Steven and I have formed an unholy alliance. Me? I’m the biological son, the one who was switched at birth and grew up in the sticks. I’ve survived by becoming a master of the "weaponized pout"—a high-end manipulator who knows exactly how to play the victim to get what he wants. Steven? He’s the fake son, the one who took my place in the penthouse. He’s spent twenty years perfecting the role of the "Stained Glass Saint"—pure, fragile, and utterly full of it. But they say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Looking at my biological parents and my "big sister," it’s clear where we get it from. They aren’t just cold; they’re predators. Between the veiled threats, the emotional blackmail, and the empty promises, it’s obvious they only brought me back to use me—and Steven—as bargaining chips for their crumbling empire. ... Pushed to the edge, Steven and I finally shook hands on a deal. To get out from under our parents' thumbs, we set our sights on the apex predators of the city: Diana Blackwood, the powerhouse CEO of the Blackwood Group, and her younger sister, Morgan. We crafted the perfect personas. Steven would be the unyielding, misunderstood intellectual; I would be the ethereal, untouchable hermit. We were setting up the ultimate "Honey Trap." What we didn't expect? The trap was already set—and we were the ones walking into it. Eighteen years in a backwater town, and then suddenly, my billionaire parents "found" me. I was rebranded as Dominic Rossi and hauled back to the city. On the drive to the estate, they broke the news: the "fake" son would be staying with us. His biological parents—the ones who raised me—had died in a convenient car accident during my junior year of high school. Hospital records showed he was younger than me. I kept my head down, eyes fixed on my lap, feeling a cold knot of dread in my gut. Sure enough, the second I stepped into the foyer of the marble-clad mansion, a guy in a crisp white shirt with tear-rimmed eyes threw himself at me. "I’m so sorry," he sobbed, his voice trembling with practiced precision. "It’s all my fault. Please don't be mad. Don't blame Mom and Dad. I’ll leave right now. I’ll go." I hadn't said a single word, and already, I was being cast as the villain. A professional victim? I thought. Finally, a worthy opponent. Beside me, our mother, Martha Rossi, rushed forward to pull him into her arms. "Hush, darling. You’re my son, too. You’ve done nothing wrong. This is your home, and you aren't going anywhere." Then, she shot me a look of sharp disapproval. I didn't roll my eyes, though I wanted to. Instead, I let my lip quiver just a fraction. I let my shoulders slump, radiating a quiet, crushing loneliness. "I know I shouldn't have come back," I whispered, my voice sounding hollowed out. "He’s been with you his whole life. You have a bond. I’m just... the stranger who showed up twenty years late." I paused, letting a single tear track down my cheek. "But I just wanted to know what it felt like to have parents again. Since his parents died so young... it’s been so hard surviving on my own." I put a tiny, jagged edge on the words "his parents." A reminder that Steven, for all his tears, didn't share their blood. Martha’s face went pale. A flicker of unease crossed her features. I knew how to play the "pity card" better than anyone; I’d had to do it to survive the foster system after my adoptive parents died. The tide turned instantly. Martha stepped away from Steven and pulled me into a tight, scented embrace. "Oh, honey, it’s my fault. I lost you when you were so small. You’ve suffered so much." She turned back to Steven, her voice hardening. "Steven, what has gotten into you? I thought you were more mature than this. Your brother just got home, and you’re already throwing a scene and making him feel unwelcome? Is this how I raised you?" Steven’s "saint" act cracked. He shook his head frantically. "No, Mom, I didn't mean—" He looked at me, eyes wide with a mix of shock and budding hatred. "Dominic, you misunderstood me," he said, pivoting quickly. "I’m just bad with words. I was afraid you’d hate me because I took your place." He didn't mention leaving again. Instead, he reached out and grabbed my hand. "Here, let me show you to your room!" He dragged me to a corner on the second floor and pushed open a heavy oak door. The room was a nightmare of clashing neon greens and garish reds. I squeezed my fists shut, my nails digging into my palms. "Do you like it, Dominic?" Steven asked, a sharp, triumphant glint in his eyes. "Mom and I picked everything out ourselves!" I caught Martha looking slightly uncomfortable out of the corner of my eye. I realized then—this "decor" was all Steven’s idea. He’d put me in the smallest room and decorated it like a cheap motel to remind me of my "roots." A power move. I looked at him, then let out a blinding, joyful smile. I grabbed both of his hands and squeezed them tight. "Thank you, Steven. I’ve never had a room this nice in my entire life." The tears started again—overflowing this time. "I can’t believe I actually deserve to live somewhere like this. But wait... where is your room? I don't want my arrival to ruin the life you’ve built here." The room went silent. The air grew heavy. Harriton Rossi, my father, who hadn't spoken since we walked in, finally cleared his throat. "Enough. It’s just a room. For God’s sake, stop the crying; you’re a grown man. Martha, get someone in here tomorrow to swap this out. Give Dominic the master suite on the east wing. A son of Harriton Rossi deserves the best." I looked at Steven, whose fake smile was now plastered on his face like a death mask. I let a tiny, cruel smirk touch my lips for just a second. "Thanks, Dad." Our parents said their goodnights and headed to bed, leaving our older sister, Cordelia, to deal with me. Steven managed one last trembling sigh. "Cordelia, you take care of Dominic. I’ll... I’ll stay out of your way." He walked off, his head bowed, looking like a discarded puppy. Predictably, Cordelia’s face softened with worry. She frowned at me and said, "Just get some sleep. Call a maid if you need anything." Then she turned and chased after Steven. The kid was good. I’d give him that. The next few days were a blur of skirmishes. We fought for territory in the house, for attention at the dinner table, for the favor of the staff. He won some; I won some. But I was miserable. This house was a cage, and I quickly realized there wasn't enough room for two sons. The battlefield soon shifted to the university. The next day, Martha took me to Steven’s elite private college to finalize my transfer. Money talks; even mid-semester, the doors swung wide for a Rossi. I said goodbye to Martha and walked into the lecture hall behind the dean. "So you’re the one bullying Steven?" A guy named Jax—some trust-fund jock—stood up before the dean even left the room. "A gutter rat from nowhere thinks he can come in here and push Seb around just because he’s got the right DNA?" Steven sat in the middle of the crowd, his head down, but I saw the spark of smugness in his eyes. Childish. I slowly scanned the room. When I ignored Jax, he slammed his hand on the desk. "Look at you. Low-class trash. No manners. It’s clear your 'parents' were just uneducated peasants who didn't teach you a thing." The dean shifted uncomfortably but said nothing. In this school, the students’ parents owned the buildings. He wasn't going to stick his neck out for me. I let my expression shift—from calm to a fragile, wounded dignity. "I won't let you insult the people who raised me," I said, my voice trembling with controlled rage. "They may have been poor, but they were the best people I’ve ever known." "What? What are you talking about?" Jax sneered. "I wasn't talking about the Rossi family!" I looked confused, then horrified. "But... Steven and I were switched. The people who raised me were his biological parents..." "Shut up!" I snapped my mouth shut, looking guiltily at Steven, who had gone deathly pale. "Steven, I’m so sorry," I whispered loud enough for the whole room to hear. "I didn't mean to say it. I didn't mean to out you." I wasn't sorry. I was the biological heir; why should I help them hide the truth just to save Steven’s social standing? Steven hadn't expected me to be so blunt. He felt every pair of eyes in the room land on him like a spotlight. He panicked. The "saint" instinct took over. "I’m sorry, Dominic!" he wailed, his voice cracking. "I didn't mean to steal your life. Please don't be angry. It’s all my fault. Mom and Dad just love me too much to let me go back to poverty... if you hate me that much, I’ll leave right now!" As he stood up, he pitched forward, his eyes fluttering shut, and collapsed in a dead faint. The room erupted. The truth about the switch was instantly forgotten as everyone rushed to his side. They carried him to the infirmary like a fallen martyr. And I? I became the villain again. "Even if you're the real one, how could you be so cruel?" "Exactly. Who cares about blood? Martha and Harriton love him more anyway. You’re just jealous." "He’s like one of those evil twins from the movies." One "faint" and the narrative flipped. My "brother" was a pro. News of our little drama spread through the city's high society like wildfire. Everyone knew the Rossis had a biological son who was a nightmare and a fake son who was a saint. People started whispering that the Rossi family was "unstable." The consequence? When we got home, the atmosphere was lethal. Martha and Cordelia looked at us with pure disappointment. Harriton, however, looked like he was ready to kill. He marched up to us, his face a mask of cold fury. Slap! Slap! My ears rang. My cheek burned with a white-hot sting. I looked at my father—the man who, days ago, had promised me "the best." I was stunned. Steven, however, seemed used to it. He apologized instantly, his voice a flat, rehearsed monotone. "Dad, I’m sorry. I shouldn't have let the family become gossip. It’s my fault. Dominic is new; he doesn't understand how things work yet." Harriton glared at me. "Don't let your petty jealousy ruin this family’s reputation. Steven is my son. If I hear about you bullying him or embarrassing this name again, I’ll break your legs." Martha stepped in, playing the peacemaker. "What can you expect? Those people who raised him... they didn't know anything. We’ll just have to train him better." She spoke about the people who loved me, who gave me everything they had, with nothing but disgust. They had never laid a finger on me. I looked at the floor, silent. Cordelia caught my eye and signaled to our parents. Martha quickly moved to hug me. "Dominic, don't be mad at your father. He’s just stressed. In a family like ours, everything is connected. He’s doing this for the good of the house. For your good." Harriton waved his hand dismissively. "Enough. Go to your rooms. Reflect. You’re grounded until further notice." For a week, Steven and I were locked in that gilded cage. We didn't stop our little war behind closed doors—he played his part, I played mine—but my soul was starting to wither. I missed my old life. I missed being alone. Then, one afternoon, Harriton came home and told us to get ready. "There’s a gala tonight. Be ready in three hours." We were poked, prodded, and dressed by a team of stylists for three hours. By the time we arrived at the ballroom, the sun was down. Martha and Cordelia were already there, glowing under the chandeliers. For the first hour, we were paraded around like prize horses. Hypocrisy at its finest. Martha dabbing at fake tears, Cordelia playing the protective sister, Harriton playing the proud patriarch. A perfect, loving family. I touched my right cheek. The ghost of the slap still lingered. Just as I thought the night was just about "brand management," the real reason for the gala emerged. The people we were being introduced to were getting younger, and my parents’ posture was getting more desperate, more servile. We were rejected by three different groups. My parents' faces grew tighter with every "no." Finally, we reached two women. They didn't look at our faces; they looked at our bodies with a predatory, cold interest. Like they were appraising furniture. Instead of being offended, my parents looked relieved. They were beaming. I smiled back, but my internal alarm bells were screaming. When we finally got home, Harriton called us into the study. "The women you met tonight—Ms. Diana Blackwood and Ms. Morgan Blackwood. You remember them?" Steven and I exchanged a look. We remembered. They were the two who had stared at us like we were meat. "Good. Because from now on, your only job is to please them. Do whatever it takes to make them want to marry you." "What?!" "Why?!" We spoke at the same time. Harriton’s expression darkened instantly. Steven recovered first. "Dad, I’m only twenty. I don't want to get married. I don't want to leave you." "Marriage doesn't mean you’re gone. And twenty is old enough. You’re an adult." "But—" Harriton cut him off, his eyes drilling into us. "Did you hear what I said?" I gritted my teeth. "Dad, I don't even like them. Can’t we—" Slap! Another one. This time, the insults followed. "You think you’re something special? You’re a tool. My company needs their backing. Whether they want to marry you or just use you is up to them, and the only reason you even got a foot in the door is because I set the meeting." "Let me be clear: if we don't get this merger, this family is finished. If you two screw this up, don't expect me to remember you’re my 'sons.'" He stormed out. I stayed on the floor, hand to my face, eyes turning to ice. Steven’s hands were shaking at his sides, clenched into white-knuckled fists. That night, I tossed and turned, running through escape plans. I couldn't stay here, but they wouldn't let me go easily. A soft knock at the door startled me. Knock, knock, knock. I opened it and raised an eyebrow. "You?" It was Steven. The "saintly" mask was gone. His eyes were burning with pure, unadulterated resentment. "Going to let me in?" I stepped aside and shut the door behind him. "I’m not in the mood for games, Seb. If you don't have something useful to say, get out." Steven smirked. "Let’s work together." My eyes widened. I looked him up and down. "Did you hit your head? We work together?" Steven’s cold laugh was jagged. "What choice do we have? You really want to throw your life away so they can buy another yacht? I’ve known since I was a kid that this family only cares about the bottom line. I played the perfect son because I thought they loved me. Then you showed up, and they didn't even look back. They threw me away to go find their 'real' son." He looked at me with a twisted sort of empathy. "I thought maybe it would be different for you. But look at your face. You’re just a different currency to them." I kept my face flat. "Go on." Steven took a deep breath. "I refuse to be discarded like trash when I lose my value. Let’s team up and burn this house down. Unless, of course, you’re actually attached to this 'family'?" I let out a short, sharp laugh. "Not even a little." The two slaps had cleared any lingering sentimentality. "What’s the plan?" I asked. "We can’t just run. They’ll find us. We’re still 'valuable' to them." "We need leverage," Steven said. He pulled out his phone and pulled up a file. I scrolled through. It was a dossier on the elite families of the city—the ones at the very top. "We find a patron they’re too scared to touch," Steven whispered. "We find someone who can protect us so we can leave through the front door." "And how do you guarantee any of these people will help us?" "That’s where our 'charms' come in, brother."
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