The Heir Behind Bars

Chapter Six

Nathan stumbled back into the maid’s room, the door creaking shut behind him like a prison gate slamming closed. 

Liam’s lie, that Nathan was a drug dealer, spun just to win favor with the family, burned in his chest. It stung more than any scar on his wrist. The words rang in his ears like a cruel chant: Menace, thief, convict.

He sank onto the narrow cot, its springs groaning beneath him, and buried his face in his hands. The betrayal wasn’t new, but now it felt heavier, like a stone lodged in his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

He stared up at the ceiling where a noose-shaped stain mocked him in the dim flicker of the overhead bulb. Five years behind bars, carrying the weight of Liam’s crime, and now this. A lie so bold it had rewritten his name in the Hayes family’s records.

His fingers twitched, aching to reach for the old journal hidden beneath the bed. Inside were names and debts, fragments of a past street life that used to give him purpose. But he didn’t reach for it. Not yet. Instead, he closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, grounding himself against the fury rising inside him.

The next morning, the estate’s garage buzzed with a strange energy. The space, usually silent, a shrine to vintage cars and polished chrome, had been turned into a makeshift boardroom. A long table stretched across the concrete floor, surrounded by men in suits, their cufflinks flashing under fluorescent lights.

The air smelled like wax and wealth, with a faint edge of motor oil beneath it. Nathan stood just inside the door, summoned like a servant. His boots were still dusted with grime from yesterday’s construction shift.

Mr. Hayes sat at the head of the table, stiff and cold as the steel beams Nathan had carried the day before. Liam lounged nearby, his tie loose, sipping bourbon though it was barely past breakfast. The investors, sleek, shark-like men, talked quietly over stacks of contracts and projected profits.

Cassandra stood near the back. Her cream-colored blazer looked untouched by the grime of the garage. Her eyes moved across the room with the sharpness of a hawk scanning for weakness.

“Nathan,” Liam called out suddenly, his voice slicing through the low murmur. “Don’t just stand there like a stray. Be useful.”

He motioned toward a bucket and rag by the workbench. Grease stains marked the floor like spilled secrets. “Clean that up. Let’s show our guests what our convict janitor is good for.”

Laughter broke out among the investors. Their polished smiles gleamed against Nathan’s oil-streaked shirt. Nathan didn’t move at first. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing. He simply stepped forward, grabbed the bucket, the handle biting into his skin, and knelt by the stains.

As he began scrubbing, Liam’s voice rose again for everyone to hear.

“Look at him,” Liam said, leaning back with a smug grin. “Scrubbing’s all he’s good at. Right, brother?”

The laughter returned, sharper now, hollow and cruel. Nathan’s face burned, but he didn’t look up. He moved faster, forcing the rag across the stained concrete, blocking out the eyes watching him, those of Mr. Hayes, Cassandra, and the rest.

Then Mr. Hayes spoke, his voice low and heavy. “Nathan, sign those papers by tomorrow, or you’re out of this family for good. No more second chances.”

Cassandra stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply. “Filthy hands don’t belong at our table,” she said, her tone sweet but dripping with venom.

She crouched slightly beside him, inspecting the floor like a critic. “Though you’re getting better at this, aren’t you?”

Nathan looked up briefly and caught something strange in her eyes, uncertainty, maybe, or guilt. But it vanished quickly, replaced by her usual cold, unreadable smile. He said nothing. He just scrubbed harder, the rag fraying under his fingers.

As he shifted toward the far end of the garage, his hand brushed against an old toolbox. Its lid was cracked open slightly. Something inside caught his eye, a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age, wedged deep into a corner.

Nathan glanced around. No one was looking. He slid it into his pocket.

Later, alone by the workbench, he unfolded the paper. The handwriting was sharp, formal, and damning.

“Liam’s lie must stand. The boy’s claim would ruin us. No scandal can touch this family.”

At the bottom was Mr. Hayes’ signature.

Nathan’s heart pounded. His father knew. He had always known Liam was lying. Nathan had gone to prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and the man who was supposed to protect him had chosen silence, chosen Liam, to preserve their legacy.

The paper shook in his hands.

He didn’t hesitate. He marched toward the table, the letter clenched tightly like a weapon. “You need to see this,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady.

The room fell silent. Mr. Hayes narrowed his eyes.

Before he could say a word, Liam lunged from his seat and snatched the paper. He skimmed it quickly, his face twisting. Then he turned to the investors and gasped dramatically.

“Sabotage!” he cried, pointing to a vintage Jaguar nearby. The hood was dented, the paint scratched. “He did this last night. He’s trying to ruin us!”

Murmurs exploded among the investors. They exchanged startled looks and shook their heads in disbelief.

Nathan froze. He hadn’t touched the car. “I didn’t—” he started, but Mr. Hayes raised a hand.

“Enough,” he said coldly. “You’re confined to the estate until you sign. No more talks.”

Nathan’s eyes found Cassandra. She hadn’t moved. Her mouth was slightly open, her gaze fixed on him, not with scorn this time, but with something softer. Doubt. Sympathy. Her fingers gripped her blazer tightly, like she didn’t know what to do.

Liam crumpled the paper and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “Get him out of here,” he ordered a guard.

Nathan didn’t fight. He let them lead him away, the investors’ whispers following him like a dark cloud.

That night, back in the garage, Nathan stood alone.

The bucket of used, grease-soaked rags sat at his feet. He dug through the trash and pulled out the letter. Its edges were stained and slightly torn, but the words were still there.

He read them again, and they hit just as hard. His father’s betrayal had always been there, but now the proof was in ink.

He struck a match.

The flame hissed and crackled as the letter caught fire. It curled in on itself, blackening into ash.