THE TRASH YOU MOCKED

3

The next day, Evan woke up feeling completely drained in the cramped, one-room apartment.

Sunlight poured heavily through the dusty window, casting long, harsh beams across the floor. A sharp knock on the door jolted him awake.

He groaned.

The night before, he had stayed up talking to Samson, recounting every painful detail about the Hilton family and had slept late.

The knock came again, louder this time.

Evan rubbed his eyes and looked around blearily. Samson was gone. Of course—he must have already left for work. He was a delivery boy; his mornings always started early.

Another knock. This time, faster and more persistent.

Evan gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling up. Who the hell was visiting this early?

He turned to check his phone.

The screen lit up.

10:07 AM.

His breath caught in his throat. His heart nearly stopped.

Shit.

He was late for work. Horribly late.

Mr. Caldwell will kill me.

The knocking intensified, now it sounded almost angry.

Angry, Evan scrambled to throw on a shirt and pull up his jeans. He cursed under his breath as he tripped over a pair of sneakers lying in the middle of the floor.

He stumbled toward the door, yanking it open.

As Evan opened the door, his face dropped.

He had expected one of Samson’s loud-mouthed friends, maybe someone coming to borrow something or make noise this early. But instead, standing there was a tall man in a black suit, spotless and tailored to perfection.

Behind him, a sleek black Rolls-Royce idled silently by the curb, the chrome rims gleaming in the sunlight.

Evan blinked.

The man looked expensive. From his polished shoes to the glint of a silver pin on his lapel, he oozed the kind of wealth Evan only saw on TV. For a second, he wondered if this guy had the wrong building. Or maybe he had some high-end business with Samson?

“Uh… Samson’s not around,” Evan said, already starting to close the door.

But the man calmly raised a gloved hand, stopping the door.

He smiled politely. “I’m not here for Samson,” he said. Then, with a slight bow, he added, “I’m here for you, Young Master.”

Evan stared at him.

There was a long beat of silence.

Then he burst out laughing.

Uncontrollable, body-shaking laughter.

He staggered back, holding his stomach as he leaned against the wall of the room, barely able to catch his breath.

“Young what?” Evan gasped between fits of laughter. “Bro, look around—does anything here scream ‘Young Master’ to you? You sure you didn’t hit your head on that fancy car of yours?”

Still, the man in the suit stood patiently, hands folded in front of him, unbothered by the mockery.

He waited with the stillness of someone trained to endure awkward moments with grace.

A full minute passed before Evan’s laughter finally died down. He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and glanced at the man again, expecting him to say it was some prank.

But the man was still there.

Still calm, waiting and smiling.

“May I come in?” the man asked politely.

Evan hesitated, then slowly stepped aside. “Uh… sure.”

The man walked in with quiet grace. He glanced around, taking in the sparsely furnished room, the peeling walls, the single mattress in the corner, and the scattered clothes. It was a life clearly stitched together with struggle.

He didn’t say a word about it. Instead, he walked over and calmly sat on the only chair in the room, crossing one leg over the other.

Evan closed the door behind them and moved to stand in front of the man.

“Look,” he began, “I think you’ve got the wrong guy. There’s a serious mix-up here. I’m not a ‘Young Master’ or anyone’s long-lost prince. I’m poor, like, poor to the bones poor. You get what I’m saying?”

The man only smiled.

“I’m not wrong,” he said smoothly. “You’re exactly who I’ve been sent to find.”

Evan’s brows furrowed. “Sent by who?”

“I’m the one who called you last night,” the man added.

Evan’s eyes widened instantly.

His heart began to pound.

The call.

The unknown number. The voice that spoke about a will and a grandfather he never knew.

It was real?

Panic welled up inside him. Was this a setup? Some elaborate scam? Or worse, was he about to be arrested?

“Okay, okay, hold on.” He stepped back slightly. “How did you find me? Who told you where I live?”

The man didn’t answer immediately. He reached into his coat pocket and said simply, “Forget about that for now.”

He pulled out a small, delicate silver locket and placed it gently on the table beside him. Then, from an inner compartment in his briefcase, he retrieved a faded photograph and handed it to Evan.

Evan stared at it.

The picture was old, slightly yellowed at the edges, but clear. A beautiful woman in her early twenties smiled softly at the camera. She had kind eyes. Eyes that looked… oddly familiar.

His fingers trembled as he took it.

“Who… who is this?” he asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

The man looked at him with surprising warmth.

“That is your biological mother,” he said. “Her name was Althea Sorrenson. She was the only child of Donovan Sorrenson—the late business tycoon who vanished from public life nearly three decades ago.”

Evan’s breath caught.

He looked again at the photograph.

His mind was spinning. Everything the man had said up until now felt like something pulled from a movie script.

“My parents are dead,” Evan finally said, his voice hollow. “They died in a fire when I was little. That’s all I’ve ever known.”

The man chuckled softly, not with mockery, but with the patience of someone who expected disbelief.

“Those were your foster parents,” he said gently. “ You might not understand now but you'll understand later.”

Evan’s eyes darted back to the photo, then the locket.

" It took us long to find you and I'm glad we did."

His heartbeat went faster at every word the man dropped.

After a short silence. He took his eyes from the photograph and looked at the man

“Then… who am I?”

The man leaned forward.

“Your real name,” he said, “is Evan Lancaster.”

Evan blinked.

The name didn’t register at first. It sounded foreign, disconnected, like it belonged to someone else.

The man continued, “You are the only living heir of Jonathan Lancaster—founder and majority owner of Lancaster Holdings.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“A company worth approximately 1.4 trillion dollars.”

The room seemed to tilt.

Evan staggered back a step and gripped the edge of the wall for balance. For a moment, he thought he might be sick.

1.4 trillion?

He couldn’t even wrap his head around a million, let alone trillion.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s… that’s not possible. That kind of money doesn’t just land in the lap of someone like me.”

The man’s expression softened, almost empathetic.

“And yet it has.”

Evan looked down at the photograph again.

The man leaned forward “You come from a powerful bloodline, Evan. And there are people who would rather you never learned that.”