The Discarded Heir's Ultimate Revenge

The front door of the Morrison mansion slammed behind Ethan Morrison with a finality that echoed through the marble foyer. He'd been away for three days—three days handling his mother's final affairs, sorting through her belongings, trying to make sense of a world that no longer included her warmth.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

Ethan loosened his tie as he climbed the grand staircase, each step heavier than the last. He needed to see Vanessa. His fiancée had been distant lately, but he'd attributed it to grief—she'd known his mother well, after all. Perhaps they could comfort each other tonight.

He reached the second floor and turned toward the guest wing, intending to freshen up before finding her. But a sound stopped him cold. Laughter—feminine and familiar—drifting from behind a half-open door.

His half-brother's room.

Ethan's hand trembled as he pushed the door wider.

The scene before him shattered three years of his life in an instant. Vanessa lay tangled in silk sheets, her auburn hair spilling across Derek's bare chest. Derek—his father's bastard son, brought into the family just three months ago—wore a satisfied smirk that made Ethan's stomach turn.

"Vanessa?" The word came out strangled, broken.

She turned her head slowly, her ice-blue eyes meeting his without a trace of shame or surprise. "Ethan. You're back early."

"Early?" He couldn't breathe. The room spun. "What... what is this?"

Derek propped himself up on one elbow, his smirk widening into something cruel. "Oh, come on, brother. Don't act so shocked. You couldn't have been that naive."

Vanessa slid from the bed with languid grace, pulling on Derek's shirt without bothering to button it. Her movements were casual, indifferent, as if she hadn't just destroyed everything Ethan believed in.

"But you said—" Ethan's voice cracked. "You told me you weren't ready. That you were... that you needed time."

"Frigid?" Vanessa supplied, her lips curling into a cold smile. "Yes, I did say that, didn't I?"

"For three years, Vanessa! Three years you pushed me away!"

"And you believed it." She examined her nails, bored. "Honestly, Ethan, that's on you."

Derek laughed—a harsh, grating sound. "God, look at him. He actually thought she loved him. How pathetic."

"Shut up, Derek." Ethan's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to lunge forward, to wipe that smirk off his half-brother's face, but his legs wouldn't move. "Vanessa, please. Tell me this isn't... tell me there's an explanation."

She stepped closer, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—Ethan hoped. Hoped she'd tell him it was a mistake, that Derek had forced her, anything but the truth he could see crystallizing in her cold expression.

"An explanation?" she repeated softly. "Fine. I'll give you one. I never wanted you, Ethan. I wanted the Morrison name. The wealth. The connections. And frankly, I don't care which Morrison brother gives me that."

The words hit like physical blows.

"You... you're lying."

"Am I?" Vanessa tilted her head, studying him like a specimen under glass. "Think about it. Your mother just died. Your father's been parading his mistress—sorry, his wife now—around for months. Where does that leave you in the family hierarchy?"

"What are you talking about?"

Derek swung his legs off the bed, stretching lazily. "She's talking about the fact that you're yesterday's news, brother. Dad's made it pretty clear who his real heir is, and spoiler alert—it's not the son who reminds him of his dead first wife."

"Father would never—"

"Father already has," Vanessa interrupted, her voice sharp as ice. "Wake up, Ethan. Three months ago, you were the Morrison heir. Now? You're just the inconvenient reminder of a marriage he'd rather forget."

"I loved you," Ethan whispered.

"How tedious." Vanessa turned away, moving back toward Derek. "Love doesn't pay for penthouses or designer clothes, does it? Marrying you now would be like buying stock in a failing company. Derek, on the other hand..." She trailed her fingers along Derek's shoulder. "He's going places."

"You're disgusting," Ethan spat. "Both of you."

"And you're a fool." Derek stood, crossing to a dresser and pulling out fresh clothes. "A blind, pathetic fool who couldn't see what was right in front of him. No wonder Dad's ashamed of you."

"What did you say?"

"Oh, did I stutter? Let me speak slower for you." Derek's voice dripped with mockery. "Dad. Is. Ashamed. Of. You. Always has been, really, but at least when your mother was alive, he had to pretend. Now?" He shrugged. "Now he doesn't have to pretend anymore."

The door burst open behind Ethan. Richard Morrison stood in the doorway, his face carved from granite, his second wife—Celeste—hovering at his shoulder with barely concealed satisfaction.

"So the rumors were true," Richard said coldly.

"Father, I—" Ethan began.

"Save it." Richard's voice could have frozen hell itself. "I've heard enough. Vanessa, I assume you no longer wish to maintain this engagement?"

"You assume correctly, Mr. Morrison." She didn't even look at Ethan.

"Then consider it dissolved." Richard pulled an envelope from his jacket. "Ethan, this is a notice from the family attorney. Your access to Morrison accounts is revoked effective immediately. Your key to this house will be surrendered."

"What? Father, you can't—"

"I can't?" Richard's eyebrow arched. "I can't protect this family from embarrassment? The Kidman family has just agreed to a historic partnership with Morrison Holdings. Do you have any idea how delicate that negotiation was? How easily it could fall apart?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"Everything!" Richard's composure cracked, showing the rage beneath. "You're an embarrassment, Ethan. Ill-bred. Weak. You let your own fiancée slip through your fingers like sand. The Kidmans expect excellence, and I will not let your incompetence ruin this deal."

"Ill-bred?" Ethan's voice rose. "I'm your son!"

"You're your mother's son," Richard corrected icily. "And she's gone. There's no reason to keep pretending you belong here."

Celeste stepped forward, placing a manicured hand on Richard's arm. "Perhaps we should call security, darling. Make sure he leaves quietly."

"Get out," Richard said. "Get out of my house. Don't come back."

"Father, please—"

"NOW!"

Ethan stumbled backward, his world collapsing around him. He looked at Vanessa one last time, hoping for something—anything—that might redeem this nightmare.

She was kissing Derek.

He ran.

The front door, the driveway, the gates—all blurred together as Ethan fled the only home he'd ever known. His vision swam with unshed tears, his chest tight with a pain that felt physical, visceral.

He walked for hours, not knowing where he was going, not caring. The sun set. The streets grew darker. Still he walked, a ghost drifting through a city that suddenly felt foreign.

A car horn jolted him from his stupor. Ethan looked up to find a sleek black luxury sedan idling beside him. The rear window lowered, revealing an elderly man with silver hair and sharp, intelligent eyes.

"Ethan Morrison?" the man asked, his voice trembling with what sounded like excitement—or emotion.

"Who's asking?"

The old man's eyes glistened. "I've been searching for you for thirty years." He opened the car door, stepping onto the sidewalk with surprising agility for his age. "I'm Vincent Kidman. And you, my boy..." His voice broke. "You're my grandson."