Return of the Forsaken Heir

Marissa didn’t react fast enough. She took a deep whiff of the food—and immediately gagged, retching uncontrollably.

Simon caught the same rancid stench. Though the sour, rotting odor was undeniable, they still instinctively scrambled to defend Ronan.

“This was from last night! He packed it up himself. He’s never done housework before—probably forgot to put it in the fridge. But that still doesn’t justify you getting physical with him!”

At this point, there was no use continuing the conversation.

I silently looked away and reclined back in the sun chair, letting the sunlight wash over me.

These two had already made their choice—blindly siding with the fake son.

Any explanation would be a waste of breath.

What I didn’t expect, though, was that people really do have a talent for being shameless.

I wasn’t even trying to justify myself, but Marissa—out of some twisted logic—decided to find an excuse for me.

“He wasn’t like this when he first came home... could it be some sort of mental breakdown? Maybe he’s mentally ill from the trauma? After all, he is our biological child. If he’s sick, we have to get him treated.”

Now that was an excellent excuse for violence.

I nodded at them with a perfectly straight face. “Yeah, I think I do have a mental illness. Every time I see Ronan, I feel this uncontrollable urge to kill someone. You should probably kick him out for everyone’s safety.”

Ronan’s face twisted in resentment, but he turned around with a pained expression and said sanctimoniously, “If my presence really makes Brother mentally unstable, then I’m willing to leave home.”

Marissa immediately pulled him into her arms, distressed. “Don’t say that nonsense! I was just guessing—we need a doctor’s opinion before jumping to conclusions!”

Simon snorted coldly. “Even if he’s mentally ill, that’s on him. He’s too weak, too fragile. It has nothing to do with you.”

He glared at me and spat, “Don’t even think about faking an illness to get sympathy. I’ll personally supervise every test you take!”

As much as they despised me, they weren’t willing to send me back to the rat-infested slums.

To ease their guilty consciences, they sent me to a psychiatric hospital for a full evaluation.

When the results came back confirming that I did meet the criteria for a mental disorder, I could clearly see the relief wash over both of them.

“I knew our genes weren’t the problem,” Simon said smugly. “It must’ve been bad upbringing—blame that useless caregiver!”

Marissa cursed the caregiver through gritted teeth, too focused on venting her anger to notice how pale Ronan had gone beside her.

I stared at the psychiatric certificate in my hand.

It was as good as a license to hit people.

I’ve lived for hundreds of years—I knew exactly what this couple was thinking.

So I immediately slipped into the original host’s pitiful demeanor, mimicking Ronan’s usual frail tone.

“Mom and Dad never liked me to begin with... Now that I have a mental illness, even good grades won’t change anything. I might as well just die.”

The doctor quickly intervened. “The patient’s emotions must be carefully managed. Sudden outbursts of rage or depressive episodes are all signs of instability. You’ll need to monitor him closely.”

Marissa nodded in concern.

Simon, however, let out a snort. “Fine. Since you're officially diagnosed, I’ll let you off the hook for attacking Ronan this time. But don’t expect it to happen again. From now on, take your meds—properly.”

Just like that, the “mental illness” card gave me a pass.

But Ronan wasn’t so easy to fool.

He stared at me with venom in his eyes, seething with hatred.

—

I had just arrived at my new school to complete the transfer process when a chorus of whispers caught my attention.

“That’s him? Ronan’s arrogant psycho brother?”

“I heard he had mental problems when he was little and got dumped in the countryside. Why would they bring him back now?”

“Yikes, seriously? What if he bites someone or something?”