1 When we gathered at my uncle’s house for the New Year’s holiday, my cousin Travis couldn’t wait to flash his phone’s lock screen in everyone’s faces. "That’s my girlfriend," he announced, puffed up like a peacock. "Daughter of the state regulatory commissioner.

Once our schedules clear up, I’ll bring her around to meet the family." A second later, he slammed the heavy key fob of a RollsRoyce onto the dining table with a sharp, theatrical thud.

He leaned across the table, fixing me with a patronizing smirk. "You see, Felix? What was the point of all those fancy degrees?

You bury your head in books for years, and at the end of the day, you’re still just clocking in to make somebody else rich." The irony was staggering.

Because as it happened, both that orange RollsRoyce and the girl on his lock screen belonged to me.

Under the table, I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Hannah: Since when do you have another boyfriend behind my back?

Hannah fired back three question marks in less than thirty seconds. What on earth are you talking about? she texted. Sit tight. I’m driving over right now.

I’d love to see who has the death wish to pose as my boyfriend. It was the second day of the New Year, the traditional afternoon for family visits.

We were crowded into Uncle Greg’s living room, and after three glasses of scotch, the flush on Travis’s cheeks had deepened into an arrogant crimson. "Imported French bottled water," Travis declared, waving a dismissive hand as he slid half a dozen sleek glass bottles across the coffee table toward the relatives. "Thirty bucks a pop.

Drink up, drink up.

I ordered cases of the stuff last month and couldn't get through it all." The relatives clucked and gasped, picking up the glass bottles as if they were handling museum artifacts. "Thirty dollars?" Aunt Brenda gasped, squinting at the label. "For water?

What’s in it, liquid gold?" Uncle Greg let out a disdainful scoff, his chest puffed out in solidarity with his son. "It’s not just water, Brenda.

It’s naturally oxygenated mineral water from the Alps. Miracle stuff for blood sugar.

If it weren't for Travis, none of you would ever taste anything this refined in your lives." I sat quietly on the sofa.

Two years ago, Uncle Greg had practically begged me to find Travis a job after he bounced out of another trade program. Has he really hit the jackpot in twentyfour months?

If I remembered correctly, my executive assistant, Marcus, had told me he quietly slotted Travis into an entrylevel building security post at one of our suburban corporate facilities.

How much could an entrylevel security guard possibly make to throw thirtydollar bottles of luxury water around like tap water? I picked up one of the bottles. It was authentic.

In fact, it was the exact brand my household procurement staff had delivered to my estate last month.

I’d found the mineral profile too alkaline for my taste after two bottles and had told the staff to store the rest in the garage. Perhaps Travis just had an expensive palate.

People’s private indulgences weren't my business, so I held my tongue.

Predictably, the compliments started rolling in, syrupy and relentless. "Travis has really made something of himself, hasn't he? Living large out in the city!

Look at the things he buys—nothing ordinary!" "Out of all the kids in this generation, Travis turned out to be the real winner!" Travis threw a smug, sidelong glance at me, leaning back on the couch with studied indifference. "It’s nothing, really.

Just cleared a few million this past quarter." He tapped his phone screen again, tilting it so the relatives on both sides could get a clear view. "My girl.

She had some holiday charity gala with her family today and couldn't make the trip down, but when we get some downtime, I’ll bring her over." The photo showed a vibrant, striking young woman with effortless elegance, dressed in tailored cashmere.

The relatives leaned in, murmuring in envy and awe. I froze. That was Hannah Ross. My girlfriend.

One of the distant cousins suddenly squinted, letting out a sharp hiss. "Wait a second... I’ve seen her on the society news. Isn’t she Commissioner Ross’s daughter?

Travis, you're not pulling our leg, are you?" Travis’s face tightened with defensive indignation. He quickly swiped open his Instagram. "Look at her Valentine's post from last year!

Look at the caption—I’m her guy!" The relatives crowded around his screen. I leaned forward just enough to catch a glimpse, and a dry, humorless chuckle caught in my throat.

Last Valentine’s Day, Hannah had been over the moon after I surprised her with a vintage Cartier necklace.

She had posted a photo of the wrapped box and a silhouette of our hands, captioned simply: Thank you to my Mr. Bennett. Travis’s last name was Bennett. My last name was Bennett.

The shared family name had handed him the perfect shield to fish in muddy waters.

I calmly took a snapshot of Travis holding up his phone and sent it straight to Hannah, typing out a teasing jab: Running a secret side romance I should know about?

Within two minutes, Hannah’s reply flashed on the screen. ??? WHAT?! I literally just finished brunch with my parents! How do I suddenly have a new boyfriend?! Sit tight.

I'm on my way. I want to see who has the nerve to impersonate my man!

Travis, oblivious to the storm brewing in my inbox, kept holding court, his voice booming across the living room. "After this, I’m taking everyone out to my new country club estate over in Beryl Valley.

I had my people reserve the grand dining hall.

Dinner is on me tonight." He reached over and clapped a heavy hand onto my shoulder, deliberately raising his voice so the whole room fell silent. "Felix, my boy.

You’ve been grinding away in the city like a mule all year.

Now that you're finally home for the holidays, you really ought to seize this chance to relax and see how the other half lives." Aunt Brenda immediately chimed in, tutting sympathetically. "I remember when you two were boys, Felix always had the better grades.

Who would've thought that growing up, Travis would be the one flying high?" "Exactly," Uncle Greg agreed, shaking his head with an air of worldweary wisdom. "What’s the use of book smarts?

At the end of the day, you're still working for someone else’s paycheck." The veiled jabs and backhanded pity rolled off them in waves. I didn't bother offering a defense.

In the business world, I’d long grown accustomed to the kind of people who trampled on whoever seemed down and bowed before whoever seemed rich.

Looking at Travis’s puffedup chest, I realized he was still holding a grudge over what happened years ago.

Back when I had just founded my tech incubator, Uncle Greg had called, demanding I hand Travis a cushy management role.

But Travis barely possessed a high school diploma, and he’d drifted through community college without picking up a single marketable skill.

What kind of executive role was I supposed to give him? I could have slotted him into a desk job, but I knew his temperament inside out.

The moment Travis realized his cousin owned the firm, he would strut around like a petty king, demanding special privileges and disrupting operations.

Yet family was family; I couldn't leave him completely stranded.

So I turned down Uncle Greg on the surface, while privately instructing my executive assistant, Marcus, to quietly place Travis in a stable, wellcompensated facility position.

Crucially, I told Marcus never to disclose my identity to him. I thought that by securing him honest work, the matter was settled.

I hadn't realized his resentment had been festering all this time. I gave a faint, resigned smile, deciding against humiliating him in front of the extended family on a holiday.

But my silence only emboldened him. "Felix," Travis said, leaning in with faux concern, "word on the street was that you went off to start some little venture.

Why haven't we heard any news lately?

You didn't burn through your parents' life savings and feel too embarrassed to admit it, did you?" He looked around the room, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I heard Uncle Arthur is looking to sell the family house in the district.

It isn't to bail you out of some massive debt hole, is it?" Travis chuckled, tapping his glass. "Just tell me, cousin.

If you ask nicely, I might just feel generous enough to toss a little pocket change your way." I suppressed an eye roll and shifted slightly down the couch.

Over the past six years, I had built my holding group into an enterprise with multiple publicly traded subsidiaries.

As a CEO with net assets climbing into the billions, the first rule I lived by was that true wealth doesn't shout.

Besides, if I laid out the truth right now, they would simply write it off as an insecure lie.

My parents were selling their old fourbedroom house in the city center for a very simple reason: they were moving in with me.

Just this past November, I had purchased a private oceanfront villa down in Naples, Florida, fully staffed and furnished, so they could escape the harsh northern winters the moment the holidays wrapped up.

None of that would penetrate Travis’s thick skull anyway.

I reached for the scotch decanter, poured a measured splash into Travis’s tumbler, and said calmly, "Thanks for the concern, Travis.

But I’m doing just fine on money." My polite dismissal wiped the smirk off his face, replacing it with an ugly flicker of contempt.

In his eyes, I was merely putting up a pathetic, stubborn front.

He reached into his tailored overcoat, pulled out an unmistakable car key, and slapped it hard onto the mahogany surface. "Alright, folks!

Let's head out to my new estate at Beryl Manor for dinner. Time to show you all what real luxury looks like!" I glanced down at the key fob.

The heavy leather casing and the bespoke silver detailing looked startlingly familiar, but before I could process it, the relatives surged forward, clustering around Travis like a flock of eager birds.

They jostled past me, laughing and flattering him, elbowing my parents and me toward the margins.

Down in the driveway, parked directly under the winter sun, sat a gleaming, papayaorange RollsRoyce Cullinan. My breath hitched.

The relatives erupted into gasps of adoration. "My god, Travis! You’re a prodigy!

Greg, you must be walking on air to have raised such an exceptional son!" Uncle Greg stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, throwing another dismissive glance my way. "Degrees don't buy horse power!

Bringing in real cash—that’s what separates the men from the boys!" I stood rooted to the pavement, my eyes locked on the custom license plate.

That orange Cullinan was the exact vehicle sitting in my private residential garage.

The dealership had pushed the vibrant orange trim on me, but after driving it twice, I felt it drew too much unnecessary attention, so I’d parked it in the back bay, letting it collect dust.

How had it become Travis’s car? 2 I opened my mouth to speak, but the relatives were already piling in, their hands clamoring over the polished leather.

I held back, pulled my phone from my pocket, and tapped out a priority message to Marcus. Because of the New Year holiday, I had given Marcus a mandatory week of paid leave.

Knowing he might be caught up with family gatherings, I couldn't expect an instantaneous reply, so I helped my parents into the passenger cabin.

The heavy, softclose door sealed out the winter chill.

I glanced up at the interior rearview mirror; dangling from the stem was a small, handwoven silver talisman Hannah had brought back from Kyoto. There was no mistake.

This was my car. Travis adjusted the rearview mirror, catching my eye with a condescending grin. "So, Felix.

Uncle Arthur mentioned you folks are putting the old family house on the market. Coincidentally, I’m looking to expand my real estate portfolio.

What do you say you sell it to me?" Seeing my car beneath him, I already knew his 'real estate portfolio' was nothing more than hot air.

I managed a tight, polite smile. "And what kind of offer were you thinking, Travis?" To my family, the proceeds from that old suburban property were negligible pocket change.

If Travis genuinely wanted a home, out of respect for family ties, I wouldn't have minded knocking twenty percent off market value to help him out.

Yet while I was quietly calculating a family discount, Travis opened his mouth and went straight for the jugular. "Three hundred thousand," he said, tapping the steering wheel casually. "How’s that sound?" He chuckled, sounding magnanimous. "I heard from the broker that Uncle Arthur is desperate to offload it quickly.

Look, we’re family, so I won't haggle you down. I’ll take the hit and buy it above distress value." The sheer audacity nearly knocked the wind out of me.

My parents’ house was a historic fourbedroom brick craftsman in the prime downtown school district.

Under current market conditions, even in a cooling climate, it was easily appraised at over three million dollars. He had the gall to offer three hundred thousand?

I had considered offering him an eightypercent discount; he was trying to rob my parents for ten cents on the dollar. "That number seems a bit divorced from reality, don't you think?" I leaned forward, pulling up the local MLS listings on my phone, where the median comps in our old neighborhood clearly started at two and a half million. "We’re family, Travis.

Offering ten percent of fair market value is a bit predatory." Travis’s smile evaporated, his brows knitting into a dark scowl.

He took a long drag from his cigarette and flicked the burning ember straight toward the center console, letting it tumble across the front armrest. "The housing market is in the gutter," Travis snapped, his voice hard. "The only reason I’m even offering cash to take that old dump off your hands is out of charity toward our shared bloodline.

Don't be ungrateful, Felix." I stared down at the leather armrest. The stray ash had already scorched a dark, pitted hole into the bespoke Hermèsgrade hides.

A cold pressure coiled in my chest, but I kept my voice steady.

Seeing that I didn't immediately back down, Travis pivoted, directing his venom toward my parents in the back row. "Uncle Arthur, Aunt Eleanor—I see how bad things have gotten for your household.

You’re practically forced to liquidate your roof just to stay afloat, and here I am reaching out to lend a hand. Look at Felix’s attitude!

Is that how you teach him to treat family?" My father had spent his entire career as a quiet, mildmannered high school principal.

He despised holiday confrontations and squirming drama. He managed a strained, diplomatic cough. "Travis, son... our household isn't struggling for cash.

We’ll revisit the house sale another time." Uncle Greg leaned over from the front passenger seat, clearly displeased. "What, Arthur? You think you’re getting shortchanged?

I heard from Travis that the tech sector took a bloodbath this year.

Felix is completely unemployed, isn't he?" He clicked his tongue with performative pity. "You sell the property to Travis, and once the paperwork clears, I’ll have Travis arrange a decent corporate job for Felix.

Consider it our family compensation package. That’s more than fair, isn't it?" Every word dripped with unearned superiority.

My mother, who had the patience of a saint, finally snapped. Her voice dropped to an icy chill. "We appreciate your deep concern, Greg, but Felix is doing exceptionally well.

His company has never been healthier." Uncle Greg merely scoffed, assuming she was clinging to her pride in the face of ruin, and continued his lecture on why we should sign the deed over.

Before I could speak, my phone vibrated in my palm. It was Marcus. A text banner slid down: Mr.

Bennett, I apologize for the delay—we have house guests and I couldn't take a voice call. Here is what has transpired over the past fortyeight hours.

What followed was a detailed breakdown.

Years ago, when I had instructed Marcus to quietly hire Travis without revealing my ownership, Marcus had naturally assumed Travis was a favored cousin.

Not wanting to offend the boss’s family, Marcus had not only assigned him to a cushy supervisory security position, but the regional branch management had rolled out the red carpet, granting him absurd leeway.

The local staff, seeing the special treatment from corporate headquarters, assumed Travis’s personal patron was Marcus himself. They deferred to him at every turn.

Then came the holidays.

The permanent security staff and housekeepers at my private residence had been granted holiday leave, and Travis’s security detail had been rotated in to monitor the perimeter.

Taking advantage of his master key clearance and the empty grounds, Travis had brazenly unlocked my private garage, commandeered my RollsRoyce Cullinan to show off to his hometown circle, and looted the walkin pantry of its cases of imported French water.

The final message from Marcus read: Mr. Bennett, the country club estate at Beryl Manor is also held under your private asset management trust.

I have already contacted the general manager onsite, Mr. Albright. He is waiting to receive you and will execute your instructions down to the letter.

I stared at the screen, an incredulous smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. Even the very estate Travis claimed to have purchased was under my portfolio.

I held so many residential and commercial holdings across the state that I had completely forgotten about the secluded winery retreat in Beryl Valley.

I looked through the tinted windshield. Up ahead, towering wroughtiron gates swung open beneath grand stone pillars.

An estate manager in a crisp charcoal suit was already standing by the grand portico, waiting.

Travis slammed his palms onto the steering wheel, beaming with triumph. "Here we are, folks! Welcome to my estate.

Let's head inside!" 3 The moment the SUV came to a halt, the man waiting by the entrance stepped forward with a polished, professional cadence. "Good evening.

I am Jason Albright, the general manager of Beryl Manor—" Before Mr.

Albright could finish his introduction, Travis pushed through the door and gripped the manager’s hand in a tight, theatrical grasp. "Right, right, Mr. Albright!

Marcus gave me the rundown. Excellent work. Come on, lead the way inside." A brief flicker of confusion crossed Mr. Albright’s face, followed by a polite, cautious nod.

He gestured toward the sweeping double doors. "Of course, sir. Right this way." Watching from the steps, I realized immediately what had happened: Mr.

Albright had mistaken Travis for the 'Mr. Bennett' Marcus had alerted him about over the phone.

The relatives swarmed Travis, showering him with praises as they crossed the marble foyer. I swallowed the words on the tip of my tongue.

If Travis wanted to orchestrate his own public execution, I was more than happy to let him set the stage. My mother lingered behind, tugging gently on my coat sleeve.

Her brow furrowed as she took in the soaring vaulted ceilings and the limestone fireplace. "Felix... isn't this the countryside property you mentioned buying for us two years ago?" I nodded quietly. "It is." After the acquisition, my parents had looked at the architectural renderings and gently declined, saying the acreage was too isolated from their lifelong friends and lacked the warmth of a neighborhood.

So it had remained a private corporate retreat.

I patted her hand reassuringly. "If this place feels too drafty, I’ll find you something far cozier once we get down to Florida." Somehow, my quiet murmur drifted forward.

Travis halted abruptly on the parquet floor, turning around with a sharp, mocking bark of laughter. "Felix, you really have lost your mind, haven't you?

You spin these absurd fairy tales without even blushing!" He gestured wildly at the crystal chandeliers. "You think you could afford a single square foot of Beryl Manor?

Your parents are about to be homeless, selling off their old house to pay your startup debts, and here you are turning your nose up at my estate, claiming you'll buy them something better!" Aunt Brenda chimed in with an exaggerated sneer. "It’s pure jealousy, Travis!

He sees how successful you are, how powerful you’ve become, and he’s green with envy!" "Exactly," another relative chimed in, glaring at me with open disgust. "Felix, what happened to you?

All that higher education just turned you petty, jealous, and shameless!" Travis held up both hands in mock magnanimity, soaking in the collective flattery. "Well, wealth naturally attracts bitterness.

It’s only human for Felix to feel inadequate." My father’s jaw clenched. He moved to step forward, but I placed a firm, calm hand on his forearm.

This was the cleanest wakeup call my parents could ever receive.

For decades, they had been the chronic peacekeepers of the Bennett family, constantly extending grace to relatives who viewed their kindness as weakness.

Even before my father retired, these same uncles and cousins had invented endless sob stories to extract loans—over eighty thousand dollars over the years, not a single penny of which had ever been repaid.

Let them see the monsters they had nurtured. Dinner was lavish, though Travis barely touched his plate, too intoxicated by his own performance.

As the dessert plates were cleared, he reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a crisp, legalsized real estate purchase contract, and slammed it down in front of my father. "Uncle Arthur, I know your finances are on the brink," Travis said, leaning over the mahogany table. "Three hundred thousand cash, closing within fortyeight hours.

I’m doing you the favor of a lifetime here.

Don't spit on my charity." My father stared at the contract, his eyes scanning the predatory terms, and the harsh reality finally sank into his bones: Travis and Uncle Greg genuinely believed my career had collapsed, and they were circling like vultures to strip the family’s primary asset for scraps.

A deep, humiliated crimson flushed my father’s neck. "All these years, Greg... I treated you like a brother.

And you come to pick my bones clean while you think I'm down?" Uncle Greg waved a dismissive fork. "The world moves on, Arthur.

You spent twenty years bragging about your Ivyleague son.

Turns out my boy is the one who actually understands how the world works." A younger cousin at the end of the table had pulled out his phone, googling the estate’s corporate filings.

He suddenly sucked in a sharp, rattling breath. "Holy shit... look at this listing! Beryl Manor is valued at twentyfive million dollars!

Travis, you actually bought this entire compound?!" "Wait, look at the parent company!" Aunt Brenda gasped, peering over his shoulder. "It’s held under the Bennett Enterprise Group!

Isn't their chief executive a Bennett?" "The multibilliondollar Bennett Group?!" Uncle Greg shouted, his eyes gleaming with frenzied pride. "My god!

Travis, you’re the CEO of the Bennett Group?!

Why didn't you tell us?!" Travis, drunk on the room’s worship, threw his polished oxfords onto the edge of the dining table and leaned back, his chest expanding to its absolute limit. "I didn't want to terrify you all with the numbers," Travis drawled, waving a careless hand. "But since you figured it out on your own, I won't hide it anymore." He pinned me with a triumphant glare. "So, Felix?

A man of my stature—do you honestly think I care about your little threehundredthousanddollar shack? Sign the damn deed.

Once you hand it over, if you beg properly, I might find you an entrylevel clerk position in one of my satellite branches so you can afford your parents' nursing home." The relatives erupted into frantic murmurs, swarming around my father, practically physically pulling his arm toward the contract. "Sign it, Arthur!

What are you waiting for?!" "Travis is a billionaire!

You cross him now, you’ll never survive in this state!" Uncle Greg reached over, grabbing my father’s hand to force a pen into his fingers. "My future daughterinlaw is the regulatory commissioner’s daughter!

Arthur, you can't afford to make an enemy of our branch of the family.

Sign the papers, and we’ll keep you fed!" They were practically dragging my father’s hand toward the signature line when the grand oak doors swung wide with a thunderous crash.

Marcus rushed through the entrance, followed closely by a stunning young woman in a tailored camelwool coat.

Marcus took one look at the chaotic struggle around the dining table, his face draining of all color. "Get your hands off him!" Marcus bellowed, signaling two security guards behind him to tear the relatives away from my father.

Wiping cold sweat from his forehead, Marcus hurried past the frozen crowd and dropped to one knee beside my chair. "Mr. Bennett... I am so sorry.

Traffic on the turnpike was backed up—I came the second I got your ping." Beside him, Hannah folded her arms, her icy glare sweeping across the room until it locked onto Travis. "I hear somebody’s been running around town claiming to be my boyfriend," Hannah said, her voice dropping into a razorsharp register. "I came to see which pathetic clown had the nerve."