She Proposed to the Fake Heir ,But I Was Never the Real One Either

"Francis! Francis, where are you going?!"

My buddy Logan sidled up next to me.

"Do rich people just not have functioning brains?"

"Sure seems that way."

I shrugged.

And walked straight home.

I'd earned enough from this gig. Truly, genuinely enough.

Whether they believed me or not, I was packing my bags and quitting.

But the moment I stepped through the front door of the Harding estate, the servants rushed forward and seized me by the arms.

"Sir and Madam heard about you making the young master cry. They've ordered us to lock you in the attic to reflect for three days."

"What? Wait! I'm not Abraham! I'm really not! Let go of me!"

The attic door slammed shut with a bang.

I pounded on it, screamed until my throat was raw. None of it made any difference.

So I sank to the floor.

Stopped fighting.

Fine. I'll leave in three days.

But then I noticed a problem.

They hadn't arranged for anyone to bring me food.

I lost track of how long I'd been starving. I didn't even have the strength left to call out.

Three days.

Not even water.

I'm going to die in here, aren't I?

A piece of bread slid under the crack in the door.

I snatched it up, barely tore the wrapper open before biting into it.

"It's me."

The voice outside made me freeze.

"Francis?"

I frowned.

Francis lowered his voice.

"I believe you. You're not Abraham. I can get you out of here, but you have to promise me you'll never come back."

That was exactly what I wanted.

"Swear it!"

"I swear. I'll never come back to the Harding family. I'll never show my face in front of any of you again."

"Then wait here. I'll go get the key."

I never expected Francis to be the one who rescued me.

He wasn't a good person.

But at least he'd actually helped.

He drove me to a hotel. Even carried my luggage upstairs for me.

But when I opened the door, I realized I wasn't alone in the room.

Seven or eight hulking men stood with their arms crossed, staring us down like predators sizing up prey.

Before I could get a word out, Francis shoved a baseball bat into my hands, ripped his own clothes to shreds in a few quick motions, and started screaming.

"I'm sorry, brother! Stop hitting me! Please, stop!"

My jaw dropped.

The men grabbed Francis and dragged him across the room before I could even move to stop them.

Then came the sound of footsteps, rapid and urgent, growing closer.

"Francis!"

"Son!"

Roger and Wanda Harding. And Bernice Butler.

Bernice's eyes went red in an instant. She shoved me hard, then slapped the biggest of the men across the face.

"Do you have a death wish?!"

Roger and Wanda stared at the fresh red marks smeared across Francis's face and body.

Their hands were shaking.

"Abraham! He's your brother! How can you be this vicious? This heartless?!"

"I didn't—"

I dropped the bat.

Francis slumped against Bernice, his voice barely a thread of air.

"Brother, if you want Bernice, I'll step aside. I know you're the real Harding heir. Everything belongs to you. Just say the word, and I won't refuse a single thing."

He swallowed hard, his eyes glistening.

"But why did you have to destroy me like this? Why did you have to make sure I can never live a normal life again? Make Bernice hate me? Make Mom and Dad despise me?"

His voice broke.

"..."

I truly hadn't seen this coming.

Francis had one more card up his sleeve.

Roger and Wanda pulled him into their arms, sobbing, and turned to scream at me: