The Billionaire’s Hidden Identity

The hot November weather was a killer. Still, the mornings and evenings were eased by the late autumn breeze as people gathered around the crashed car, shouting and calling for help, dust hung heavily in the air as the sound of an ambulance siren grew louder. Some men tried to force the damaged doors open and rescue the victims trapped inside. My younger sister and I stood there, completely frozen, staring at the wreckage, praying that my father was still alive. God only knows how eagerly; however. My father had been a driver for as long as I could remember. He drove people around the city just to put food on our table. He wasn’t rich, but he was a good and hardworking man. A man who loved his family more than anything. That morning, before leaving for work, he kissed my mother, then he looked at me and said something I would never forget. “Take care of your mother and your sister.” I thought he was asking me to look after them while he was away. I never knew those would be the last words I would ever hear from him. When the rescuers finally pulled everyone out of the car, I held my breath. Nobody was breathing. My father was motionless. My knees weakened beneath me and my heart dropped. Everyone grieved, and the sound broke something inside me. That was the moment everything became real. My father was dead. Just like that. The man who had left home happily that morning was now lying lifeless inside an ambulance on its way to the morgue. I wanted to scream. I wished to wake up and discover that it was all a terrible dream. A familiar voice summoned my attention, when I turned, it was one of the rescuers. “Your father was trying to avoid something,” he said. I turned sharply to him. “What do you mean?” His face changed, as if he suddenly regretted speaking. Before he could explain, another man called him away. “Come and help here!” “Wait!” I called after him. “What did you mean? What was my father trying to avoid?” And I never got the chance to speak to him again. My father was gone, and I was left with a question I didn’t know how to answer. Was it really an accident? When Ava and I got home, my mother was sitting on the sofa. Because of her health condition, I didn’t dare to tell her immediately. She looked at me. “Call your father and tell him to buy my drugs on his way home,” she said. My throat tightened. I forced a smile. “Alright, Mom.” She stared at me. “Why are you crying?” “Really? Am I?” I quickly wiped my face. But Ava couldn’t hold it in anymore. She burst into tears. “Mom…” I grabbed her hand. “Please, don’t say anything.” But it was already too late. My mom’s expression changed. She slowly stood up and looked from me to Ava. “What happened?” Nobody answered. “Oh, my God.” Her voice cracked. “Where is my husband?” I took a step toward her, but before I could say anything, she collapsed. For a few terrifying seconds, she didn’t move. I sprinkled water on her face till her eyes slowly opened. She looked at me, and I knew she already understood what happened. Months later, white flowers decorated the church as we gathered to bury my father. Their sweet smell filled the air, but nothing about that day felt sweet. People came dressed in black. Some cried while others hugged us and offered their sympathy. “Be strong.” “I’m sorry for your loss.” “Everything will be okay.” I hated those words. How was I supposed to be strong without my father? How was everything supposed to be okay when nothing would ever be the same again? I watched as the coffin slowly disappeared into the ground. And something inside me disappeared with it. After the burial, everyone went home. The calls became fewer, visitors stopped coming and the sympathy slowly ended. That was when the real reality began. My mother’s hospital bills were piling up faster than I could breathe. Ava was still in school. Our rent was due, and the food in the house was almost finished. One night, I sat alone at the kitchen table with a piece of paper and wrote down everything we needed. Rent. Food. School fees. Medicine. Hospital bills. I calculated the little money we had left. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. I stared at the paper until the words became blurry. That night, I made a decision. I would take care of my family. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know where the money would come from. But I knew that I couldn’t sit down and watch my family lack. I was only 20 years old. At that age, I should be thinking about school, friends, parties, and love. Instead, I was thinking about bills to pay. The next morning, I decided to start selling food by the roadside. At first, I kept it small because I wasn’t sure if it would work. And it became one of the best decisions of my life. I cooked for people, cleaned houses, offered home services, and accepted small food orders. I woke up early and returned home late. At times, I came home so exhausted that I could barely feel my legs. But whenever I saw my mom taking her medicine and Ava going to school, I knew my efforts were worth it. One customer recommended me to another. Gradually, my small food business began to grow. Slowly, I became my father’s replacement everyone depended on. Years passed. I went from selling small meals by the roadside to taking orders from offices and private events. People started knowing my name. “Tasha Ryan” The young chef who could turn ordinary ingredients into something delicious. For the first time in years, I was proud of myself. I thought I finally had my life under control. But I was wrong because my mother was about to bring up something I wasn’t ready for. Something that would change the direction of my life. What could that possibly be?