The Son-in-law

CHAPTER ONE: 

The clatter of cutlery against porcelain echoed in the Jones family’s dining room. It was a polished room, chandelier lights catching on the silverware, but the atmosphere was anything but elegant. At the far end of the table, Lucas Jones leaned back in his chair, his gold wristwatch glinting as he carved his steak.

“Billy,” Lucas said casually, not even looking at him. “Since you’re sitting here rent-free, the least you can do is fetch me another glass of wine. Quickly.”

Billy Anderson’s hand tightened around his own fork. He said nothing, stood up, and walked toward the kitchen. His broad shoulders, once symbols of confidence when he still owned his company, now looked like burdens he carried for everyone else.

“Look at him,” Alice Jones muttered, loud enough for the whole table to hear. Tyla’s mother never bothered to hide her contempt. “My daughter could have married any number of wealthy suitors. And here she is, stuck with a bankrupt husband who can’t even provide.”

Tyla shifted uncomfortably beside her mother, eyes darting to Billy’s back as he left the room. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her napkin. She didn’t defend him—not anymore.

Karen, Tyla’s elder sister, smirked. “Maybe she still believes in fairy tales. The mighty Billy Anderson, rising from the ashes. Except—” she let her laugh cut sharp through the air, “—ashes can’t rise.”

The room joined in a ripple of laughter, except Tyla, who pressed her lips together, and Billy, who returned with Lucas’s wine glass. He set it down gently in front of his father-in-law.

Lucas raised an eyebrow, savoring the moment. “Thank you… cleaner.”

The word landed heavier than the wineglass itself.

Later that night, Billy sat alone on the porch outside, staring at the dim streetlights of Parsippany. The chill of autumn brushed against his skin, but the real cold was inside him. Every insult, every sneer from Alice and Karen, pressed like stones on his chest.

He had once been the man people admired—owner of a thriving company, respected for his boldness and clarity of vision. But when the fraud accusations hit—fabricated, orchestrated—everything vanished overnight. His accounts frozen, his name dragged through mud. And the Jones family, who once welcomed him proudly as son-in-law, turned into his greatest tormentors.

Billy closed his eyes and let the memories burn through him. The day Lucas had offered him the “job.”

“You’ve got no skills left, Billy. No money, no company. But I can be merciful. You can work at my firm—as a cleaner. It’s honest work, and frankly, it suits you.”

Alice had clapped her hands in mock applause. Tyla had gone pale, saying nothing.

Billy had accepted. Not because he was beaten, but because a man starving on principle is still starving. Better a cleaner than a beggar.

But inside, every insult carved his resolve deeper.

The front door creaked open. Tyla stepped out, her silk nightgown whispering against the wood. The porch light framed her face—still beautiful, still composed—but her eyes carried a storm of uncertainty.

“Billy,” she said softly. “Why do you keep enduring this? My father… my mother… Karen. They won’t stop. And you—you just take it.”

Billy looked at her, his jaw hardening. “What would you have me do? Shout? Fight? Throw fists at the people you call family?”

Her voice faltered. “I just… I don’t know how much longer I can do this. Everyone says I should leave. That I’m wasting my life.”

A sharp pain twisted in his chest. He had known. The whispers, the rumors, the late nights when she came home smelling of another man’s cologne. He had chosen silence, because despite everything, he loved her.

“You do what you think is best,” Billy said finally. His tone was steady, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the porch railing. “I’m not going to beg to be wanted.”

Tyla flinched at the coldness in his voice, then turned away without answering. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Billy alone again.

Midnight bled into morning. Billy lay on the creaky couch in the guest room—his “room”—but sleep never came. His phone buzzed on the small table. Unknown number.

He almost ignored it. Then instinct told him otherwise. He answered.

“Mr. Anderson?” A crisp voice. Male, professional. “I’m calling from the office of Charles Ford, attorney to the late Father Klein.”

Billy sat upright, pulse quickening. “Father Klein?”

“Yes. I’m sorry to inform you, Father Klein passed away last week. In his will, he named you the sole beneficiary.”

Billy’s breath caught. “Beneficiary? What exactly does that mean?”

The man hesitated, as if weighing how to phrase it. “Mr. Anderson… the fortune left to you is so large that, frankly, I’m not permitted to read the figures aloud over the phone. It requires a private meeting. But I can tell you this—you are now the legal heir to the Porsche family estate. That makes you one of the wealthiest men in New York.”

The room seemed to tilt. Billy pressed a hand to his forehead. Father Klein—the priest who had raised him after his parents’ death—was a Porsche. A descendant of old money, hidden behind vows of simplicity. And now, every cent, every holding, every investment… was his.

The voice continued, formal yet firm: “We’ll need you in New York City within the week to finalize the transfer. I suggest discretion. A fortune like this attracts attention.”

Billy’s throat was dry. He whispered, “I understand.”

When the call ended, he sat in stunned silence. The same man who had been mocked as a cleaner hours ago now owned more wealth than Lucas Jones could imagine.

Billy leaned back, a slow, bitter smile forming. The humiliation, the insults, the contempt—suddenly, they didn’t crush him anymore. They fueled him.

He wasn’t going to announce it, not yet. Let them laugh. Let Alice spit her venom, let Lucas gloat, let Karen sharpen her claws. Because when the moment came, when the truth exploded before their eyes, their laughter would turn into silence.

And Billy Anderson would be the one watching.