The Scapegoat Heir: Rise of Nathaniel Sinclair

Chapter Five

Chapter 5: The Safe

Nate woke up in a bed that was too soft, in a room that was too large, with ceilings that stretched too high and windows that let in too much light, and he sat up slowly, his body aching from two years of sleeping on concrete bunks, and he looked around at the luxury that surrounded him and felt absolutely nothing. The silk sheets, the mahogany furniture, the chandelier that hung from the ceiling like a crystal waterfall, it all meant nothing to him, because the only thing that mattered was the key in his pocket, the key that had been his constant companion for the last year, the key that August Sterling had died to protect.

He found Celeste in the dining room, seated at a long table that could have seated twenty people, a cup of coffee in her hand and a newspaper spread out before her, and he walked in wearing the same tattered prison clothes he had arrived in because he had nothing else to wear and he did not care about appearances. "I need a car," he said, his voice flat and direct. "I need to go somewhere."

Celeste looked up from her newspaper, her eyes scanning his face, his clothes, his posture, and she did not ask where he was going or why, she simply nodded and reached into her pocket and pulled out a set of keys. "There is a black sedan in the garage," she said, tossing the keys across the table. "Nothing flashy. It will not draw attention. Take it."

Nate caught the keys and turned to leave, but Celeste's voice stopped him at the door. "I can give you a driver," she said. "I can give you guards. You do not have to go alone."

"I want to go alone," Nate said, without turning around. "I do not trust anyone yet. Not until I know who they really are."

"Fair enough," Celeste said, and her voice was cool and measured, no emotion, no warmth, just an order. "Be back by nightfall. We have work to do."

Nate walked out of the room without another word, found the garage, found the black sedan, and drove away from the Sterling estate without looking back. The city unfolded around him, familiar streets, familiar buildings, the same city that had taken everything from him and thrown him away like garbage, and he drove with the key in his pocket and the folded paper on the passenger seat, August's handwriting guiding him to the bank across town where the secrets were waiting.

The bank was a grand old building with marble columns and brass fixtures and a security guard at the door who eyed Nate's prison clothes with undisguised suspicion. Nate walked past him without making eye contact, approached the teller at the counter, and presented the key without a word. The teller looked at the key, looked at Nate, looked at the key again, and then she nodded slowly and led him to a private room in the back, a small windowless space with a single table and a single chair and a safety deposit box set into the wall.

The teller left him alone, and Nate stood there for a long moment, the key in his hand, his heart pounding in his chest, and he thought about August Sterling, the old man who had given him everything, who had believed in him when no one else had, who had died alone in a prison cell because of the secrets that were hidden in this box. He inserted the key into the lock, turned it, heard the click, and pulled the box out of the wall.

The box was heavy, heavier than he had expected, and he set it on the table and lifted the lid and looked inside at the documents, the letters, the photographs, the bank records, the names that had been collected over years of careful investigation. He pulled out the first document and started to read, and what he read made his hands shake and his jaw tighten and his eyes burn with a fury he had not known he was capable of feeling.

The baby swap. It was all there, documented in meticulous detail, transcripts of conversations, copies of bank records, forged documents that had been used to cover up the crime. Nathaniel Sinclair, taken from his family at birth, stolen by Arthur Sterling and Viktor Carrington and swapped with Preston Ashford, who was not a lost heir at all but a planted pawn, Arthur's illegitimate grandson, placed in the Ashford family to infiltrate and destroy them from within. The Sinclairs, the wealthiest family in the country, had been searching for their lost son for twenty-one years, and all that time Nate had been living in the same city, scrubbing floors and taking blame and wondering why no one loved him.

He pulled out another document and read about Arthur Sterling, August's own brother, the man who had framed him and stolen his empire and locked him away to rot. He read about Viktor Carrington, the patriarch of the Carrington shadow empire, a network built on corruption and violence that had been operating for decades. He read about Marcus Webb, the rival industrialist who had funded the entire operation, the money behind Arthur's schemes, the ghost who had been pulling the strings from the shadows. He read about the assassins who had killed August, the men who had slipped poison into his food and made it look like a heart attack, the men who had been sent by Arthur and Viktor to eliminate anyone who knew too much.

Nate's hands shook as he read, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth, his eyes burning with tears that he refused to let fall, and he thought about everything, every moment of his life, every humiliation, every beating, every moment he had been told he was worthless and he had believed it. He thought about the night he had been dragged out of the Ashford mansion in handcuffs, the rain soaking through his thin shirt, the family standing in the doorway and watching him go like he was nothing, like he had always been nothing. He thought about the two years he had spent in that concrete hell, the beatings, the stabbing, the nights he had lain awake wondering if he would ever see the light of day again. He thought about August Sterling, the old man who had believed in him, who had taught him everything, who had given him the key and the mission and the hope that there was something more, something worth fighting for.

And he thought about the Sinclairs, his real family, the family who had been searching for him for twenty-one years, the family who had never stopped looking, who had never given up hope. He thought about Alexander and Eleanor Sinclair, his parents, who had been told their son was dead, who had mourned him for two decades, who had no idea that he was alive and breathing and standing in this bank room holding the truth in his hands.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and he gathered the documents and put them in his pocket alongside the key and the folded paper, and he walked out of the private room and past the suspicious security guard and out into the sunlight that flooded the street. He walked toward the black sedan, his mind spinning with everything he had just learned, his heart heavy with the weight of the truth, and he was so lost in his thoughts that he did not see the figure approaching until it was too late.

He bumped into Preston Ashford on the sidewalk, and for a moment they both just stood there, frozen, staring at each other, and Nate saw Preston's face twist from confusion to recognition to something that looked like fear and hatred mixed together. Preston's friends gathered behind him, a group of young men in expensive suits who looked at Nate's prison clothes and laughed, and Preston's eyes narrowed and his lips curled into a sneer.

"Well, well, well," Preston said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Look what the prison system spat back out. I thought you were supposed to be rotting in there for two more years."