The Chosen Heir

Chapter 13: The Truth Spills II

“This… this is insane,” he stammered, shaking his head. His chest constricted, his throat dry. “You expect me to believe this? That some billionaire remembered a poor nobody like me? That he’d leave me everything? No. This is a scam. Some cruel joke.”

The old man stepped out of the car now, his presence towering despite his age. His voice softened.

“You don’t remember me, do you? I don't even expect you to. I was there that day. I watched you hand my employer, Mr. Hawthorne, that umbrella. I was his retainer, his lawyer, his shadow. He spoke of you every day until he went missing. He made me promise to find you, no matter how long it took.”

Ash’s vision blurred. He wanted to shout, to deny, to push the man away but memories assaulted him. The kindness of that moment. The frailty in the old man’s eyes. The smile of gratitude. He had dismissed it as a passing encounter, something meaningless. Yet here it was, resurfacing years later, like a tidal wave threatening to drown him.

His lips trembled. “I… I’m just a poor man. I’ve got nothing. I don’t even know my parents. How can you say I belong to this?”

The old man bent, picked up the scattered documents with surprising gentleness, and placed them back in Ash's hands.

“Because Mr. Hawthorne chose you. Blood does not define family. Deeds do. You showed him what money could never buy, a selfless heart. And that, Asher, is why everything is now yours.”

Ash shook his head frantically, backing away, the envelope clutched to his chest. “No. No, this is madness. I can’t, this isn’t real. You’ve made a mistake. I’m not who you think I am!”

The retainer’s eyes burned with conviction. “Look at the photo again, Asher. That is you. No one else. You cannot deny your own face.”

Ash’s chest heaved as he sank onto the curb, rain beginning to drizzle. His mind screamed denial, but deep inside, a seed of possibility was taking root, terrifying, impossible, but undeniable.

Still, he whispered hoarsely, almost pleading, “This is.. This is some kind of trick. I’m just a driver. A nobody. I have nothing. Nothing. Please… just let me be.”

The old man watched him silently, as if seeing the war inside him, then finally said:

“You may refuse the truth for now, but the truth will not refuse you. Tomorrow, the world will begin to know the name Asher Hawthorne.”

Ash throat worked, but no words came. His entire being recoiled from the weight of it. He wanted to hurl the envelope into the gutter, to spit on the man and walk away. Yet a part of him—the buried, broken part—ached at the possibility.

But his pride screamed louder. He straightened, his eyes flashing with a mix of pain and fury.

“I don’t want it,” he said, his voice breaking but firm. “You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not who you think I am. I’m not your heir. I’m just a nobody.”

The retainer studied him silently for a long, unbearable moment. “Whether you believe it or not, the truth does not change,” he said. “You cannot run from your blood, Mr. Asher”

Ash’s hands trembled, his heart pounding like a drum. Every fiber of him screamed to turn and run, to escape this moment before it shattered what little life he had left.

He stepped back into the shadows, shaking his head one last time. “Leave me alone,” he whispered. Then louder: “LEAVE ME ALONE!”

With that, he turned sharply and strode away, his figure hunched against the weight of both shame and destiny pressing down on him.

Behind him, the black car did not move. The retainer’s eyes followed him, knowing the fight within Asher Booker had only just begun.

Ash’s grip on the envelope tightened until the edges bit into his skin. His breath came shallow, uneven, the night pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket. The street was empty save for the sleek black car idling at the curb, its engine a soft purr that seemed out of place against the cracked sidewalks and flickering streetlamps of his world.

The car engine hummed louder. The man’s hand reached for the door, then paused. His gaze locked onto Mike one last time.

“Remember this,” he said, his tone now sharp as steel. “Whether you accept it or not, the Empire is yours and yours alone to rule. Your bloodline calls for you. And others will come for you soon, not all of them with good intentions.”

With that, the door shut. The tinted window rolled up, swallowing the man’s face back into shadow. The black car pulled away from the curb, its taillights glowing like distant embers before fading into the night.

Ash stood there, frozen in the middle of the cracked pavement, the city’s noise dull in his ears. His chest rose and fell in jagged bursts.

He looked down at the envelope still trembling in his hands. His fingers itched to tear it apart, to fling it into the gutter, but he couldn’t.

The last Hawthorne.

Enemies will come.

The Empire is yours.

The words chased each other in his head, louder and louder, until Ash pressed the envelope against his chest just to steady himself.

“I’m just Ash,” he whispered to the empty street, his voice breaking. “I’m just Ash…”