THE FORGOTTEN HEIR

Rain lashed the rooftop like a warning from the heavens. Derek Blackwood stood outside the emergency room, soaked to the skin, the cold doing little to numb the fire raging in his chest. Inside, a life was hanging in the balance—his foster father’s. The only man who had given him a semblance of family after years of being tossed from home to home like trash.

“Family only,” the nurse had said, barring his way. Family.

He clenched his fists. What a joke.

Behind him, a familiar voice sliced through the storm. “You should be used to rejection by now, Derek.”

He didn’t need to turn. That icy tone belonged to her—Tahlia. His wife.

Or the woman who once wore that title.

She stepped under the hospital awning, perfectly dry in her tailored coat, makeup flawless, eyes cold as glass. Her mother was right beside her, clinging to a crocodile-leather purse and moral superiority.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” Tahlia added, eyeing him like something that crawled out of the drain. “But I suppose even roaches show up for scraps.”

Derek said nothing. His silence was all he had left. Words had long since lost their power in his crumbling marriage.

“He’s not your father,” her mother snapped. “You were nothing but a charity case. If not for our family, you’d still be a filthy street boy.”

His jaw clenched. He’d learned not to answer women like her. The kind who smiled sweetly in public but spat venom behind closed doors. The kind who had slowly eroded the love between him and Tahlia until there was nothing left but duty—and disgust.

Tahlia’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it and smiled. “We’re done here. I’m heading to the gala with Cade. He actually belongs in high society. Unlike you.”

Cade. The celebrity she now flaunted like a trophy. The final nail in the coffin of their marriage.

“Your father’s dying,” Derek said quietly. “And you’re going to a party.”

“My real father, Derek. Not yours. Remember your place.”

She brushed past him with her mother, heels clicking on the polished floor, perfume lingering like poison.

He stood alone, throat tight. The nurse emerged, avoiding his eyes. “I’m sorry. Mr. Hawthorne didn’t make it.”

Just like that. The last good man in his life—gone.

Derek staggered back into the rain, rage and grief rising like bile. No inheritance. No family. No love. Just loss.

Until the black car pulled up.

He didn’t recognize the license plate, but the man who stepped out—tall, older, dressed in a charcoal suit and holding a briefcase—looked like something out of a corporate thriller.

“Mr. Blackwood?” the man asked.

Derek nodded warily.

“My name is Alaric Voss. I represent the Dawson Estate.”

Derek’s breath hitched.

“The what?”

The man smiled. “Your real name, Mr. Blackwood, is Derek Dawson. And your grandfather, Edwin Dawson, passed away last night. You’re the sole heir.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I have orders to take you to the family estate immediately,” Alaric said, handing him a sealed envelope with the Dawson family crest. “Everything will make sense once you see the will.”

Derek opened the envelope with trembling hands. The letter inside was handwritten, the signature at the bottom unmistakable:

Edwin Dawson, Founder & CEO, Dawson Conglomerate.

Blood roared in his ears. He was heir to one of the most powerful families in the world?

The nurse, the rejection, Tahlia’s insults—all of it blurred into silence as something in him shifted. This wasn’t some twisted joke. It was real. And if it was real…

Then the game had just changed.

For everyone.