CHAPTER 4
643 Words
Chris Westminster stepped out of the police station, squinting at the sudden blast of morning sunlight. The dried blood on his cheek tugged as he blinked. His hoodie clung to him with the scent of old bleach and sour humiliation.
But then he saw him.
A tall, middle-aged man in a crisp black suit leaned against a glossy car parked at the curb. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and his polished shoes didn’t belong anywhere near a sidewalk in this part of town.
Chris blinked again. “Uncle Steven?”
The man straightened with a warm smile. “Chris.”
Chris jogged over, puzzled. “Wait—did you pay my bail?”
Steven chuckled and, to Chris’s utter confusion, gave him a slight bow. “Not quite. But I was asked to come and escort you.”
Chris's brows pulled together. “Escort me? To where? I didn’t order a limo—I can’t even afford a decent pair of socks.”
Steven simply gestured toward the sleek black car behind him—a luxury model that looked like it belonged in a billionaire's garage, not on a cracked city road.
“Please, Mr. Westminster. Your ride awaits.”
Chris gave him a blank stare. “Did you hit your head this morning, or did I? Why are you calling me Mister? You live two doors down from me and once asked to borrow soy sauce.”
Steven smiled, opening the passenger door. “All in due time. Just get in.”
Chris hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he slid in. The leather seats practically hugged him.
He glanced sideways. “Alright, Steven. If this is an organ harvesting scheme, I gotta say—you really overdid it with the car.”
Steven smirked. “No organs needed. Just answers.”
They drove for nearly an hour, through winding roads that led out of the city and into greener, quieter hills. Eventually, the car rolled to a stop before a massive wrought iron gate adorned with gold patterns.
Chris blinked up at it. “Is this a museum or a villain’s lair?”
Steven chuckled. “Welcome to your home.”
Chris choked on his breath. “My what now?”
The gate opened with a quiet groan, revealing a sprawling manor that looked like it belonged in a European drama. Fountains bubbled in the circular driveway.
As the car rolled to a stop, two rows of people dressed in black uniforms stood in front of the entrance. Maids. Butlers. All lined up like it was a royal welcome.
Chris slowly stepped out, his jaw practically unhinged.
“I… I think we took a wrong turn somewhere between reality and rich people’s delusions.”
One of the butlers bowed. “Welcome, young master.”
Chris turned to Steven, eyes wide. “They think I’m someone else. I mean, I clean basketball courts. My dinner last night was expired cereal.”
Steven placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “They know exactly who you are.”
Before Chris could question further, the double doors to the manor swung open, and a woman in elegant attire nodded to him. “Right this way.”
The hall was grand—white marble floors, chandeliers the size of his apartment, paintings older than the public school system.
Chris’s worn-out sneakers squeaked against the polished surface, and every footstep echoed like a mistake.
Finally, they reached a luxurious sitting room. At the far end, in a velvet armchair, sat a man with sharp features, piercing eyes, and a glass of brandy in his hand.
The moment Chris stepped in, the man smiled.
“Chris.”
Chris froze. “Dad?”
The room fell silent for a moment, the air heavy.
Chris’s face twisted in disbelief. “What the hell are you doing here?”
- Writer
