The Heir's Ascent: From Rags to Fortune.

CHAPTER EIGHT

My phone buzzed with a reminder. 2:45 PM. The car would be here soon.

I decided to go down to the lobby to meet the delivery. I needed to get out of my apartment anyway, clear my head before Sarah sent another desperate email.

The elevator ride down was smooth and silent. When the doors opened, I stepped into the marble-floored lobby, nodding at the security guard who'd dealt with Sarah earlier.

"Mr. Cole," he said with a respectful nod. "Your vehicle just arrived. The delivery driver is waiting outside."

"Thanks."

I walked through the glass doors and stopped short.

The BMW was beautiful. Sleek, black, with tinted windows and chrome accents that caught the afternoon sun. The delivery driver, a young guy in a crisp uniform, was holding a tablet and a set of keys.

"Mr. Cole?" he asked.

"That's me."

"Congratulations on your new vehicle, sir. If you'll just sign here..." He handed me the tablet. "I'll walk you through the features."

I signed where he indicated, still half-convinced this was some kind of elaborate dream. He spent the next ten minutes showing me the car's various functions—the touch screen display, the surround sound system, the heated seats, the backup camera.

It was overwhelming. And amazing.

"Any questions?" he asked.

"No, I think I've got it. Thank you."

He smiled and handed me the keys. "Enjoy, sir."

After he left in a waiting Uber, I stood there for a moment, just looking at the car. My car.

A week ago, I'd taken the bus everywhere. Now I had a BMW.

I got in, adjusted the seat and mirrors, and just sat there, hands on the steering wheel, breathing in that new car smell.

This was my life now.

I wasn't sure I'd ever get used to it

I spent the rest of the afternoon driving around the city, getting used to the BMW. It handled like a dream, smooth and responsive, and every time I caught a glimpse of it in a storefront window, I had to remind myself it was actually mine.

By the time I got back to my building, the sun was setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. I pulled into the underground garage, parked in my designated spot (which had my apartment number stenciled on the wall), and took the elevator back up.

The moment I walked into my loft, I knew something was off.

Nothing was out of place, exactly. But there was an envelope on my kitchen counter that hadn't been there before.

I picked it up cautiously. It was thick, expensive-looking paper, with my name written on the front in elegant cursive.

Inside was a handwritten letter.

Ethan,

I hope you don't mind that I let myself in. Victoria gave me a key—she thought it would be easier than constantly coordinating schedules. I promise I won't make a habit of entering unannounced.

I wanted to leave you something. A welcome gift, of sorts. Look in your bedroom closet.

Also, there's dinner in the refrigerator. The chef prepared your favorite—or at least, what Victoria told me was your favorite based on your purchasing history. I hope she was right.

I look forward to speaking with you soon.

Your father,

Richard Ashford

I read the letter twice, my heart doing something complicated in my chest. My father had been here. In my apartment. While I was out.

I walked slowly to my bedroom, pushed open the closet door, and stopped.

Hanging inside, in a clear garment bag, was a suit. Not just any suit—a custom-tailored, probably obscenely expensive suit in charcoal gray. Next to it was a crisp white shirt, a silk tie in deep blue, and a pair of leather shoes that looked like they cost more than my entire previous wardrobe combined.

A note was pinned to the garment bag.

For your first day at Prestige. Make a good impression. - 

R.A.

I carefully took the suit out and held it up. It fit perfectly—they must have gotten my measurements from the personal shopper Victoria had sent.

The quality was immediately obvious. The fabric felt incredible, smooth and substantial. This was the kind of suit men wore in boardrooms and on magazine covers.

I hung it back up carefully and went to check the refrigerator.

Inside, I found containers of what looked like homemade lasagna, garlic bread, and a salad. There was also a bottle of wine—red, expensive-looking—and a small card.

I remembered your mother mentioning that you loved Italian food as a child. I hope that hasn't changed. - R.A.

I stared at the card, something tight forming in my throat.

He'd remembered. Or at least, he'd asked someone who remembered.

I heated up the lasagna and ate it at my kitchen island, alone in my massive apartment, trying to process the fact that I had a father who cared enough to leave me dinner.

It was the best lasagna I'd ever tasted.

After dinner, I settled onto my couch with my laptop, intending to do some reading for Prestige. Instead, I found myself opening my email.

There was a new message from Victoria, sent just an hour ago.

Subject: Event This Saturday

Ethan,

I know you're still adjusting, but there's something important coming up this Saturday evening. The Harrington Foundation Gala—it's one of the biggest charity events of the season. Your father secured you an invitation.

Before you say no, hear me out: in our world, connections are everything. The people at this gala—business leaders, investors, politicians, academics—these are the people who can open doors for you. Or close them.

You don't have to stay long. Just make an appearance, meet a few key people, let them see your face. I'll be there the entire time to help you navigate.

The dress code is black tie. Your father left you a tuxedo—should be in your closet with the suit.

Let me know if you'll attend. I really think you should.

Victoria.

I stared at the email, a knot forming in my stomach. A gala. With rich people. Politicians. The kind of event where I'd stick out like a sore thumb.

I pulled out my phone and called Victoria.

She answered on the second ring. "I was wondering when you'd call."

"A party?" I said. "Really? I've been wealthy for less than a week and you want me to go to some fancy gala?"

"Yes."

"Victoria, I don't even know how to act at something like that. I'll embarrass myself."

"You won't," she said calmly. "Because I'll be there to guide you. Think of me as your social GPS."

"Why is this so important? Can't I just... I don't know, meet people at business meetings or something?"

Victoria was quiet for a moment. "Ethan, in our world—and it is your world now, whether you like it or not—who you know is everything. Business deals aren't made in boardrooms. They're made at galas, at golf courses, at dinner parties. Relationships are currency."

"I don't have any relationships."

"Exactly. Which is why you need to start building them." Her tone softened. "Look, I know this is uncomfortable. But your father specifically requested this. He wants people to see you, to know you exist—even if they don't know you're his son yet. When the time comes to reveal your identity, it'll be easier if you're already a familiar face."

I rubbed my temples. "What if I mess up? Say the wrong thing?"

"Then you'll learn from it. But honestly, you'll be fine. You're smart, well-spoken, and now you look the part. Just be yourself—or rather, be the version of yourself who owns a corporation."

"That's not helpful."

She laughed. "Ethan, you survived eighteen years with the Blakes. You can survive a few hours at a party. Besides, you won't be alone. I'll be there the entire time. If you feel overwhelmed, just find me."

I walked over to my bedroom and opened the closet. Sure enough, hanging next to the charcoal suit was a tuxedo. Black, perfectly tailored, with a crisp white shirt and a bow tie.

"He really thought of everything, didn't he?" I muttered.

"Your father is very thorough," Victoria agreed. "So, will you go?"

I looked at the tuxedo, then at my reflection in the closet mirror. A week ago, I'd been wearing a Walmart vest and eating ramen for dinner. Now I was being invited to charity galas.

"Fine," I said. "I'll go. But if I make a fool of myself, I'm blaming you."

"Fair enough. I'll send a car for you Saturday at seven. The gala starts at eight, but it's fashionable to arrive a bit late."

"Fashionable to be late?" I asked confused 

"Welcome to high society, Ethan. Nothing is straightforward."

She paused. "And Ethan? Try to relax. This could actually be fun."

After we hung up, I pulled the tuxedo out and held it up. It was beautiful, expensive, and completely intimidating.

I had four days to mentally prepare myself for whatever Saturday night would bring.

Four days to figure out how to pretend I belonged in a world I'd only ever seen from the outside.