THE TRILLIONAIRE'S WRATH: RISE OF THE FALLEN SON-IN-LAW

CHAPTER 003: The Pauper Returns

The iron gates of the Hastings estate were different. They were gold-tipped now, taller and sharper, designed to keep the world away. Thiago stood before them, his breath hitching as he looked at the house he had once paid for with his own blood and sweat.

He wasn't wearing the charcoal suit Stephen had prepared. He had changed back into his prison release clothes—the thin, gray hoodie and the scuffed boots. He looked like a ghost that had crawled out of a shallow grave.

Just one person, he thought, his hand hovering over the intercom. If just one of them looks at me with an ounce of regret, maybe I won't burn it all. Maybe I’ll leave them a crumb of mercy.

He pushed the button.

"State your business. We don't take solicitors," a sharp, familiar voice crackled through the speaker. It was Susan, his mother-in-law.

"It’s Thiago," he said simply.

Silence. Then, a burst of high-pitched laughter. "Thiago? The convict? You’ve got some nerve showing your face here. The trash pickup isn't until Thursday. Get lost before I call the real police."

The gate hummed and clicked open. Not because she wanted him in, but because a delivery truck was heading out. Thiago slipped through the gap before the heavy bars could swing shut.

The driveway was lined with luxury cars—Lamborghinis, Ferraris, and a custom Rolls Royce. The Hastings weren't just doing well; they were flaunting the wealth they had stolen from his family’s ruins.

As he approached the side entrance near the gardens, he saw a figure kneeling by the rosebushes. She was wearing a drab, oversized gray uniform, scrubbing the stone path with a hand brush.

Thiago’s heart stopped. "Tamia?"

The girl flinched, her shoulders hunching up to her ears. She didn't look up. "I’m sorry! I’m scrubbing as fast as I can! Please don't tell Miss Bernadette, I’ll finish the path before sunset!"

"Tamia, look at me," Thiago said, his voice trembling. He walked toward her, reaching out a hand. "It’s me. It’s your brother."

The girl froze. She slowly raised her head. Her face was thin, her eyes sunken and clouded with a strange, glazed look. When she saw him, she didn't scream with joy. She didn't run into his arms.

She scrambled backward, her hands scraping against the gravel. "No! No, stay away from me!"

"Tamia, it’s Thiago. I’m out. I’m here to take you home," he pleaded, taking another step.

"I don't have a brother!" she shrieked, her voice filled with a visceral, jagged hatred. "My brother was a good man! You’re a monster! You killed that man! You tried to kill Mr. Henry! You’re a murderer!"

Thiago felt like he had been punched in the throat. "Who told you that? Tamia, listen to me. They framed me. They lied to you."

"Liars!" she yelled, tears streaming down her face. "Miss Bernadette told me everything! She showed me the papers! She saved me from the streets while you were rotting in a cell for your crimes! You’re a disgraceful murderer! I wish you had died in prison!"

Thiago stood frozen. They didn't just take her freedom, he realized, his eyes darkening. They took her mind. They turned the only person I loved into my fiercest enemy.

"Is there a problem out here?"

The front doors of the mansion swung open. Bernadette stepped out onto the marble veranda. She looked like a queen, wearing a silk robe that flowed behind her like liquid silver. She held a glass of vintage wine in one hand, her diamonds blinding in the afternoon sun.

"Tamia, go to the kitchen," Bernadette said, her voice smooth and cold. "You’ve missed a spot on the floor. If it isn't spotless, you don't eat tonight."

"Yes, Miss Bernadette! I’m sorry!" Tamia scrambled to her feet, cast one last look of pure loathing at Thiago, and ran inside.

Thiago watched her go, his hands curling into fists so tight his nails drew blood. "What did you do to her, Bernadette?"

"I gave her a purpose," Bernadette said, walking down the steps with effortless grace. She stopped a few feet away, wrinkling her nose. "God, you still smell like bleach and failure. Did you really think you could just walk back in here? Look at this place. Look at me. Do you really think you belong in my world?"

"I built this world," Thiago growled. "Every brick. Every cent."

"And I took it," she countered, sipping her wine. "Because you were too weak to keep it. You were always just a footstool, Thiago. A means to an end."

Thiago stepped closer, his shadow looming over her. "Where is my mother, Bernadette? I went to the hospital. They said she was moved. Where is she?"

Bernadette tilted her head, a mock pout on her lips. "Oh, Thiago. Always so behind on the news. Your mother? She’s exactly where she deserves to be. Six feet under."

The world seemed to tilt. "What?"

"She died three years ago," Bernadette said, her tone as casual as if she were talking about the weather. "The state stopped paying for her machines, and well… I certainly wasn't going to waste Henry’s money on a vegetable. There wasn't even a funeral. I think they put her in a potter’s field. Or maybe they donated her to science. Who knows?"

Thiago felt a cold, dead weight settle in his stomach. The last flicker of the man he used to be—the man who hoped for a reason to be merciful—extinguished.

"You killed her," he whispered.

"Nature killed her. I just stopped fighting nature," Bernadette laughed. She stepped forward, tapping her glass against his chest. "Don't look so tragic. You should be happy for me. Tomorrow is a big day. I’m finally marrying Henry. Officially. No more 'janitor's wife' jokes for me."

She leaned in, her breath smelling of expensive grapes and malice.

"You’re too late, Thiago. You have no mother, your sister hates the sight of you, and by tomorrow, I’ll be the most powerful woman in this city. You’re just a ghost in rags. Now, get off my property before I have the guards beat you back to the gutter."

She turned and walked back toward the house, her laughter echoing against the stone.

Thiago stood in the driveway, the wind whipping his thin hoodie. He didn't look at the house anymore. He looked at the ring on his pinky.

You were right, Radcliffe, he thought. They don't need a brother. They don't need a husband. They need a cataclysm.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. "Stephen? Start the liquidation of the Hastings' logistics branch. And that wedding tomorrow? I want to be the guest of honor."