The Scapegoat Heir: Rise of Nathaniel Sinclair

Chapter Six

Chapter 6: The Slum Boy

"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."

Nate stood still, the documents burning in his pocket, the truth of everything he had just learned still swirling in his mind, and he looked at Preston's sneering face and felt nothing, no anger, no fear, no desire to defend himself, just a cold stillness that had become his armor over two years of survival. He did not speak, did not react, just waited for Preston to finish his performance.

Preston's friends gathered around him, three young men in expensive suits with polished shoes and empty eyes, and they looked at Nate's tattered prison clothes and laughed, the kind of laughter that was meant to humiliate, to remind him of his place in the world. "Look at this guy," one of them said, his voice loud and mocking. "Where did you find him, Preston? In a dumpster?"

"In a prison," Preston said, his smile widening. "This is Nathaniel Ashford, my family's adopted son. Well, former adopted son. He got himself sent away for killing someone. Manslaughter, I think it was. He was always a violent little thug, always had a temper, always thought he was better than everyone else."

Nate said nothing. He took a step to the side, trying to walk past them, but Preston moved to block him, his hand coming up to press against Nate's chest, pushing him back. "Where do you think you are going, slum boy?" Preston asked, his voice dropping to something darker. "This neighborhood is not for people like you. You should stay in your lane. Go back to whatever gutter you crawled out of."

Nate looked at Preston's hand on his chest, and he thought about all the times he had been pushed around by this man, all the times he had been humiliated and degraded and told he was worthless, and he felt the cold stillness inside him grow even colder. "I am trying to walk away," he said, his voice calm and even. "I would suggest you let me."

Preston laughed, a sharp dismissive sound. "Or what? You will hit me like you hit that poor man in the rain? We all know how that turned out for you. Two years in prison, and you still look like you just crawled out of a garbage can. You have not changed at all. You are still the same pathetic little servant you always were."

His friends laughed again, their eyes gleaming with cruel amusement, and Nate noticed the black sedan behind them, parked at the curb, and he saw Preston's gaze drift toward it, saw the calculation in his eyes as he put the pieces together. "Whose car is that?" Preston asked, pointing at the sedan. "Is that yours? Did you steal it? There is no way you can afford a car like that. You could not afford a bicycle when you lived with us."

Nate's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "The car is mine."

Preston stared at him for a moment, and then he burst out laughing, his friends joining in immediately. "Yours?" Preston wheezed, slapping his knee. "That car costs more than your entire life is worth, you delusional little tramp. You are probably working as a chauffeur for some rich family, driving them around in their car and pretending it is yours. That is it, is not it? You are a chauffeur. A servant. A driver. That is all you will ever be."

Nate looked at Preston, and he remembered the night he had been forced to drink whiskey, the night he had been handcuffed and dragged out of the Ashford mansion, the night Preston had stood by the fireplace and watched it all happen without a word of protest. He remembered the two years in prison, the beatings, the stabbing, the nights he had lain awake wondering if he would ever see the light of day again. He remembered August Sterling, the old man who had believed in him, who had given him the key and the truth and the mission. And he remembered the documents in his pocket, the proof that Preston was a fraud, that he was nothing but a planted pawn in a conspiracy that had destroyed countless lives.

"The car is mine," Nate said again, his voice flat and calm. "I did not steal it. I am not a chauffeur. It belongs to me."

Preston's laughter died, and something flickered in his eyes, something that might have been doubt or might have been fear, but he pushed it down and reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He took a picture of the license plate, the flash blinding for a moment, and then he smiled that cruel smile again. "I will find out who owns this car," he said, his voice hard and threatening. "I will find out who you are working for, and I will have them fire you. You will be back on the streets where you belong. You should leave town, Nathaniel. No one wants you here. Vanessa never wanted you here. She never loved you. She was just using you until something better came along. And that better thing was me."

Nate felt something shift inside him, the cold stillness flickering for just a moment as Preston's words cut through him like a blade. He thought about Vanessa, the woman he had loved, the woman he had trusted, the woman who had stood in the doorway and watched him be dragged away to prison without a word of protest or a flicker of guilt. He thought about the promises she had made, the future she had promised to build with him, the love she had pretended to feel. And he thought about how quickly she had abandoned him, how easily she had replaced him with the man standing in front of him, the man who was everything Nate was not, the man who had everything Nate had been denied.

He did not speak. He could not trust himself to speak. He just stepped around Preston, walked to the black sedan, opened the door, and got inside. He started the engine, his hands gripping the steering wheel, and he pulled away from the curb without looking back, without giving Preston the satisfaction of seeing his face.

The car drove through the city streets, and Nate's hands shook on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth, and he felt the rage building inside him, a hot and terrible fury that threatened to consume everything in its path. He thought about the documents in his pocket, the truth he now knew, the family that had been stolen from him, the life that had been taken from him, and he thought about Preston's sneering face and his mocking words and the way he had laughed at Nate like he was garbage, like he had always been garbage.

Preston watched the black sedan disappear around the corner, and his smirk faded slowly, replaced by something else, something that looked like unease. The car was too new, too clean, too expensive for someone like Nate to have acquired honestly, and Preston did not like the feeling that was settling in his gut, the feeling that something had changed, that Nate was not the same broken servant who had been dragged away in handcuffs two years ago. He pushed the thought aside, told himself it did not matter, that Nate was nothing and would always be nothing, but the unease lingered, a cold thread of doubt that he could not quite shake.