The Chosen Heir

Chapter 15: The Long Wait

Ash sat at the edge of the bed, lacing his worn-out shoes with slow, deliberate movements, as though tying those frayed laces was the only thing holding his life together. His wife, Tessa, stood by the bed, arms folded, a frown etched across her face.

“You know,” she began, her voice sharp yet tired, “Your friend could actually help. How long are you going to keep pretending you don’t need him?”

Ash hands paused mid-motion. He sighed, tugged the laces tight, and stared at the floor. “Tessa, I said I’d think about it. I don’t want to show up at his door begging.”

“You think pride will feed us?” she snapped. “You think pride will pay for Nora's school fees? Ash, the world doesn’t care about your pride.”

He clenched his jaw. She wasn’t wrong. Nora's face flashed in his mind — her big, curious eyes when she asked why she wasn't at school like the other children. He swallowed hard.

“I’ll handle it,” he muttered.

“Handle it?” Tessa scoffed. “You’ve been saying that for ages now. No, Ash.If you won’t go, then I will. I’ll talk to him myself.”

That jolted him. He stood up, his tall frame casting a shadow across the room. “No. Don’t. Please, Tessa. Let me...”

But she raised a hand, cutting him off. “I’m tired of watching you fail. Do something today. Promise me, Ash.”

He nodded reluctantly, though deep down he knew he didn’t have the courage to face his best friend. Not after everything.

Few minutes later, Ash was already on his way to the estate. The sun was unforgiving, beating down on the back of his neck as he trudged along the cobblestone path that led to the sprawling mansion.

The security guard at the gate gave him a long, skeptical look until Ash pulled out the card given to him by the secretary the previous day. The guard inspected it, then pressed a button. The iron gates slid open slowly, groaning under their own weight.

“Go on in. The boss will be informed,” the guard said curtly.

Ash walked through, his eyes widening as the mansion came into view. It wasn’t just a house; it was a fortress of wealth. Tall marble pillars held up a gleaming façade, fountains gurgled in the courtyard, and perfectly trimmed hedges lined the driveway. For a moment, he felt like an imposter, a man trespassing into a world that wasn’t his.

Inside, a butler with an unreadable expression ushered him into the living room.

“Please wait here. The master is… occupied.”

Ash nodded quietly, lowering himself onto the edge of a sofa so soft it nearly swallowed him whole. He clasped his hands together, resting them on his knees, and tried not to let his awe show.

Minutes ticked by. He kept checking the clock mounted above the fireplace, its golden frame glinting under the chandelier’s light.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

An hour.

His legs began to cramp, but he didn’t move. His palms were slick with sweat.

He’ll come soon. He’s just busy. That’s all.

Another hour passed. The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant ticking of the clock and the occasional rustle of servants moving in and out of other rooms.

By the third hour, Ash's patience had withered into dust. He shifted in his seat, staring at the floor, humiliation burning in his chest.

Three hours. Just sitting here like a beggar, waiting for crumbs of attention. Maybe Tessa was right. Maybe I am nothing more than a failure.

He rubbed his face with both hands, wishing he could disappear.

And then —

A voice.

A woman’s voice, lilting and confident, echoing faintly from behind the closed double doors at the far end of the hall.

Ash froze.

The voice grew clearer, threaded with laughter. “Darling, are you still making him wait? Three hours is enough to break anyone’s patience.”

Ash’s heart thudded in his chest. He turned his head toward the door, confusion flickering across his face.

Darling? Who is she talking to?

A low murmur followed, a man’s voice, muffled.

Ash’s stomach twisted.

He leaned forward unconsciously, straining to hear, every nerve in his body pulled taut like a wire.

The woman laughed again, the sound dripping with amusement, almost cruel. “If he’s still out there, he must be desperate. How entertaining.”

Humiliation rushed back, hotter this time, scorching him from the inside out. He tightened his fists until his knuckles whitened.

They know I’m here. They’re laughing about me. About how long I’ve been sitting like a fool.

The living room suddenly felt smaller, suffocating. He wanted to bolt, to run out of the estate and never look back. But something rooted him in place, pride, anger, desperation.

He glanced at the double doors once more, pulse hammering in his ears.

Who was she? The wife of the man he was waiting for? A business associate? Or maybe someone whose voice alone could command even a man of wealth?

Before his thoughts could wander further, footsteps echoed against the polished floor. The man appeared.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a commanding presence, he wore a tailored charcoal suit that whispered of wealth and old power. His tie was immaculately knotted, his cufflinks gleamed like tiny suns. The moment he entered, the room seemed to shrink around him.

His eyes, sharp and appraising, fell on Ash. “I believe you’re the driver.”

Ash's lips parted. For a heartbeat, he wanted to protest, to say: No, I’m not your driver.

So instead, he nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The man didn’t smile. He only adjusted his cufflink and said, “Good. I need you to take me to the Regency Grand.”

Mike blinked. The Regency Grand. He had never been inside, but everyone in the city knew it — a five-star hotel of untouchable luxury, where politicians, billionaires, and foreign dignitaries dined under golden chandeliers. For Ash, it was a building he had passed by on foot, watching limousines glide through its gates while he counted bus fare in his pocket.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, rising from the sofa.

Moments later, he was outside, following the man toward a sleek black Mercedes-Benz parked in the driveway. Its chrome shimmered under the morning sun, as though freshly kissed by light itself. Ash’s reflection stared back at him from its surface, tired eyes, cheap shirt, a man who looked more like a beggar than an employee.

He opened the door for his boss, who slid into the backseat with a grace that came only from years of entitlement.

Ash sat behind the wheel, hands gripping the leather steering, his pulse quickening. The interior of the car was a world in itself, wood-trimmed panels, a faint cologne that spoke of power, and silence thick enough to choke him.

“Drive,” the man ordered, without glancing up from his phone.

Ash started the engine. The car hummed to life, smooth and confident. As they pulled out of the estate, Ash caught himself glancing at the rearview mirror. His passenger sat straight, expression unreadable, fingers scrolling lazily across his device.

For ten minutes, the silence weighed heavily. Ash's mind raced. Questions clawed at him: Who exactly is this man? Why does the secretary trust me to drive him? Why here, why now? But fear glued his lips shut.

The man broke the silence first. “You’re new.”

“Yes, sir,” Ash said quickly.

“You don’t talk much.”

“I… I try to do my job well, sir.”

A faint hum escaped the man’s throat, as if amused. “A good quality. But in this business, silence can be a weapon or a weakness. Which are you?”

Ash’s grip tightened on the wheel. He didn’t know how to answer. If he said silence was a strength, he might sound arrogant. If he said weakness, he’d sound pathetic.

“I… I guess that depends on the situation, sir.”

The man’s gaze flicked to him through the mirror. For a brief second, Ash felt stripped bare.

The drive continued, the city blurring past. They crossed busy intersections, honking traffic, street vendors shouting their wares, the world Ash belonged to. But as they neared the Regency Grand, the scenery changed. Wide streets lined with trees, glittering storefronts, luxury cars, polished sidewalks. This was not Ash’s world.

When the hotel finally loomed ahead, Ash's breath caught. Its towering glass façade shimmered like a palace of light. Valets in white gloves moved briskly at the entrance, bowing to guests stepping out of Rolls Royces and Bentleys.

Ash eased the Mercedes into the driveway. The valet approached, but the man in the back gestured subtly, dismissing him. Ash stepped out, rounded the car, and opened the door.

“Wait here,” the man said, stepping onto the red-carpeted entrance.

“Yes, sir.”

Ash stood awkwardly by the car, trying not to stare too hard at the guests streaming in, men in tuxedos, women in evening gowns, laughter bubbling in accents from across the globe. He was invisible here, a shadow tethered to the gleaming car.

Minutes stretched into half an hour. Ash shifted his weight, his mind restless. Inside his bag lay the envelope he had shoved in the night before. Hawthorne International. His bloodline. The man’s words: Whether you accept it or not, the Empire is yours.

Now, standing before the very gates of wealth, Ash felt the cruel irony. He belonged on the inside but was stuck on the outside, playing the role of a driver.

His phone buzzed. A message from his wife: Don’t forget about your friend. You need him. We can’t keep going like this. Also… the school called again about the fees.

Ash's chest tightened. He shoved the phone back into his pocket before despair could swallow him whole.

At last, the man emerged. His expression was calm, but his eyes glinted with something sharper, as though the meeting inside had added weight to his already heavy presence.

“Take me to Hawthorne Plaza,” he ordered.

Ash froze. Hawthorne. The name shot through him like lightning. Did the man know? Or was it coincidence?

“Yes, sir,” Ash said, masking the tremor in his voice.