I was born without the ability to decode polite social lies. When I was eight years old, an older neighbor patted my head and chuckled, "Such a good boy.

If only you were my son." That very evening, I packed my little battered suitcase, knocked on his front door, and asked in earnest, "Which room is mine, sir?" When I was ten, I gave my classroom desk mate a birthday present.

He demurred, waving his hands with customary bashfulness: "Oh, come on, I couldn't possibly take this from you." I reached out and snatched the box right back. "Fine, if you don't want it." From that day forward, everyone in my orbit learned the golden rule: don't play polite with me.

Because I will take every single word as absolute truth. Years later, my biological parents finally tracked me down, crowning me the longlost heir to the Pembroke dynasty.

At my welcomehome gala, Chase, the adopted son who had occupied my place all those years, approached me holding a crystal glass of pinot noir.

His eyes shimmered with delicate, unshed tears. "Now that my little brother is home, there's no place left for me in this house.

I'll pack my bags and leave first thing tomorrow." I immediately whipped out my phone. "Do you prefer economy or first class?" Chase froze.

The wine in his glass sloshed violently against the crystal. "I...

I haven't even found an apartment yet." I swiped open Zillow and shoved the screen under his nose. "This one looks great.

Quiet neighborhood, first month, last month, and a security deposit.

I'll cover the upfront costs for you." He bit his trembling lower lip and turned an agonizing gaze toward our father.

Dad sighed heavily, stepping in to smooth over the tension. "Your brother isn't used to living in cramped spaces..." Understanding struck me like lightning.

I tapped into another listing. "This penthouse is five thousand square feet. Plenty of room for two.

Dad, why don't you move in with him?" … Dad’s face turned the color of cold granite.

Seeing the storm brewing, Mom rushed over to play peacemaker. "Carey, Chase has lived under this roof for eighteen years.

He considers this place his home." I blinked at her, completely earnest. "But he just said out loud that he was leaving." Mom nearly choked on her tongue.

My older sister, Sloane, marched over, her heels clicking aggressively against the marble floor. "Carey! You are unbelievable!

Chase was just expressing his insecurities, and instead of reassuring him, you stand here dripping with venom?

Do you even have a heart?!" I stared at her, utterly perplexed. "Sloane, if he wants to move out, and I don't help him book a ticket and find a place, what else am I supposed to do?

Lock him in the basement?" Sloane sputtered, furious. "He was just being polite!" "Oh," I nodded, genuine realization washing over me. "So he was lying to be polite." I turned back to Chase and projected my voice so the surrounding guests could hear clearly: "In that case, Chase, please don't be polite with me!

Pack your bags and move out immediately!

Don't let my presence hold you back from doing what you truly want!" Sloane: "..." The solitary tear clinging to Chase’s eyelash forgot to fall.

I added helpfully, "By the way, have you started packing yet? Need a hand?

I'm exceptionally fast at folding shirts." Chase stared at me, his mouth trembling for several agonizing seconds without producing a single syllable.

Sloane clenched her fists until her knuckles went white. "Carey... are you completely out of your mind?" The welcome gala dissolved into a quiet catastrophe.

Back at the estate, Chase stood near the grand staircase, his eyes redrimmed and tragic. "Since Carey is back, I'll vacate the master suite on the second floor.

I'll just sleep in the small guest bedroom in the attic." Mom and Dad instantly melted with sympathy. "Silly boy, what are you talking about?

You've lived here your whole life—that room belongs to you!" Hearing that, my eyes lit up. Without a second thought, I dragged my duffel bag up the stairs.

I kicked open the doors to the master suite and began tossing Chase’s designer suits, custom shoes, and monogrammed luggage into the hallway, piece by piece.

Chase rushed up, tears streaming down his cheeks in earnest. "Carey, why are you doing this to me? Did I do something wrong?

If my mere existence offends you so much, then... then I might as well just die!" With that, he made a dramatic move to fling himself headfirst into the drywall.

I caught his arm with a firm grip and looked at him with profound sincerity. "Listen to me, Chase. If you're really trying to kill yourself, don't hit the wall.

It's slow, agonizing, and nine times out of ten you just end up with a concussion." I jogged down to the kitchen, grabbed a sharp paring knife from the butcher block, pressed the wooden handle into his hand, and instructed him patiently: "Use this.

When you slit your wrists, submerge your hands in a bowl of warm water.

It numbs the pain, dilates the blood vessels, and keeps the mess contained so the cleaners don't have to scrub the carpet." Chase’s face drained of every drop of color.

His hand shook so violently the blade rattled against his rings. I watched him, my voice brimming with genuine concern. "Why are your hands shaking? Are you scared of the pain?

How about I dial 911 right now? That way, if you botch the cut, the paramedics can still resuscitate you." Chase finally snapped.

He flung the knife away with a clatter and bolted into his room, wailing. I stood in the hall, sighing quietly. People these days have no resilience.

Even their threats of suicide were entirely halfassed. Still, I considered myself a helpful person. Tomorrow, I decided, I’d go buy him a box of heavyduty bandages.

If he actually went through with it, he’d at least have something to stop the bleeding. At dinner, nobody bothered to summon me.

Thickskinned as ever, I wandered down to the dining room and pulled out a mahogany chair. Dad was still nursing his fury.

He sneered across the table, his words dripping with sarcasm: "Oh, look who decided to grace us with his presence.

Since you arrived so late, why don't I just spoonfeed you myself?!" I immediately opened my mouth wide, letting out a crisp, expectant: "Ahhh—" Dad slammed his silver fork onto the table so hard the porcelain rattled.

How strange. He was the one who offered to feed me. Why was he angry? Was my mouth not open wide enough? I stretched my jaw wider, opening it like a nestling waiting for a worm.

Mom pressed her temples, letting out a long, ragged sigh. "Carey... when you were lost all those years, did you suffer some kind of brain damage?" I closed my mouth, thought about it carefully, and nodded. "When I was living on the streets, begging for change, a car did clip me once.

Knocked me out cold." Sloane let out a derisive snort. "Save the sob story, Carey." Chase, however, dabbed his moist eyes, his voice gentle and wounded. "My poor brother... he's suffered so much out there.

We really ought to compensate him generously." Dad, Mom, and Sloane immediately began murmuring praises for how gracious and kindhearted Chase was—unlike me.

I nodded along, thoroughly agreeing with his assessment. "Chase is completely right," I chimed in. "Since you want to compensate me, why don't you sign your company shares over to me?" Chase’s face curdled into the shade of spoiled milk.

Dad’s temper flared again. He slammed his palm against the table. "Carey! You barely set foot in this house and you're already demanding equity?!

Where on earth are your manners?!" Mom inhaled sharply through her nose. "Carey, can't you just act like a normal human being for once?" Sloane sneered, "Stop playing dumb.

You're doing this on purpose just to provoke us." I looked around the table at my furious, scowling family, completely baffled.

Didn't Chase literally just say he wanted to compensate me? Dinner broke apart in bitter silence. Afterward, Chase cornered me in the quiet expanse of the secondfloor gallery.

He scanned the hallway to ensure we were out of earshot.

The fragile, woundeddoe expression evaporated entirely, replaced by a cold, venomous glare. "Carey, don't you dare think you can replace me just because you share their blood," he hissed. "There will never be a place for you in this family.

If you have any sense at all, you'll pack your trash and leave." Ah. Now that, I understood. Chase hated me.

I let out an exhausted breath. "Look, Chase, I never wanted to fight you for anything.

We could just live under the same roof in peace." Chase scoffed coldly. "Drop the pathetic act!

If you want the title of the Pembroke heir, you'll have to step over my dead body!" The words had barely left his lips when I reached out, shoved him squarely in the chest, and sent him sprawling flat onto the hardwood floor.

Then I lifted my right leg and calmly stepped right over him. Chase: "..." He lay sprawled on the ground, his mind completely blank, paralyzed in shock. He even forgot to scream.

Right on cue, alerted by the thud, Mom, Dad, and Sloane rounded the corridor corner. Taking in the scene, Chase immediately burst into theatrical wails. "Mom! Dad! Sloane!

Carey pushed me! He shoved me down and stepped right over me!" My parents and sister looked ready to keel over with distress.

Sloane was shaking with sheer rage. "Get down to the basement storage room this instant!

Don't you dare come out until you've thought about what you've done!" I walked down to the basement obediently. It was damp, dark, and heavy with the smell of moldering cardboard.

Sitting on the icy concrete floor, I wrapped my arms around my knees, genuinely unable to comprehend it. Chase had explicitly told me to step over his body.

Why was everyone so angry with me? I slept the night on the concrete floor. Early the next morning, Mom unlocked the heavy door. "Get yourself cleaned up.

You're coming with me to meet your fiancée." I rubbed my swollen eyes, bewildered. "Mom, I have a fiancée?" "The Fairchild family.

Brianna Fairchild," Mom instructed in a sharp, hurried tone. "Before you went missing as a child, our families arranged a betrothal. You have to be on your best behavior today.

The Fairchilds control major private equity in this city—we cannot afford to offend them." I nodded readily. "Don't worry, Mom. I'll do great.

I won't embarrass you." The private banquet hall of the country club was shimmering with crystal chandeliers and expensive silk gowns.

Having starved all night in the basement, my stomach was practically glued to my ribs. I took a seat at the banquet table and went to work.

Roast duck, braised short ribs, sea bass, glazed pork—everything disappeared down my throat.

Just as I polished off a crispy chicken thigh and reached my chopsticks toward a plate of glazed ribs, an arrogant female voice drifted across the dining hall: "Dad, Chase and I are in love!

I am not marrying anyone else!" Mr. Fairchild slammed his tumbler of scotch down, his voice booming with authority. "Nonsense! Chase is adopted!

Your arrangement was made with the true blood heir of the Pembroke name.

Our family does not go back on its word!" Brianna Fairchild turned around with deep reluctance and stalked toward my table.

Dressed in a tailored couture gown, she was undeniably striking, but her expression looked like she had just been forced to swallow a wasp.

She looked me up and down, her gaze settling on my greasesmeared mouth with unmistakable disgust. "You're Carey, right?" she sneered. "What's the matter, did they not have food where you crawled out of?

Would you like me to order the entire kitchen for you?" My eyes lit up instantly. I waved down the nearest server with total confidence. "Excuse me, bring me the full menu, please.

I'd like to place an order." The server hesitated, stunned, before handing me the leatherbound book.

I flipped it open and began reciting dishes at the top of my lungs: "Truffle risotto, braised wagyu, lobster thermidor, caviar blinis, panseared sea bass, stuffed pheasant..." Within ten minutes, two servers pushed carts to our table, covering the linen with over twenty steaming platters.

Brianna’s eyelid twitched violently. "You really have no shame, do you? Why don't I just hand over Fairchild Enterprises to you while I'm at it?!" I immediately set down my fork.

I picked up the linen napkin, patted my lips with practiced elegance, and clapped my hands loudly. The banquet hall fell dead silent.

Whispers died; every pair of eyes locked onto our table.

I stood up, surveyed the wealthy crowd, and announced with pure, heartfelt enthusiasm: "Distinguished guests, ladies and gentlemen! Please be my witnesses!

Brianna Fairchild just declared, in front of all of you, that she is handing Fairchild Enterprises over to me! A promise made is a promise kept!" Dead silence swallowed the room.

Brianna’s face turned the mottled green of bruised avocado.

A ripple of stifled chuckles and whispers broke out among the guests, mocking how she had walked straight into her own trap.

Mortified, Brianna spun around to her father. "Dad, you saw that! He just publicly humiliated me!

I am never marrying this lunatic!" I looked at her, entirely perplexed. "Wait... when did I ever say I wanted to marry you?" Brianna froze. "When you offered me Fairchild Enterprises, I thought that was your dowry," I said honestly. "If you aren't going to hand over the company, I'm definitely not interested in marrying you." With that, I turned on my heel and walked out.

Leaving Brianna standing in the center of the hall, her face burning with humiliation—publicly rejected by a man for the first time in her life.

Stepping out into the crisp afternoon breeze, my stomach full of roast chicken, I felt deeply satisfied. Though, losing out on Fairchild Enterprises was a bit of a shame.

The moment I walked through the front doors of the estate, all hell broke loose.

Mom was shaking with rage, her manicured finger jabbing at my face as she screamed that I had destroyed their alliance with the Fairchild family.

Dad charged forward, roaring that I was an ungrateful ingrate. Sloane stomped her designer pumps, branding me an irredeemable idiot.

Chase hovered by the sofa, tears clinging to his lashes. "Carey, did you do this on purpose?

Do you resent me so much that you're willing to ruin our entire family just to spite me?" Before I could get a word in, Walter, the family chauffeur, rushed into the foyer holding an iPad, his face flushed. "Mr.

Pembroke! Mrs. Pembroke!

Master Carey is trending across social media!" Sloane let out a cold, triumphant laugh. "He offended the Fairchilds—the internet must be tearing him to shreds.

Serves him right!" She snatched the tablet and pulled up the trending feeds.

In the next second, her smirk shattered. #1 Trending Topic: "Real Heir Savagely Shuts Down Smug Heiress" #2 Trending Topic: "The Pembroke Heir Is the Ultimate AntiHero" Disbelieving, Sloane tapped on the viral video.

It was an edit of me cutting down Brianna at the country club, set to an upbeat techno track, already racking up over a hundred million views.

The comments were in absolute hysterics: "Bro didn’t even hesitate!

He really said: Hand over the firm or no deal!" "He speaks for every workingclass person who ever had to deal with rich brats. My new idol." "This is what a real heir looks like.

No scheming, just eating his chicken and checking egos." "Look at Miss Fairchild trying to act like a corporate tyrant, completely silenced!

I'm crying!" Right then, Dad’s corporate secretary called, his voice trembling over the speakerphone: "Mr. Pembroke!

Because of your son’s viral video blowing up the internet, Pembroke Group’s stock just surged fifteen percent at market open!" Mom whipped out her phone and checked the financial tickers.

The green line was practically shooting through the roof. In an instant, her face transformed. The venom vanished, replaced by an oily, doting smile.

She reached for my arm. "Carey, darling... Mom always knew you were destined for great things..." Dad rushed over too, taking my hands with desperate warmth. "My boy!

You must be starving. Come, let Dad cook you something special!" Chase stood frozen by the staircase, suffocating on his own bile, gnawing on his bottom lip until it bruised.

Eager to ride the wave of publicity, Mom immediately booked a press conference for the next morning to milk the engagement.

Before the cameras were turned on, she leaned in and squeezed my shoulder, whispering urgently: "Carey, make sure you emphasize how well the family has treated you, okay?" The reporters surged forward, shoving microphones toward my chest. "Mr.

Pembroke, how do you feel about becoming an overnight viral sensation?" "As the longlost heir finally reunited with high society, how has your family welcomed you home?" Mom and Dad stood just offcamera, beaming with paternal pride, practically salivating over the next stock surge.

I stared directly into the main lens. Then, slowly, I shook my head and spoke into the microphones: "The Pembrokes have treated me horribly."