The True Heir Returns

Chapter 4: you looked pale at dinner

The Styles mansion fell into uneasy quiet after the press conference.

Reporters had flooded out, cameras packed away, microphones lowered. The family scattered to their corners.

Reginald to his study, the sisters to their rooms, and Jonathan to the east wing, where he paced like a caged animal.

Anthony, meanwhile, had slipped out the back gate.

He returned two hours later, a slim envelope tucked inside his jacket. Inside: a bank card and a confirmation slip for a newly opened account holding $10,476,320. The lottery winnings, minus taxes.

Step one complete, he thought, walking through the servants' entrance to avoid the family. Now for step two.

He found Jonathan in the east wing sitting room, alone, staring at his phone with bloodshot eyes. The mask was gone. In its place was raw, desperate fury.

Anthony closed the door behind him.

Jonathan shot to his feet. "You. You knew. You knew the numbers. You planned this."

"Planned is a strong word." Anthony leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "I prefer... anticipated."

Jonathan lunged at him.

Anthony sidestepped easily, grabbing Jonathan's wrist and twisting it behind his back. Jonathan gasped, his face slamming against the wall.

"Let me go!"

"Or what?" Anthony's voice was calm, almost bored. "You'll call your sisters? Tell them the poor country boy attacked you? Go ahead. I'll tell them I found the camera in my room. The one you planted to spy on me."

Jonathan went still.

"Funny thing about those cameras," Anthony continued, his grip tightening. "They record to a cloud storage account. Your cloud storage account. I found the login credentials in the book. Did you know you're terrible at passwords? 'JonathanStyles1988'? Really?"

Jonathan's face contorted with rage and terror. "What do you want? Money? I'll give you money. Just—"

"I don't want your money." Anthony released him and stepped back. "I want you to know exactly what's coming."

Jonathan spun around, rubbing his wrist. His eyes darted wildly. "You're insane. You're a nobody from the countryside. You can't touch me."

Anthony pulled out his phone. He tapped the screen and held it up.

On it was a document. A scanned contract between Jonathan Styles and a rival company called Apex Industries.

The contract detailed the sale of the Styles family's proprietary logistics network, a deal worth $15 million to Jonathan and certain devastation to Reginald's company.

Jonathan's face went white.

"Where—how did you—"

"Doesn't matter." Anthony pocketed the phone. "I know about the Apex deal. I know about the forged wills. I know about the trust fund manipulation. I know everything, Jonathan. Every dirty little secret you've buried."

Jonathan's legs gave out. He collapsed into a chair, staring at Anthony like he was a ghost.

Anthony walked to the window, gazing out at the sprawling estate.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said quietly. "You're going to cancel the Apex deal. You're going to transfer back the two million you stole. And you're going to start treating me like the long-lost brother you claim to love."

Jonathan laughed bitterly. "And if I don't?"

Anthony turned. His smile was cold.

"Then I destroy you. Publicly. Painfully. I'll send that contract to every major news outlet in the country. I'll leak the recordings from your spy cameras. I'll show everyone exactly who Jonathan Styles really is—a greedy, scheming fraud who stole a family's love and plotted their ruin."

Jonathan's hands trembled. "You can't. You have no proof. That contract could be forged."

"It's not forged. I have the originals." Anthony walked to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "Oh, and Jonathan? One more thing."

Jonathan looked up, his eyes hollow.

"I just bought 10% of your father's company. The shares were on sale. Something about a looming scandal—investors were nervous." Anthony smiled. "So now I'm a shareholder. Not enough to control anything yet. But enough to make your life very, very difficult."

He walked out, leaving Jonathan alone with his crumbling empire.

That evening, the family gathered for dinner.

The dining room was a grand affair. Reginald sat at the head. The sisters flanked him. Jonathan sat beside Giselle, his face pale and drawn.

And Anthony sat at the far end, quietly eating his soup.

Vivica Styles had finally emerged from her room.

She swept into the dining room in a black gown, her silver hair pulled into a severe bun. Her face was cold, beautiful and utterly devoid of warmth.

She stopped at the sight of Anthony.

"So," she said, her voice dripping with ice. "This is the one."

Reginald cleared his throat. "Vivica, please. Let's have a civil—"

"Civil?" Vivica laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "I raised Jonathan for twenty-three years. I changed his diapers. I held him when he cried. And now I'm supposed to accept this... stranger as my son?" She looked at Anthony with naked disgust. "He looks like a servant. He moves like a servant. He probably thinks like a servant."

The sisters snickered.

Jonathan stared at his plate, unable to meet Anthony's eyes.

Vivica took her seat across from Anthony, her gaze never leaving him. "Let me make something clear, boy. You are not my son. You will never be my son. You are a burden—a scandal that we are forced to endure. Once the media forgets you, you will leave. And you will never contact us again."

Anthony set down his spoon. He looked at Vivica with quiet, unnerving calm.

"Understood, Madam."

"Madam?" Vivica's lip curled. "You don't even call me Mother. How fitting."

"Would you prefer I called you something else?"

The room went silent.

Vivica's eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"I asked a simple question," Anthony said, his tone perfectly polite. "You made it clear I'm not your son. I'm respecting your wishes. Is that not what you wanted?"

Reginald slammed his hand on the table. "Anthony! Show some respect!"

"I'm showing nothing but respect, Father." Anthony looked at Reginald, his gaze steady. "Madam Vivica said she doesn't want me as a son. I'm honoring that. What more can I do?"

Jonathan's head snapped up. Father. He called him Father. Not Reginald. Not Sir. Father.

He's already claiming the title.

Vivica's face flushed with rage. "You insolent little—"

"Vivica." Reginald's voice cut through her. "Enough. He's staying until the media cycle ends. That's final."

Vivica shoved back from the table. Her chair scraped against the marble. "I will not share a table with this creature. Jonathan, come. You'll eat in my quarters tonight."

Jonathan hesitated. He looked at Anthony and what he saw made his blood run cold.

Anthony was smiling.

Not a triumphant smile. Not a smug smile. Just a quiet, knowing smile that said: I've already won. Everything you do from now on is just delaying the inevitable.

Jonathan rose, his legs shaky, and followed Vivica out of the room.

The door slammed behind them.

Giselle, Evangeline, and Beatrice exchanged confused glances. Their mother had never stormed out before. Their brother had never looked so defeated.

Reginald rubbed his temples. "This family is falling apart."

Anthony picked up his spoon and continued eating his soup.

No, Father, he thought. It's already fallen apart. I'm just here to pick up the pieces.

After dinner, Anthony retired to the west wing.

But he didn't sleep.

He sat at the wobbly desk, his laptop open, a burner phone in his hand. On the screen was a list of names—board members of Styles Industries. Loyal to Reginald. Loyal to Jonathan. Or loyal to whoever paid the most.

Anthony dialed a number.

A gruff voice answered. "Who's this?"

"A concerned investor," Anthony said. "I hear you're looking for a new backer for your hospital project. The one the Styles board rejected."

The voice went quiet. "How do you know about that?"

"I know a lot of things." Anthony smiled. "Let's make a deal."

***

In the east wing, Jonathan stared at his laptop screen, his hands trembling over the keyboard.

The lottery money was gone. The Apex contract was compromised. And Anthony had 10% of the company enough to block major decisions, enough to be a constant thorn in his side.

This is a nightmare, he thought. How does he know everything? How is he always one step ahead?

His phone buzzed. An unknown number.

He answered, his voice shaking. "Hello?"

"You looked pale at dinner," Anthony's voice said. "Get some rest, brother. You have a long day ahead."

The line went dead.

Jonathan threw his phone against the wall.

It shattered into pieces.