something close to hope.

The bus stop was four blocks away. He checked his pocket again as he walked, then checked it again thirty seconds later. The paranoia was overwhelming. What if he got mugged? What if the ticket fell out? What if the wind snatched it away?

He walked with one hand pressed against his chest, feeling the outline of the ticket through the fabric.

At the bus stop, a handful of people waited. An elderly woman with a shopping bag. A teenager with headphones. A businessman in a suit checking his watch impatiently.

Normal people. People who had no idea that the shabby man in worn jeans and a threadbare jacket was carrying a winning lottery ticket worth half a billion dollars.

The bus arrived at 8:35. Ethan climbed aboard and fed four of his five remaining dollars into the fare machine. The ticket spat out, and he found a seat near the back, away from everyone else.

As the bus rumbled through the city streets, Ethan stared out the window and tried to control his breathing. This was real. This was happening. In less than thirty minutes, he would walk into that lottery office and claim his prize.

But doubt crept in, insidious and cold. What if they didn't believe him? What if there was some problem with the ticket? What if they said it was a forgery or damaged or invalid?

What if this was all just a cruel dream and he would wake up on the storage room floor with nothing changed?

No. He couldn't think like that. The ticket was real. The numbers matched. He had checked them a hundred times.

The bus seemed to hit every red light, stop at every station. Ethan watched the minutes tick by on his phone, anxiety building with each delay. 8:47. 8:52. 8:58.

Finally, at 9:03, the bus pulled up to the stop near the State Lottery Commission building. Ethan bolted from his seat and practically ran off the bus.

The building was a modern structure of glass and steel, imposing and official. A sign near the entrance read "Lottery Commission Winners Claim Center." A security guard stood by the door, looking bored.

Ethan's legs felt weak as he approached. This was it. The moment everything changed.

He pushed through the glass doors and entered a lobby that smelled of new carpet and air conditioning. A receptionist sat behind a curved desk, typing on her computer. She looked up as he approached, her professional smile faltering slightly as she took in his shabby appearance.

"Can I help you?" Her tone was polite but wary.

"I need to claim a winning ticket." Ethan's voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I won. Last night's Mega Fortune drawing."

The receptionist's expression shifted to barely concealed skepticism. She had probably seen a hundred desperate people claiming to have winning tickets, only to discover they had misread the numbers or were outright lying.

"Do you have your ticket with you?"

Ethan pulled out the precious slip of paper with trembling hands. "Here."

The receptionist took it, her eyes scanning the numbers. Then she typed something into her computer. Her fingers paused. She looked at the screen, then at the ticket, then back at the screen.

Her face went pale.

"Please wait here," she said, her voice suddenly tight. "I need to get my supervisor."

She stood and walked quickly toward a back office, the ticket still in her hand.

Ethan's heart stopped. What was happening? Why did she take the ticket? What if she didn't come back?