The Forgotten Heir

The Vance Gala

The Grand Ballroom of the city’s most exclusive hotel glittered under the weight of a thousand chandeliers.

This was the pinnacle of society—a dazzling charity gala meant to impress high-profile investors and solidify the Shaw family’s financial footing.

Elias Vance was present, but he wasn’t a guest.

Victoria hadn't failed to perfectly plan for him to get humiliated in the social gathering. As usual.

While Seraphina wore a gown that shimmered with the value of a small piece of gold, Elias was dressed in a demoralizing, black waiter’s uniform.

“You want to serve this family, Elias? Then you’ll serve at the gala,” Victoria had announced, her eyes glittering with malicious glee. “Stay out of everyone's way. Keep your mouth shut. Don’t look anyone in the eye. You are wallpaper, understood?”

Elias stood near the kitchen entrance, feeling the heavy, starched collar of the uniform choke him. He watched the spectacle—the polished faces, the glittering jewelry, the toxic mixture of wealth and vanity.

Everything seemed so fake. As expected from rich people.

As he moved through the crowd, clearing a stray wine glass, he could practically hear the whispers.

“Is that the Shaw son-in-law? The one they lock in the basement?”

“The amnesiac? He looks handsome, but absolutely useless. What a shame for Seraphina.”

“They dressed him like a servant? Victoria has absolutely no class.”

The mockery didn't look like it would stop any minute, but Elias endured it all, his eyes constantly tracking Seraphina.

She was trying too hard, forcing a bright, brittle smile onto her tired face as she tried to hold conversations with every business associate that came her way.

Just when the party was going just fine, something inevitable happened.

Sera was backed into a corner near an enormous ice sculpture, cornered by Marcus Thorne, a sleazy, aging real estate magnate with a notorious reputation and a smile like a crocodile.

Thorne, clearly emboldened by the alcohol and the public setting, was too close, his hand hovering near Sera's bare shoulder.

“Come now, Seraphina,” Thorne purred, his voice loud enough to be heard by the people around them. “Your mother’s fortunes are slipping. You need capital. I need… companionship. You scratch my back, and I’ll put five million into your next project. It’s a very simple trade.”

Sera’s smile tightened as she tried to swallow down the fury tugging at her. “Mr. Thorne, I appreciate the offer, but I don’t conduct business this way. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

He cut her off, his grasp tightening on her wrist. “Don’t be shy, sweet thing. Your husband isn’t even here, is he? Just some dumbo your mother married you off to. You’re free game, and everyone knows it.”

That was the breaking point. Elias felt a sudden, cold surge of protective rage—an emotion so fierce, it felt like an electric shock.

The shame of the waiter uniform, the years of ridicule, the humiliation the Shaw family had inflicted—it all dissolved into a single, blinding focus: protect his wife.

He moved with a silent grace that was completely alien to the clumsy, amnesiac Elias.

He was suddenly standing directly behind Seraphina, his presence acting as an immediate, chilling force field. He placed his left hand, the uninjured one, on her opposite shoulder, pulling her gently but firmly against his chest.

Elias looked Thorne directly in the eye. The servile mask was gone, replaced by a gaze so icy and authoritative that it felt like a physical threat.

"The lady has asked you to step away, Thorne," Elias said, using the man’s name with the ease of a superior officer. His voice was low and carried an undeniable echo of command.

The man looked like he wouldn't hesitate to land a punch on Thorne’s face if one silly word fell out his mouth again.

Thorne’s lecherous smile faltered. He looked at Elias’s waiter uniform, then into his eyes, and the overall disconnect momentarily stunned him.

“Who the devil are you?” Thorne stammered.

Elias tightened his grip on Sera’s shoulder, making his statement loud enough to be heard by the three tables surrounding them.

“I am Elias Vance. And this,” he emphasized, his voice cutting through the nearby conversations, “is my wife, Seraphina Vance. She is not here to be harassed, and she is certainly not available for your companionship. You will retract your offer, apologize, and step the hell away now.”

The entire corner of the ballroom went silent. Guests paused, wine glasses suspended. The “useless son-in-law” had not only spoken, he had delivered a public, withering humiliation to a powerful man.

Where had the audacity come from?

Seraphina was utterly stunned. The warmth of Elias’s body against hers, the unexpected fierceness of his defense—it sent a complicated mix of relief, shock, and alarm through her.

She quickly grabbed his arm and dragged him away, pulling him toward a secluded terrace door.

“Elias! What were you thinking?!” Sera hissed, her face flushed with a mixture of anger at Thorne and utter panic at Elias’s reckless display. “Mother will kill you! You can’t talk to a prospective investor like that! You were supposed to be invisible!”

Elias watched Thorne retreat, sputtering apologies to a nearby waiter. The earlier authority he'd displayed earlier, died, replaced by a flicker of exhaustion.

“He was touching you, Sera,” Elias said simply, the concern in his eyes overriding the fear of consequence. “I am your husband. I am not some stupid wallpaper.”

Just then, Victoria rounded the corner, her face a mirror of the fury she felt. She had witnessed the whole scene.

“You stupid imbecile! You ruined it! You cost us five million dollars in capital! You pathetic, insolent—"

“Mother, not here,” Sera intervened, putting herself between Victoria and Elias. “Let’s deal with this later.”

Victoria looked at Elias, her eyes blazing with bitterness. "Later, you will pay for this," she mouthed, before spinning on her heel to salvage her reputation among the appalled guests.

Sera led Elias out onto the dark, secluded terrace. The air was cool and soothing unlike the suffocating ballroom.

Elias leaned against the stone balustrade, closing his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. The way he'd reacted earlier took its toll on him. He wasn't used to speaking like that so it was mentally draining. He felt weak, his head throbbing with the aftershocks of the rage.

He opened his eyes and saw a man approaching, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. The tuxedo was immaculate, the bow tie perfectly adjusted.

It was Dr. Rhys, still in disguise as a waiter.

Rhys paused, offering a faint smile, his eyes meeting Elias’s for a split second.

Wait! Elias’s mind screamed. He was at the market! He called me—

A paralyzing wave of déjà-vu crashed over him. His knees buckled. He gripped the cold stone of the balustrade to keep from falling.

Rhys’s eyes flickered, recognizing the physiological reaction and then he walked past him, disappearing into the shadows.

Elias was left shaking, the image of Rhys's face searing itself onto his brain.

For how long was he supposed to endure this pain? Couldn't somebody just explain what the hell is happening once and for all?

Everything was draining.

Just as Elias straightened, the atmosphere in the ballroom changed again. A hush fell, followed by a sudden, respectful round of applause.

A voice, booming with excitement, came from the sound system: “We interrupt this evening to bring you a live broadcast from New York City! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the CEO of the Vance Conglomerate, Dorian Croft!”

A massive screen unfurled above the dance floor, and the face of Elias’s cousin—impeccably tailored, handsome, and radiating triumphant confidence—filled the room. Dorian was announcing a massive new tech venture.

Elias’s head snapped toward the screen.

The sight of Dorian’s smug face—the face he had forgotten for six months—was the ultimate, catastrophic trigger.

The headache returned, not as a throb, but as a white-hot explosion. Blood instantly trickled from his nose, splattering onto the white handkerchief in his pocket.

The amnesia shattered.

A relentless torrent of memory flooded his consciousness:

The luxury yacht. The storm. Dorian smiling, obviously excited as he anticipated whatever was to come after this.

“You should have let me lead, Elias! You were always too soft!”

The fight on the deck. The gunshot. The fire that engulfed the bridge.

Falling... falling into the black, churning water.

The memories were no longer fragments. They were vivid.

They were the truth. His truth.

And his name wasn't just Vance. He was the former head of the largest conglomerate in the world. He hadn't been an amnesiac tramp found by chance. He had been murdered by his own cousin.

He was supposed to be dead.

Elias gasped, gripping the balustrade so hard the wound in his bandaged hand burst back open. He looked at Dorian’s laughing face on the screen, then at his own trembling hands, dressed in the uniform of a slave.

It all suddenly made sense. He finally understood. And right there, he made a vow to himself.

I am not useless. I am displaced. And Dorian will pay for this betrayal.