The Heir Behind Bars

Chapter Four

Nathan stood still in the hallway. Above him, the chandelier’s golden light shone on his dirty shirt and cast broken shadows on the marble walls, like the cracks he felt inside.

Behind him, he could hear laughter and the gentle clinking of glasses coming from the dining room — a warmth that didn’t belong to him. But Cassandra’s quiet “Good boy” still dug into him like a knife that hadn’t finished cutting.

He looked down at his thumb, pressing it against the fresh cut on his finger. The pain helped him stay calm. Prison had taught him how to hide pain, to bury it deep inside. But tonight, the Hayes family had ripped it open again, showing his wounds among their fancy plates and shiny floors.

He walked down the hall, his boots hitting the marble floor loud as distant gunshots. The portraits on the walls seemed to glare at him — ancestors in fancy gold frames, their cold eyes saying: You don’t belong here.

At the end of the hall, he opened the door to the maid’s room. The hinges squeaked like they hadn’t been oiled in ages. Inside, the small room was plain, just a narrow bed against a wall with peeling paint, a crooked old dresser, and a single light bulb buzzing above like a prison guard’s flashlight.

The air smelled of bleach and old soap. Nathan dropped his bag on the bed and knelt down. He struggled with the zipper until it opened. Under his spare clothes, hidden deep, was an old, worn leather journal.

He ran his thumb along the frayed spine. It caught on the scar at his wrist — a crooked line earned in Riverpoint’s back alleys where broken bottles and betrayal were cheaper than loyalty.

He flipped the book open. Names, scribbled debts, half-legible promises — a record of the street family that once made him more than a stray. Danny’s laugh, the smuggler’s cold breath, the rain dripping from rusted fire escapes — it all bled up from the ink.

A memory rose, sharp as glass. “Nate,” Danny had rasped once, huddled under a tarp in a freezing alley. “You’re the only one don’t run. Ain’t like the rest of us.”

Nathan clenched the journal shut so hard his knuckles whitened. Danny was gone now. And the Hayes had scooped him up like a trophy lost and found — then buried him all over again to keep their golden son’s hands clean.

He clenched his jaw. Five years locked up. Five years spent protecting Liam’s clean record. Keeping the family’s good name untouched.

A sudden knock broke the silence. Nathan stuffed the journal back into his bag, his heart pounding. He stood up just as the door opened.

Aunt Marjorie hovered in the doorway, her perfume leaking in ahead of her — sharp, cloying. Pearls at her throat glimmered like teeth.

“So this is the nest you’ve made for yourself,” she said, voice a polite dagger. Her eyes swept the cracked walls, the sagging cot. “A fitting corner for a stray.”

Nathan said nothing. The silence made her smile tighten.

“When you’re gone, we’ll bleach every inch. Can’t risk the filth clinging to the curtains.” She stepped back into the hall but paused, face tilting just so. “Your father wants you in the study. Do try not to drag your prison stink through the good carpet.”

Her heels tapped away. Nathan stood still, his chest tight. Then he grabbed the bag, shoved it under the cot, and wiped his palms on his shirt. The hallway outside seemed longer than before — a tunnel lined with walls that whispered traitor, mistake, orphan.

At the double doors of the study, he paused. The Hayes crest carved in oak — a lion’s head, claws bared. A lie carved in wood.

He pushed inside.

Mr. Hayes sat behind a huge desk, big enough to hide secrets. He held a thick cigar that burned slowly between his fingers. Smoke curled up to the fancy ceiling like lazy ghosts.

Next to him, Liam sat slouched in his chair with one leg crossed over his knee. His tie was loose, and he rested a glass of whiskey on his leg. Cassandra stood by the window in a light-colored dress that looked soft in the lamp’s glow. Her eyes were sharp and watchful in the parts the light touched.

“Sit.” The old man didn’t look up from his papers.

Nathan sank into the stiff leather chair, his fingers curling around its arms. It smelled like old smoke and polished wood — power and rot.

Liam smirked. He raised his glass like a toast. “So how’s prison life treating the prince now? Floors scrubbed yet?”

Nathan didn’t bother replying. His eyes cut to Mr. Hayes instead. “What do you want?”

A folder slid across the mahogany. The edges brushed Nathan’s fingertips.

Mr. Hayes’ eyes lifted. Cold, flat, final. “Your inheritance. Sign it over to Liam. You’re a liability. The Sterlings want this family clean.”

Nathan’s heart thumped hard in his chest. His birthright — could be erased with just one signature.

“And if I don’t?” His voice came out rough, unshaken.

Liam leaned forward, breath soured by cheap whiskey. “You don’t, you’re back in the gutter where they dragged you out. Think the rats you left behind will welcome you back? Or did you forget who paid your bail in fists?”

Cassandra moved behind him, her perfume coiling around his shoulders. Fingertips ghosted the back of his neck — soft threat, softer lie.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” she murmured. “Sign it. Smile for the Sterlings. Keep your dirty little cot.”

Nathan’s mind flicked to the journal under the bed. Names that once meant a roof, a meal, fists raised beside his. His voice when no one else had one.

Mr. Hayes ground the cigar out, the final twist of embers loud in the hush. “Tomorrow morning. Don’t test me, boy.”

Liam leaned close enough for Nathan to smell the sweat under his cologne. “You sign, you crawl. Or you run. And we bury you for good this time.”

Nathan stood. The folder stayed untouched on the desk.

As he turned for the door, Cassandra’s voice followed — sugar and poison. “Sleep tight, Nathan.”

Back in the maid’s room, he sat on the small bed, breathing hard. He pulled his duffel bag closer and took out the journal. A wrinkled piece of paper fell out — it was a job flyer.

Construction crew needed. No questions asked. At the bottom, there was a note from an old prison friend: Call Joe. He owes you.

Nathan pressed his thumb over the phone number until the ink smeared. Maybe this was his way out. Or a new start.