The True Heir Returns

Chapter 3: press conference

The west wing guest room was exactly as the book described.

Anthony dropped his duffle bag on the floor and surveyed his new prison. A single bed with thin, scratchy sheets. A wooden desk that wobbled on uneven legs. A window with a hairline crack running through the glass, letting in a faint draft.

And the lock. A cheap object that any determined person could pick with a paperclip.

Jonathan knows about this lock, Anthony thought, running his fingers over the scratched metal. He's used it before. In the book, he locked the real Anthony in here the night before the press conference. Left him to rot while he charmed the reporters.

He checked the window frame. His eyes swept the ceiling corners, the baseboards, the electrical outlet near the desk.

There.

Behind the desk, almost invisible against the wallpaper, a tiny pinhole camera. Jonathan had planted it weeks ago, long before Anthony's arrival. He'd wanted to monitor the "country boy" from day one, hoping to catch him crying, talking to himself, doing something embarrassing.

Anthony smiled.

He walked to the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down directly in front of the camera lens. He leaned back, folded his arms, and stared straight into the hidden eye.

"Good evening, Jonathan," he said quietly. "Enjoying the view?"

In the main house, Jonathan's phone screen flickered. His blood turned to ice.

Anthony's face filled the frame—calm, composed, aware. His eyes seemed to pierce through the lens, straight into Jonathan's soul.

"Don't bother checking the other rooms," Anthony continued, tilting his head. "I know about the one in the bathroom too. And the one in the hallway. I know about a lot of things."

He paused. Let the silence stretch.

"I also know you've been watching those lottery numbers for three months. You memorized the sequence. You planned to buy the winning ticket the day before the draw but you got distracted. Too busy playing the perfect son, wasn't it? Too busy twisting the sisters around your finger. You forgot."

Jonathan's jaw tightened. His hands gripped the phone until his knuckles went white.

Anthony leaned closer to the camera, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Don't worry. I'll take good care of the winnings."

He reached up, plucked the camera off the wall, and crushed it between his fingers.

***

The next morning, the Styles mansion buzzed with chaotic energy.

Reporters would arrive in three hours for the "family reunion" press conference. Reginald was already barking orders at the staff. Giselle and Evangeline were fighting over who would stand closest to the cameras. Beatrice was complaining about her dress.

Jonathan moved through the chaos, his face plastered with a concerned smile.

He knows something. But how? The lottery numbers aren't announced until noon.

He found Anthony in the breakfast nook, alone, calmly eating toast and eggs. The country boy had changed into a simple white shirt and dark trousers that the butler had provided, clearly with disgust. He looked almost presentable.

Jonathan slid into the chair across from him. His smile was warm, brotherly.

"Anthony. Good morning. Did you sleep well?"

Anthony swallowed a bite of toast. "Perfectly. The leaky window has a nice sound. Very... meditative."

Jonathan's eye twitched. The window wasn't leaking. I checked it myself.

"I wanted to apologize," Jonathan said, leaning forward. "The girls can be... intense. They just need time to warm up to you."

"Of course they do."

"And Father." Jonathan sighed, shaking his head. "He's under so much pressure. The media, the board, the scandal. He's not heartless. He's just stressed. Please don't hold it against him."

Anthony set down his toast. He studied Jonathan's face with quiet amusement.

Look at him. Playing the peacemaker. Trying to build a bridge between me and the family, so when the bridge collapses, it looks like my fault.

"Jonathan," Anthony said softly. "Tell me something."

"Anything."

"Did you ever feel guilty? When you heard about the switch? Knowing that some other boy grew up poor and forgotten while you ate caviar and wore Italian leather?"

Jonathan's smile tightened. His eyes flickered just a fraction of a second before the mask snapped back.

"I felt devastated," Jonathan said, his voice thick with pain. "I cried for days. I still cry, Anthony. Every time I look at you, I see everything I stole from you. I'd give it all back if I could."

Anthony nodded slowly. "Would you really?"

"Of course."

"Then maybe you should start with the money."

Jonathan froze. "What money?"

Anthony shrugged. "The two million you siphoned from Father's offshore accounts. The two million you're planning to transfer to a private bank in the Caymans next Thursday."

Jonathan's face went pale. His breathing stopped.

"I don't... I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Don't lie to me, Jonathan. It's embarrassing." Anthony reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded slip of paper. He smoothed it flat on the table between them. "I know about the money. I know about the forged documents. I know about the sister you manipulated into signing over her trust fund. I know everything."

Jonathan stared at the paper. His hands shook.

"And I know," Anthony continued, "that at noon today, the lottery numbers you've been stalking for three months will be announced. You're going to rush to the convenience store to buy the winning ticket. But you'll be too late. Because someone else already bought it."

He tapped the paper.

The lottery ticket.

Jonathan lunged across the table.

Anthony was faster. He snatched the ticket off the table and slipped it into his shirt pocket, his movements smooth and practiced.

"Ah-ah," he chided. "That's not very brotherly of you, Jonathan."

Jonathan's mask shattered. His face twisted into raw, ugly fury. "Who are you? You're not a farmer. You're not some stupid country boy. Who the hell are you?"

Anthony smiled.

"Someone who can read you," he said simply. "Now. If you'll excuse me, Father wants me at the press conference in thirty minutes. I need to prepare my speech."

He rose from the table and walked toward the door.

Jonathan's voice followed him, sharp and desperate. "You think you've won? You think one little ticket changes anything? I own this family. I own this house. I've been planning this for years. You're nothing. You're dirt. I'll destroy you."

Anthony paused at the threshold.

"Try it," he said without turning around. "I could use the entertainment."

He walked out.

***

The press conference was a circus.

Cameras flashed. Microphones thrust forward. Reporters shouted questions over each other. The Styles family stood on a small stage, arranged like a perfect portrait with Reginald in the center, the sisters to his left, Jonathan to his right, and Anthony awkwardly placed at the edge, looking appropriately "humble."

Reginald spoke first. "We are thrilled to welcome Anthony back into our family. The circumstances of his separation were tragic, but today, we reunite. The Styles name stands for resilience. For love. For—"

"Anthony!" A reporter cut in. "Anthony, how does it feel to finally meet your biological family?"

Anthony stepped forward. The cameras turned to him.

He smiled. Warm. Grateful. Perfectly rehearsed.

"It's a dream come true," he said, his voice soft with emotion. "My family has been so kind. So welcoming. Jonathan in particular has been like a real brother to me. He told me this morning that he'd give me everything if he could."

Jonathan's smile froze.

"He's so generous," Anthony continued. "He said he'd give up his room for me. His car. His inheritance. I told him that wasn't necessary, but he insisted. He's a saint, really."

The reporters ate it up. More questions. More cameras.

Jonathan's face was a mask of horror. He couldn't contradict Anthony, it would make him look petty. He couldn't confirm it—it would ruin his position.

So he smiled. And nodded. And hated.

Reginald cleared his throat, steering the conversation back. "We'll be having a private dinner this evening. A true family celebration. Now, if you have no more questions—"

"I have one," Anthony said, raising his hand.

The reporters leaned forward.

Anthony looked at the nearest camera, his expression shifting from humble to something sharper. Something knowing.

"Can you make sure the lottery numbers are announced soon?" He laughed, shaking his head. "I bought a ticket on the way here. Just a dream, you know? But a man can hope."

The reporters laughed with him.

Jonathan's heart stopped.

Behind the scenes, in the green room, a television screen flickered to life.

The lottery numbers began to roll across the screen.

1... 4... 7... 23... 41... 52.

Anthony smiled.

Jonathan knew those numbers.

He'd been watching them for three months.

He'd memorized them. Dreamed about them. Planned to buy that ticket the day before the draw. But he'd been too busy manipulating his sisters, too busy spinning his web, too busy being the perfect son.

The numbers matched.

Anthony had won.

Jonathan's hands trembled. His vision blurred. Somewhere behind him, Giselle was asking if he was okay.

He wasn't okay.

He was watching his entire plan crumble and the country boy he'd dismissed was smiling.