My 80-Year-Old Grandma Was the True Heiress

In the surveillance room, I crossed one leg over the other, lazily swirling half a glass of red wine in my hand.

Elizabeth sat beside me in her wheelchair, sharp-eyed and composed. There was not the slightest trace of the frail woman who had seemed on the verge of death.

The banquet ended in a haze of artificial celebration.

Those relatives who had just signed away their freedom were glowing with triumph.

Victor, Denise, my long-estranged father Damian, Owen, and Lisa were all crammed into the elevator car.

"Good thing you had the foresight not to completely offend mom back then," Damian said, straightening his tie as he handed Victor a cigarette with a flattering smile. He knew perfectly well he ranked beneath him. "When you make it big, don't forget to pull your brother up with you."

"Of course, of course." Victor tucked the cigarette behind his ear. "Once we pass the selection, we'll be core members of the Hawthorne family. As for Northgate, I'm never stepping foot in that dump again."

Owen rubbed his hands eagerly. "Dad, does this mean we're set for life now?"

Lisa stood quietly to the side, clearly calculating something behind her composed expression.

Alfred stood in the corner of the elevator, hands folded neatly before him, wearing a flawless professional smile. He said nothing as he reached out and pressed a button.

Not one that went up.

He selected Level B5.

The elevator began its descent, a sharp drop in gravity pressing against their bodies.

The red numbers on the display plummeted rapidly.

With each passing level, the temperature inside the car fell dramatically.

They all shivered.

When Victor exhaled, his breath formed a visible cloud in the air.

"Why is it so cold?" Owen muttered, pulling his collar tighter as he glanced at Alfred. "Mr. Wexley, where are we going? Shouldn't the selection be at the top of the tower?"

Alfred kept his gaze forward, his smile unchanged. "The deeper we go, the closer we are to the truth."

A soft chime sounded.

The elevator came to a stop, and the heavy brass doors slid open slowly.

There were no flowers, no applause, no golden hall waiting beyond.

Instead, a vast underground chamber stretched before them.

The walls were cold silver-gray metal.

At the center of the hall stood rows of dialysis machines and several metal surgical chairs that looked disturbingly like instruments of torture.

The smile on Victor's face froze.

"W-What is this place? There's been some mistake, right?" Damian's voice trembled as he instinctively stepped backward.

Before they could react, the four bodyguards standing behind them moved at once.

One seized Victor by the throat with a single hand, dragged him out of the elevator, and slammed him onto the nearest surgical chair.

The sound of straps tightening echoed through the cavernous laboratory.

Meanwhile Owen and Damian were restrained the same way.

"Let me go! What do you think you're doing? I'm the heir of the Hawthorne family!" Victor struggled violently. "This is a misunderstanding! I want to see Mom!"

Alfred stepped out of the elevator at an unhurried pace, even straightening Owen's crooked collar with unsettling politeness.

He stood before the surgical chairs, looking down at the men now weeping in terror, and delivered the line he had long prepared.

"You misunderstand."

Alfred picked up a pair of rubber gloves from a nearby tray and slipped them on, his tone horrifyingly gentle.

"You were never heirs. Mr. Valerius Hawthorne requires a full blood replacement to sustain his vitality. Your strong bodies and shared bloodline make you ideal vessels. In simple terms… you are merely filters."