The True Heir Returns

Chapter 2: Lottery tickets

The sitting room doors swung open.

Anthony Styles stepped inside.

Six pairs of eyes locked onto him—each one carrying a different shade of contempt. He stood in the doorway, duffle bag still slung over his shoulder, boots scuffed with countryside dust.

His grey jacket was wrinkled. His hair was slightly too long, untamed.

Let them look, he thought. They're judging the cover while the book burns in my hands.

Giselle let out a sharp, theatrical laugh. "Oh, this is worse than I imagined. He looks like a farmhand who wandered off the wrong truck."

Evangeline covered her mouth with her manicured fingers. "Beatrice, close your mouth. You're gaping like a fish."

Beatrice didn't close her mouth. She stared, horrified. "He's... he's actually real. I thought the media photos were exaggerated."

Reginald cleared his throat, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. "Anthony. Come in. Sit."

Anthony stepped forward, his face a still mask. He dropped his duffle bag beside the door—a dull thud against the floor that made the butler wince and walked toward the empty chair at the far end of the table.

Before he could reach it, Jonathan rose.

His movement was graceful. His face transformed into a masterpiece of practiced warmth. His eyes soft, lips curved into a gentle smile. He extended both hands as if greeting a long-lost brother.

"Anthony!" Jonathan's voice was thick with emotion. "Finally. Welcome home."

Anthony paused.

He studied Jonathan's outstretched hands, the glimmer in his eyes, the slight tremble in his lower lip, every detail designed to project sincerity.

Home, Anthony repeated silently. This man has been plotting to destroy this family for years. He's forged documents. He's skimmed millions from Reginald's accounts. And in the book, he's the one who pushes the real Anthony down the stairs. And he says "welcome home" like he means it.

Jonathan's hands remained extended. The room held its breath.

Then Jonathan's smile faltered just slightly. His eyebrows drew together in fragile hurt. "Anthony? Is something wrong? I know this must be overwhelming. Please, take my seat." He gestured to his own chair beside Reginald. "It's only right. You're the true heir."

Giselle shot to her feet. "Jonathan, absolutely not! You're not giving up your seat for him."

"He's being generous," Evangeline sneered. "More generous than this stranger deserves."

Jonathan shook his head with a sad, gentle laugh. "Girls, please. Anthony has been through so much. Growing up in the countryside, working with his hands... he's never known comfort like this. The least I can do is offer him a proper chair."

His words dripped with pity.

And poison, Anthony noted. He's painting me as a pathetic charity case. Weak. Uneducated. Unworthy. Every word is designed to make them hate me more while he plays the saint.

Anthony walked past Jonathan's outstretched hands and pulled out the empty chair at the far end of the table, the one nobody wanted, furthest from Reginald.

He sat down.

"I'm fine here," Anthony said calmly. "Thank you for the offer, though."

Jonathan's hands hung in the air for a moment. He blinked, clearly expecting Anthony to grovel, to stammer, to be overwhelmed by the gesture. The script in his head had already been written.

Anthony had just crumpled the page.

Jonathan recovered quickly. He lowered his hands and laughed softly, shaking his head. "Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable." He sat back down, placing a hand on Reginald's shoulder. "He's humble, Father. That's a good quality."

Reginald grunted. "Humble or not, there are rules." He fixed his cold stare on Anthony. "You're here because the media is watching. That woman—the one who switched you made a spectacle of our family before they locked her away. Now everyone expects us to 'reunite' with you. So you will stay here. You will attend public events. You will smile for the cameras. And when this blows over, you will take an apartment far from here and live quietly. Understood?"

Anthony met his father's gaze without flinching. "Understood."

Beatrice snorted. "He probably doesn't even understand what you're saying, Father. Look at his clothes. Look at his boots. He's a liability."

Evangeline leaned forward, her smile cruel. "Tell us, Anthony. What did you do in the countryside? Did you milk cows? Plow fields? I'm genuinely curious what kind of person grew up over there."

Anthony turned to her slowly. His face remained calm, but his eyes held something that made Evangeline's smile waver.

"I worked. I survived. I read," he said simply.

"Read?" Giselle laughed. "What, farming manuals?"

Anthony's lips curved into the faintest smile. "Novels, actually. One in particular stayed with me. A story about a wealthy family torn apart by a fake heir. The fake heir was charming. Handsome. Beloved by everyone."

The sisters exchanged glances. Jonathan's smile tightened almost imperceptibly.

Anthony continued, his voice soft and thoughtful. "But underneath, the fake heir was stealing from the family. Forging documents. Planning to bankrupt the father and run away with the fortune. He almost got away with it."

The room went quiet.

Jonathan's fingers tightened on Reginald's shoulder. His smile didn't break, but his eyes flickered just for a second. A shadow of unease.

He knows, Jonathan thought. No. Impossible. He's a country idiot. It's a coincidence.

But the seed had been planted.

Reginald waved a dismissive hand. "Enough with the stories. You're not here to entertain us. You're here to perform. Tomorrow, we have a press conference. You'll dress appropriately. The butler will handle it and you'll say exactly what we tell you. Nothing more. Nothing less."

"Understood," Anthony repeated.

Beatrice muttered under her breath: "He's so boring. Can we send him back already?"

Anthony heard her. He didn't react.

Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He placed it on the table in front of him, smoothing it flat with deliberate slowness.

The family stared at the paper.

"What's that?" Giselle demanded.

Anthony shrugged. "A lottery ticket."

Jonathan's heart stopped for half a beat.

"Lottery?" Evangeline laughed. "You actually bought a lottery ticket? With what money?"

"The fifty dollars your father gave me for the train ride," Anthony said calmly. "I stopped at a convenience store. The numbers came to me in a dream."

Beatrice rolled her eyes. "Oh, great. He's insane and poor."

Reginald sighed, rubbing his temples. "Anthony, I don't have time for—"

"Don't worry, Father." Anthony folded the ticket and placed it back in his pocket with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'm just keeping it safe. For now."

Jonathan stared at Anthony's pocket.

His hands, hidden beneath the table, started to tremble.

The lottery. The numbers. I've been watching those numbers for months. Waiting for the draw. Waiting to cash out.

How could he possibly know?

Anthony leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. His eyes met Jonathan's and for the first time, the mask of the polite country boy slipped.

What Jonathan saw beneath it made his blood run cold.

It wasn't anger. It wasn't desperation.

It was amusement.

Anthony smiled at him—a slow, knowing smile that said: I see you. I know you. And I'm not afraid.

Then Anthony spoke, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"I'll be staying in the guest quarters, right?" He looked at Reginald. "The book I read said the guest quarters have a leaky window and a broken lock. But it's fine. I don't mind a little discomfort."

Reginald frowned. "The guest quarters are perfectly maintained. The butler will show you to the west wing."

Anthony nodded. "West wing. Of course."

Perfect, he thought. West wing. Where the real Anthony was locked in his room every night while Jonathan smirked in the main hall.

West wing. Where I'm supposed to cry myself to sleep.

Let them think I'm settling. Let them think I'm weak.

Tomorrow, the lottery numbers drop. Tomorrow, Jonathan will panic.

And the game truly begins.

Anthony rose from his chair, picked up his duffle bag, and nodded to the room.

"Goodnight, everyone. It was... educational meeting you all."

He walked toward the door.

Jonathan's voice stopped him.

"Anthony." The fake brother's tone was soft, curious, testing. "That novel you mentioned... the one about the fake heir. Where did you read it?"

Anthony paused at the threshold. He looked over his shoulder.

"I didn't read it," he said quietly. "I lived it."

He walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.