The Scapegoat Heir: Rise of Nathaniel Sinclair

Chapter Eight

Preston burst through the front door of the Ashford mansion with such force that the heavy oak slammed against the wall and rattled the frames of the paintings hanging in the hallway. His face was flushed, his hands trembling, his expensive Italian suit disheveled as if he had been running. He stood in the entrance, breathing hard, his eyes wild and unfocused.

The family was gathered in the living room as they always were at this hour. Harold sat in his leather armchair, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigar in the other, the evening newspaper spread across his lap. Margaret was on the couch, her legs crossed, a cup of tea cooling on the table beside her. Marcus and Catherine occupied the loveseat, scrolling through their phones, barely looking up. Vanessa was in the armchair by the window, her face illuminated by the glow of her tablet.

Harold looked up first. He set down his whiskey and folded his newspaper. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked, his voice sharp with annoyance. "You come bursting in here like a wild animal. Have you lost your mind?"

Preston did not answer. He paced across the room, his footsteps heavy and frantic. He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the strands like he was trying to pull the words out of his own skull. "I saw him," he finally said, his voice cracking. "I saw Nathaniel."

The room went still. Margaret set down her tea. Marcus and Catherine looked up from their phones. Vanessa's eyes narrowed. The silence stretched for a long moment before Harold spoke again.

"Saw him where?" Harold asked, his voice low and controlled. "And what do you mean by him? That worthless piece of garbage should still be rotting in prison where he belongs."

Preston stopped pacing. He faced them, his chest still heaving. "He is out. He got released. I saw him with my own eyes. Coming out of a bank in the wealthy part of town. The bank on Fifth and Sterling. The one where only the rich keep their money."

Margaret's face tightened. "That bank? He could not even afford the fees to open an account there. What was he doing in that neighborhood?"

"He was walking out like he owned the place," Preston said, his voice rising with agitation. "He was wearing those same rags he always wore, but he was walking with confidence. Like he was not afraid of anything. Like he had a reason to be there."

Harold scoffed. He picked up his whiskey and took a long sip. "He is probably working as a driver for some rich person. That is the only way someone like him could be in that neighborhood. He could never afford a car like that. He could not afford a bicycle when he lived under this roof."

Marcus laughed, a sharp cruel sound. "A driver. That is perfect. That is exactly what he is. A servant. That is all he will ever be. That is all he was ever good for. He spent eighteen years scrubbing floors in this house, and now he is scrubbing cars for some rich family. Nothing has changed."

Catherine nodded, her voice dripping with contempt. "He always thought he was better than us. He had this delusion of grandeur. Like he was secretly someone important. It was pathetic. He should have stayed in prison where he belongs. At least there he could not embarrass anyone."

Margaret leaned forward, her eyes hard and cold. "He is probably scamming someone. You know how he was. Always sneaking around. Always hiding things. He had a dishonest streak from the moment we took him in. I always knew he would turn out to be trouble."

Preston pulled out his phone. His fingers trembled as he scrolled through the photos. He turned the screen toward them, showing the image he had captured. The black sedan. The license plate. Clear. Readable. "I took a picture of the plate," he said. "I am going to find out who owns this car. I am going to find out who he is working for. And I am going to have him fired. I am going to make sure he ends up back on the streets where he belongs."

Vanessa finally spoke. Her voice was flat and cold, devoid of any emotion. She looked at Preston's phone, then at the family, then at the window. "He was always a waste," she said. "I never loved him. I was just using him until something better came along." She turned to Preston, her gaze steady and unblinking. "You were always the better choice. I hope he disappears forever. I hope I never see his face again. He is nothing. He was always nothing. And he will always be nothing."

The family continued their assault. They spoke about Nate like he was not a person, like he was an inconvenience they had been forced to tolerate and had finally discarded. They mocked his clothes, his face, his life, his future. They tore him apart piece by piece, each word designed to reinforce their own superiority, to remind themselves that they had made the right choice when they had thrown him away.

Marcus leaned back on the loveseat, his arms crossed, a smirk on his face. "He probably thinks he is something now. Walking around with his head held high. Driving a car that is not his. Pretending to be important. It is almost sad. Almost. But mostly it is just pathetic."

Catherine laughed. "Remember how he used to talk about his future? How he was going to make something of himself? How he was going to prove everyone wrong? And look at him now. A chauffeur. A servant. A nobody."

Harold set down his whiskey and fixed Preston with a hard stare. "Find out where he is staying," he commanded. "Find out who he is working for. I want to know everything. I want to make sure he cannot get a job anywhere in this city. I want him gone. I want him to know he has nothing. I want him to know he will always be nothing."

Preston nodded, a cruel smile spreading across his face. "I will find out everything. I will destroy him. I will make sure he regrets ever coming back."

The family settled back into their seats. The conversation drifted to other topics, but the mockery lingered in the air like smoke. They were comfortable. They were confident. They had no idea what was coming for them.