The Rise Of The Hidden Heir

Chapter 8: Questions Without Answers

Austin walked away from the bookstore with Elias’s card already in his wallet.

The morning had brightened. Shops were opening, people moving along the sidewalks, a violin playing somewhere near the corner. He barely registered any of it.

You’ll know when it’s time.

He had lived his whole life without these answers. Now that they were close, the wait felt longer than it should. The careful silence Elias had offered left a restless edge under his skin. He needed something solid to do with the questions still turning in his head.

At a traffic light he took the card out again. Just a name and the shop. No number. No further explanation. He put it away and kept walking. He tried to piece together what little he had learned. Elias had known his mother. He had known the man who raised him long before the secrets started. Walking past the busy storefronts, Austin felt strangely detached from the city, as if the familiar streets had shifted just enough that he no longer fully recognized them.

He stopped at a small internet café two blocks from the bus stop. If Elias would not give answers, Austin could at least look for the name himself. He paid for an hour, sat down, and typed variations of the phrases from the letter—boy beneath the oak tree, the old family name that was no longer his, anything that might connect. The searches returned nothing useful. A few dead ends. A few articles that led nowhere. After forty minutes he closed the browser, more frustrated than before. The lack of answers had only grown heavier.

He left the café with a clear decision: he would go back to Elias when the time came—but he would not wait passively forever.

Rebecca sat by the window of her room, an untouched cup of tea cooling beside her. Sunlight came through the sheer curtains. Her laptop stayed closed.

She kept thinking about Austin—the way he had returned the purse without hesitation, without asking for anything. Most people would have kept the money or at least expected something in return. He had wanted neither.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her closest friend:

Have you been smiling at your phone all morning?

Rebecca laughed under her breath and typed back.

Maybe.

The reply came quickly.

Who is he?

She stared at the screen and started to write. Just someone I met recently, then deleted it. Instead, she sent:

No one important.

The moment the message left, she frowned at her own words.

Downstairs, Mrs. Hart sat in her late husband’s study. The room was unchanged—books, awards, and photographs on the large desk. The study smelled of leather polish and old mahogany—her late husband’s presence still held the room. Mrs. Hart smoothed the lapel of her jacket, her eyes moving over the framed photographs of galas and corporate events. Wealth had given her family security. It had also taught them to stay watchful.

She touched the edge of one frame, then looked up as Mr. Walter entered.

“You wished to see me, Madam?”

“I did.” Her voice was quiet and precise. “I need you to look into someone. Austin Miller. Family, background, and where he grew up. Whatever can be found quietly. I want the information on my desk by tomorrow evening.”

Mr. Walter inclined his head. “The young man from yesterday?”

“Yes.” She met his eyes. “And please—don’t mention this to Rebecca. Not a word.”

“As you wish.”

When the door closed, Mrs. Hart opened a drawer and took out an old photograph. She studied it for a long moment. The longer she looked, the more deliberate the decision felt. This was not idle curiosity. Something about the name had unsettled her enough to act.

She set the photograph down again and closed the drawer with care.

Austin unlocked his apartment. Everything was as he had left it. The letter remained in his bag. He poured a glass of water and leaned against the counter.

No one left to ask. Elias had said he would know when it was time. His stepfather was gone. Anyone else was on unknown ground. The failed search at the café only confirmed how little ground he stood on.

His phone buzzed.

Rebecca Hart:

Good morning. I hope you made it home safely yesterday.

He smiled despite himself and replied.

Morning. I did. Thanks for checking.

The typing indicator appeared, vanished, then appeared again.

Would you like to have coffee sometime?

Austin read the message twice. The quiet apartment felt a little less empty. A part of him knew getting closer to Rebecca Hart—someone from a world so different from his—was a complication he might not be able to afford. But looking out at the sunlit rooftops, he also knew he did not want to spend the next few days alone in the quiet apartment with only the letter and his stepfather’s absence for company.

He typed his answer.

I’d like that.

A moment later:

Tomorrow afternoon?

He looked around the small kitchen, then confirmed. He set his phone on the counter and took a sip of water again. The decision was small, but it was a decision. Something forward instead of another day spent turning the same unanswered questions over in his head.

Outside, the clouds had begun to break.

In the study, Mrs. Hart remained at the desk with the old photograph in front of her. She rested her fingers lightly on the edge of the frame, then closed the drawer. The order she had given Mr. Walter already felt heavier than a simple background check. She only hoped it would return nothing.