I woke up gasping, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to my skin like cold sweat. My eyes were still stinging with tears, but my fingers were already white-knuckled around a stack of legal documents. "I’ll sign!" I nearly screamed the words into the sterile air of the study. "From today on, I want nothing to do with the Stanford family!" In the dream—no, in that other life—I was twenty, and I had become the "disposable heir." When the Stanfords threw me out, I had nothing but the clothes on my back. The real biological son had stepped in and effortlessly reclaimed the life I thought was mine, basking in the spotlight while I became the punchline of every high-society joke. I was a failure, a mistake to be erased. In my desperation, I had spiraled. I became the kept man of a predatory, wealthy socialite who treated me like a decorative pet. She didn't just bruise my body; she pushed me into the beds of her business associates to close deals. Then came the sickness—a slow, wasting rot. She wouldn't even pay for the treatment. I died in an alley of my own agony, watching from the gutters as the "true" heir married Diana Vincent—the untouchable queen of the tech world, the woman I had spent my entire life worshiping from afar. My life had ended like a bad tabloid story. It was pathetic. … "I’ll sign." As the words left my lips, I felt a phantom weight lift from my chest. It was as if a set of invisible shackles had finally snapped. "Adrian, I am so disappointed in you. This tantrum is only making me more—" Lydia’s cold, melodic voice cut off abruptly. She looked at me, stunned. I stared back at the woman who had once tucked me in and called me her world. I swallowed the bitterness, the decades of "Mom" that wanted to claw their way out. I didn't repeat myself. I simply picked up the pen and flipped through the thick stack of "Severance and Transfer of Assets" agreements until I found the signature line. I wrote my name, Adrian Stanford, for the very last time. "There," I said, sliding the papers back across the mahogany desk. Lydia’s expression shifted from icy disdain to genuine bewilderment. She had clearly expected a fight. She probably had security standing by in the hallway to drag me out. "Do you even realize what you’re giving up?" she asked. "I assume it’s the usual," I said softly. "The trust fund, the shares, the properties... and any claim to the Stanford name." Lydia’s mouth opened slightly. "Since you aren't biologically ours, it’s only right to correct the mistake. I hope you can understand that we need things to return to their proper track." I looked past her at the shadow of the bodyguard in the doorway. My face went pale, but my voice remained steady. "I understand perfectly." It didn't matter if I understood or not. If I hadn't signed, they would have forced my hand anyway. I used to think it was just a bad dream. But on my twelfth birthday, a boy who looked exactly like a younger version of Lydia showed up at our gates. Logan. He was the real son, lost to a hospital error, raised in the rougher parts of the city. The rest followed the script of my nightmare. Compared to Logan, I was a pampered porcelain doll—pretty to look at, but hollow. Logan was brilliant, rugged, and fueled by a survivor’s instinct. He was everything the Stanford empire actually needed. When Logan pointed at me with eyes full of twenty years of resentment and said, “I want him gone. Seeing him reminds me of the life he stole from me,” it was over. Lydia and my father, Charles, were so consumed by guilt for their "real" son that they didn't hesitate. Even Daisy, the younger sister I had practically raised, stood by Logan’s side. “Don’t cry,” she had told him. “You’re the only brother I care about.” They looked at me like I was a thief who had been caught red-handed. “Adrian, it’s time for you to leave.” In the dream, I couldn't accept it. I had wailed and begged, making a scene that only hardened their hearts. I had tried to make myself sick to stay, tried to starve myself for pity. None of it worked. Logan had eventually kicked open my bedroom door, his jealousy flashing for a brief second before he surveyed my designer clothes and expensive watches with a smirk. “You’ve had twenty years of luxury you didn't earn, Adrian. Now my parents are taking it all back. It’s time you learned what it’s like to live at the bottom.” “No, they wouldn't do this to me,” I’d sobbed. I was terrified. I was a socialite; I didn't know how to be poor. I thought if I could just prove my worth—maybe through a strategic marriage? I had been chasing Diana Vincent for years. If I could get her... “Stop being pathetic,” Logan had sneered. “You’ve chased Diana for years and she won’t even look at you. Meanwhile, she’s already invited me to dinner.” In the dream, I had slapped him. He had grabbed my hair, and we had tumbled down the grand staircase together. When I woke up this time, I knew. It wasn't a dream. It was a warning. Lydia took the papers, her hand trembling slightly. 2 "Mrs. Stanford, am I free to go?" Her head snapped up. "What did you just call me?" I lowered my gaze, avoiding the familiar blue of her eyes, and gave her a shallow, polite bow. "Thank you for taking care of me all these years, Mrs. Stanford." Lydia’s voice shook, a mix of anger and something else—maybe regret? "Logan was right. Blood is everything. You really are an ungrateful brat, aren't you?" I wanted to scream, Aren't you the ones throwing me away? But I saw a flicker of something different this time. In the nightmare, she had looked at me with pure loathing. Now, because I was making it easy for her, she looked almost... conflicted. I didn't let it touch me. As long as Logan was in that house, there was no room for me. "I'm sorry," I whispered. Lydia stood up, smoothing her silk skirt as her composure returned. "Fine. Go. Take your personal things. Whatever you usually use." That was another change. In the dream, I was kicked out with nothing. I wasn't going to be "noble" this time. "Thank you." I packed light but smart. A few high-quality coats, my favorite boots, some daily essentials. One suitcase. As I dragged the suitcase toward the stairs, Logan was waiting. He insisted on checking the bag, convinced I was smuggling the family silver. He looked at me like I was a cockroach. When he saw the bag only held clothes and toiletries, Lydia finally snapped. "Enough, Logan!" It was the first time she’d raised her voice at him since he arrived. He turned to her, eyes welling up instantly. "The Stanfords have already been too kind to him," he whimpered. Lydia sighed, the pull of biological guilt winning out. She turned back to me, her voice hardening. "Adrian, since the papers are signed, we are strangers now. Do not use the Stanford name for anything. Ever." Even knowing it was coming, it felt like a serrated blade to the chest. "Understood." I didn't take the jewelry. It would have been too easy for them to claim I stole it. Once I was a few blocks away from the estate, the adrenaline evaporated. I slumped against my suitcase, my body trembling. The fall down the stairs with Logan hadn't been a dream—I actually had a cracked rib. Every breath felt like a hot needle. I knew if I showed pain back there, they’d just call it another "performance" to stay. I wouldn't be the pathetic clown from my nightmares. This time, I’d leave with my dignity. But as the sun began to set, the reality hit. I was homeless. I reached for my phone to call my friends. Then I froze. I remembered the dream. After I was kicked out, I had begged my "brothers" for a place to crash. Every single one of them blocked me. When I finally found someone who would see me, they lured me to a VIP lounge just to humiliate me. “Hey Adrian, don't you love making people bark like dogs? Why don't you get down on all fours and bark for us three times? Maybe then we'll buy you a drink.” “Drink this whole case first, then we’ll see.” Even the low-level hangers-on, people whose names I barely remembered, looked at me with predatory hunger. “The little prince is on the street. How sad. Tell you what, come home with me. I’ll give you three grand a month to be my boy. Deal?” I covered my ears, shaking my head to drown out the memory of those voices. That night in the dream, I had been forced to drink until I threw up. Someone had "accidentally" kicked my side, turning the cracked rib into an internal hemorrhage. The pain... God, the pain of breathing had been unbearable. I wouldn't let that happen. Not again. Was I destined for that ending? I hadn't asked to be swapped at birth. Why was I the one who had to pay for the universe's mistake? Logan was smart and capable; clearly, my biological mother hadn't mistreated him. So why did he hate me so much? He got his throne back. I got an empty bank account, a dead mother I never knew, and a father who didn't exist. I sat on the sidewalk until the last sliver of gold vanished from the horizon. I needed a plan. I checked my phone. I had a few hundred dollars in a digital wallet from various apps. All my Stanford-issued credit cards were already frozen. My brain, which I had barely used for anything besides choosing outfits for twenty years, started whirring. There was a wholesale market on the south side. They threw out "ugly" produce every morning. I could eat for free if I wasn't proud. Rice was cheap. I just needed a roof. My face fell. That was the hard part. I couldn't call anyone from my old life. Then, a name surfaced. Jane. Because I couldn't have Diana Vincent, I had "sponsored" a girl from the local university who shared her sharp, icy features. A classic "substitute" trope. I’d paid her two hundred thousand for a one-year "exclusive arrangement." There were six months left on the contract. 3 My breath hitched as I scrolled to her name and hit dial. It rang three times. "What do you want?" Jane’s voice was like a bucket of ice water. I shivered. Looking back, I had been a monster to her. To force her into the arrangement, I’d used my family's influence to pull the funding from her research lab. I’d treated her like a punching bag for my ego every time Diana rejected me. I was terrified she’d hang up if she knew I was broke. "Don't hang up," I said quickly. "I'm coming over tonight." I waited, heart hammering against my ribs. Jane was defiant. She usually said no. If this were yesterday, I would have used threats to force her. God, I was a piece of work. I hated myself. But she was the only life raft I had left. There was a long silence. Just when I thought she’d disconnected, she spoke. "Fine," she said. I took a taxi to the university district. It cost me sixty dollars. It hurt to pay it. I had rented a high-end apartment near the campus a year ago just to keep her close. I realized now it was the only "home" I had left. I hoped she wasn't there; I just wanted to crawl into a corner and hide until the lease ran out. But as I stood at the door, I realized I didn't have the keys. I’d left them in the Stanford mansion. I had to wait for the girl I had spent a year tormenting. 4 I don't know how long I sat on my suitcase, leaning my head against the doorframe to dull the throbbing in my side. "Why aren't you inside?" The voice was cold, wrapped in frost. I opened my eyes to see Jane. She was leaning against the opposite wall, looking down at me like I was a strange specimen. I almost cried with relief. "You're here," I whispered, too tired to even stand up properly. Jane frowned, her eyes darting to my suitcase. "What is this?" "Can we just go in?" I asked. "I'm freezing." She unlocked the door. I stumbled toward the sofa and collapsed, gasping for air. Safe. I was safe for a second. Then, my stomach betrayed me with a loud, hollow growl. I looked at her, embarrassed. "Jane... I'm hungry." Her expression darkened. "What game are you playing now, Adrian?" I corrected her softly. "Just Adrian. Call me Adrian from now on." She went rigid. I realized I sounded too soft, almost like I was flirting or begging. I wasn't; it just hurt too much to use my diaphragm for a "tough" voice. After a beat, she said, "I have ramen. You want some?" "Yes, please." Twenty minutes later, I was draining the last of the broth. I was trying to figure out how to tell her the "arrangement" was over and ask for a refund. A hundred thousand dollars was pocket change to me yesterday. Today, it was my entire future. I watched her through the steam. She was dressed in all black—a silk button-down that looked expensive and sharp. Her hair was a dark curtain. She looked like a girl who was finally coming into her own power. She was definitely worth the two hundred thousand. How was I supposed to ask for the money back? I felt like a leech. Jane caught me staring. A look of disgust flashed across her face. "Fine," she said, standing up. "Let's get this over with. How do you want to play it tonight?" "What?" I blinked. "Make it quick." She walked toward me, unbuttoning her collar. As she got closer, the scent of lemons hit me. She knelt at my feet, her head bowed, her profile a perfect, haunting echo of Diana Vincent. It was a routine she knew too well. It made my stomach turn. "Master, punish me..." she murmured, her voice flat. I jumped back. "No! Stop! Get away!" Jane sneered. "Not that one tonight? Fine." She stood up and reached for her belt. The click of the buckle was like a trigger. The memories of the nightmare—the older woman, the leather belt, the sound of it snapping against my skin while I was pinned down—came rushing back. I scrambled into the corner of the sofa, my heart hammering. I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking uncontrollably. "Don't come near me! Please, just don't touch me!" In my mind, I was back in that dark room, unable to run, unable to hide. "Leave me alone... please..." I whimpered. "Adrian." "Adrian!" She called my name twice. I didn't hear her at first, lost in the fog of trauma. "Adrian." The lemon scent cleared the air. I looked up to find her icy blue eyes staring at me, filled with confusion rather than malice. "Don't... don't touch me," I breathed, my chest heaving. Each breath spiked the pain in my ribs. Jane sat on the coffee table across from me, watching me in silence for a long time.
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