"Today, I'm going back to Lucien Malric Moreaux's childhood home…" I whispered, the words tasting like rusted nails. A sigh slipped from my lips before I could catch it.
"You rang, boss? Or just missed my charming face?" Shan, my ever-so-helpful assistant, strolled in with a wink that could cause secondhand embarrassment.
I grinned. "Just wanted you to try my stale food."
"Oh no, Mr. Moreaux… it seems I've been struck down by diarrhea," Shan clutched his stomach, eyes wide with dramatic flair, like he'd been poisoned by betrayal instead of office leftovers.
"Right. Enough theatrics," I said, straightening. "What's on the schedule today?"
Shan flipped open his sleek tablet, face morphing into business mode. "This afternoon, sir, you're to visit your father at the old mansion to… discuss family matters." He said it like he was announcing a funeral. "Later this evening, there's a crucial meeting at Ridgehill Club regarding the hundred-million-dollar project. All the key stakeholders will be there to finalize the agreements."
So it's come to this. Back to the place I swore I'd never return to. Back to the ghosts and the father who thought emotions were seasonal disorders.
"Prepare the car," I said grimly. "We're heading to hell."
"Understood, Mr. Moreaux." No hesitation. No questions. Just the kind of loyalty you want when you're re-entering the emotional war zone of your childhood.
I was halfway to my closet when the dread struck. "Wait—Shan, tell me we own at least one normal car."
He froze like I'd asked him to identify his least favorite luxury brand. "Give me ten minutes, sir. I'll have someone dig through the supercar jungle and see if anything… mundane survived."
"Prepare the most normal car from the garage," I ordered, trying to sound modest. Which, in a billionaire context, probably still meant leather seats that massaged you while investing in cryptocurrency.
Shan gave a theatrical bow. "As you command, Mr. Moreaux."
Five minutes later, my phone pinged. The car was ready. I stepped outside to behold the "most normal" option: a matte-black 2023 Audi A8 that looked like it moonlighted as a diplomatic escape vehicle.
I folded my arms and stared at it. "This is normal?"
Shan didn't blink. "Compared to the Bugatti with the diamond-encrusted steering wheel? Yes."
I rubbed my temples. "Forget it. Just order a cab."
Shan faltered, like I'd just told him to fetch water from a public fountain. "A… cab, sir?"
"Yes. A cab."
He pulled out his phone slowly, as though the Uber app might judge him. "Very well, sir. But you do realize this may damage your mysterious billionaire aura."
I waved a hand. "At this point, I'd trade my aura for a quiet ride and a functioning air freshener."
Shan exhaled, defeated. "As you wish, Mr. Moreaux. Shall I request a five-star driver or just… let fate do its thing?"
I groaned, already regretting everything. "Let fate do its thing. It's been doing such a fantastic job so far."
---
I stood before the elite mansion, the one now tied to my name. A deep sigh escaped my lips. I had come alone. Assistant Shan had wanted to follow—loyal as always—but I needed to see this place with my own eyes. The home. The people. The so-called "family" who treated Lucien like a stranger in his own home, who gave him cold shoulders and colder words.
I wasn't just here to tour some fancy house. I was here to feel the weight of what he endured. The loneliness, the pressure, the pain that still lingered in the walls. And maybe, just maybe, I am here to remind them all: the Lucien they broke is gone.
I had never been here before, but the layout of the house felt surprisingly familiar. Without a single thought, I made my way to the living room.
SMASH! Someone hurled the glass with furious force against the marble floor, shattering it into a thousand glittering shards.
"You finally remember to come back, you ungrateful, unfilial son!"
I looked toward the voice...so that is Lucien's father. And beside him, if memory serves me right...that's Lucien so called step mother.
"Don't be mad, husband," she cooed, pressing herself against his chest. "He's only angry because he thinks I took his mother's place. It's not his fault."
Then, looking right at me, she said, "Lucien, your father and I… we're truly in love."
"Don't disrespect your father because of me," she said, her voice coated in false sweetness.
"I didn't come here to deal with your drama." You called me for this?
"Lucien? Is that how you talk to your elders?" Lucien's father said furiously. Don't forget I'm your father!
"Oh, so you do remember you have a son?"
"Ahg..." His father clutched his chest in anger, and his wife hurriedly sat him down on the cushion.
"You unfilial brat! How dare you disgrace our family legacy like some worthless stain? You're nothing but a shame—I'm disgusted to call you my son!"
roared Mr. Kaelin, Lucien's father, veins bulging, eyes blazing with fury and contempt.
So Lucien grew up in this kind of environment.
Huh. I can't help but feel pity for his younger self.
After his mother's death, his father should've been the umbrella shielding him from the storm.
Instead, he was the storm—
the one who etched pain into the soft, unguarded heart of a grieving child.
"Lucien... since I am you now, don't worry. I'll carry your pain, your name, your hopes. I'll live as you—and as me," I muttered.
Then I said, If there is nothing else, I'm leaving Mr. Kaelin.
Before I could take a step, I heard the scrape of the chair behind me.
"Don't smirk, Lucien."
His voice cut through the room. "You left this house, remember? And you can't even afford a damn car now."
He let out a cold, mocking laugh—more of a sneer dressed in sound. "You're nothing after leaving the Kaelin name behind."
I said nothing.
Not because I didn't have words—
but because he wasn't worth the weight of them.
But of course, silence only fueled him.
"I'll give you one more chance," he continued, stepping closer, eyes hard with superiority. "Come back to the Kaelin house. Help your brother with the business. At least try to make yourself useful."
And that's when it hit me. Not the insult.
The pain.
A sharp, twisting ache bloomed in my chest.
But it wasn't mine.
It was his.
Lucien's.
The boy who stayed silent through cold dinners, who waited at windows for birthdays his father never showed up to.
The boy who still—after everything—believed that maybe, just maybe, one day his father would say: I'm sorry.
But now, I'm in this body.
And I carry the ache he never got to scream out loud.
I turned slowly. My voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"Don't you remember, Mr. Kaelin?" I met his eyes with all the calm I had left.
"You cut ties with me thirteen years ago."
That landed. I saw it. The flicker of something—regret? rage?—in his eyes. But I didn't care to find out.
"You said I was dead to you. So why are you speaking to a ghost?"
He opened his mouth, but I wasn't done.
"Thirteen years ago, you buried your own son. So don't ask him to come back now just because the other one's too weak to carry your empire."
Mr. Kaelin stepped closer, still pretending he had the moral high ground. "Lucien, we need to talk."
I laughed, short and humorless. "Oh! Mr. Kaelin—you must've forgotten. You stripped me of my surname, remember? I'm no longer a child of your house."
His jaw clenched. I kept going, voice cold but steady. "You made that decision. You tossed me out, nameless, like a stray. So do us both a favor and stop bothering me—from today onwards, stay out of my life."
He tried to speak, but I held up a hand.
"You don't get to play father now that the nameless stray built his own empire."
Then I turned my back to him. Just like he once turned his back on me.
And with that, I turned and walked from that cold manor.