1 The moment I discovered I was the biological son of the Montgomerys—the actual heir to a real estate empire—I didn’t hesitate.

I went straight to their doorstep to reclaim my life. There was no dramatic denial, no soapopera DNA battle.

After the test results came back, my parents immediately announced my return to the world.

Even Sebastian, the "fake" son who had been living my life for sixteen years, didn’t try to sabotage me.

Instead, he did everything he could to help me "adjust" to the highsociety life he had perfected. But I wasn’t satisfied.

I was a jagged piece of glass in their polished world, and I made sure everyone felt the edge. The breaking point came after I slapped one of the housekeepers.

My mother—my biological mother—finally snapped. "What is it, Gabriel? What do you actually want?" I pointed a trembling finger at the housekeeper. "She compares me to him.

Every single day.

She says I’m clumsy, that I’m 'rough around the edges,' that I’m the stray dog they let into the mansion." Then, I turned my gaze to Sebastian, who stood there looking like a Prince of the Upper East Side. "He is only who he is because he stole my life.

Why do I have to live under the same roof as my own shadow? Why am I the 'before' photo to his 'after'?" My voice cracked, turning into a scream. "Make him leave. Now.

Or I’ll keep making this house a living hell." My parents exchanged a look of weary desperation. "Gabriel, honey, let’s be reasonable," my father started, his voice calm and patronizing. "The mixup at the hospital… that wasn’t Sebastian’s fault." I knew that.

Deep down, I knew he hadn't chosen to be swapped at birth. But was it my fault? "I’m not interested in being 'good sons' together," I spat. "It’s him or me.

Choose." "Gabe, please..." My mother reached out, her hand trembling, trying to soothe me the way she did when she wanted to sweep things under the rug.

I slapped her hand away with a violence that shocked even me.

I glared at her, my eyes burning. "Don’t touch me!" I hissed. "Gabriel!" my father bellowed, his face reddening. "That is your mother.

You will not be disrespectful." I started clawing at my own hair, the hysteria rising in my throat like bile. "She’s not my mother! Neither of you are my parents!

You’re Sebastian’s parents. What am I? An intruder? An inconvenience?

Do you wish I’d just stayed in the trailer park and died?" My eyes landed on the catalyst of this particular tantrum: a bowl of strawberries on the marble island.

They weren't quite fresh; the edges were darkening, turning soft. I grabbed the bowl and hurled it across the room.

The ceramic shattered, and I began stomping on the fruit, grinding the red pulp into the expensive rug until the juice looked like blood. "In this house, he’s the prince and I’m the beggar," I screamed. "He wants berries, the staff gets him the organic ones handpicked that morning.

I want some, and I get the weekold scraps that are starting to rot! When are you going to treat me like I’m actually yours?

Why does even the help look down on me?" I heard the whispers. I always heard them.

I’d tried to ignore it, tried to play the part of the grateful son because I didn't want them to hate me.

But my silence had only bought me their mockery. “A pig in a silk suit is still a pig,” I’d heard the head maid mutter yesterday. “These berries cost twenty dollars a pint.

Even if they’re a little soft, they’re better than anything he’s ever seen.” I realized then that the "luxury" I was enjoying was just Sebastian’s leftovers.

He didn't want them, so they were "good enough" for the biological son. I kept screaming, kept sobbing. My parents tried to pacify me. "We’ll fire her, Gabriel. Right now.

If you want strawberries, we’ll fly them in from wherever you want. The best.

The freshest." Sebastian stood there, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. "I didn’t know," he said softly. "I... I’m sorry." He took a step toward me, reaching out a hand.

I didn't think; I just shoved him with everything I had. "You’re a thief! Stop acting like you’re the saint here!

You’ve been wearing my skin for sixteen years!" Sebastian fell back, his head catching the sharp corner of the mahogany dining table.

He slumped to the floor, and blood—bright, terrifyingly red blood—began to pour down his forehead. I froze. My mother let out a strangled cry and collapsed to her knees beside him.

My father’s face twisted with a look of pure, agonizing heartbreak for the boy on the floor.

Seeing that look—seeing how much they loved him and how much they feared for him while I stood there like a monster—made the hatred in me boil over.

Without a word, I ran for the balcony. I scrambled over the railing, my legs dangling over the edge of the thirdstory drop. 2 They caught me.

My parents lunged forward, grabbing my arms, pulling me back from the ledge. I fought them. I didn't care about the height; I only cared about the pain in my chest. "Let me go!

Either I die, or he leaves! Make a choice!" I was possessed. I had to get rid of Sebastian. He was the parasite that had consumed my existence.

He was the thief who had stolen the very air I was supposed to breathe. My mother was sobbing hysterically, but even then, she wouldn't say the words.

She wouldn't tell him to pack his bags. It was Sebastian who ended it. He stood up, clutching a bloodsoaked towel to his head, his face pale and streaked with red.

He walked slowly to the balcony and looked at me. Then, he did something I didn't expect. He knelt. "I’m sorry," he whispered. "I’ll go. I'm leaving tonight." He looked pathetic.

The golden boy, broken and bleeding on the floor. But I knew him. He wasn't faking. He had wanted to leave since the day I arrived, but our parents had begged him to stay.

This time, my father didn't stop him. He just let out a long, heavy sigh of defeat. My mother, however, threw her arms around Sebastian, and they wept together.

It was a scene of tragic parting, and I was the villain who had caused it. Sebastian disappeared that night. The relief I felt was a cold, sharp high.

I didn't care about the way the servants looked at me—the mixture of fear and disgust.

I walked to the kitchen, opened the subzero fridge, took out every container of strawberries, and dumped them into the trash. "I hate strawberries," I told the kitchen staff, my voice level and icy. "From now on, I don't want to see a single berry in this house.

In fact, I don't want to see a single trace of Sebastian. If his name is mentioned, you’re fired. If his old gym socks are found in a drawer, you’re fired." The staff didn't argue.

Within fortyeight hours, the mansion was purged. Every trophy, every photo, every book that belonged to Sebastian was gone. For a few weeks, I felt like I could finally breathe.

But then I noticed my parents. They were like ghosts. They walked through the halls in silence, their eyes hollow. They weren't happy. And that sparked a new, frantic anxiety in me.

I tried to fix it. I tried to be Sebastian. I didn't think it was wrong to copy him. If I had grown up in this house, his habits would have been mine anyway.

I pushed myself to the brink. I stayed up until 3:00 AM learning the nuances of the tea ceremonies my father enjoyed.

I took flowerarranging classes because my mother loved the floral displays in the foyer. I doubled my course load to catch up to the private school curriculum.

I slept less than six hours a night, trying to bridge the sixteenyear gap in a matter of months. I thought I was succeeding. I thought I was finally becoming the son they wanted.

The illusion shattered when I found a real estate contract in my father’s study. Since my return, I’d made plenty of enemies.

The children of the Manhattan elite didn't hide their disdain for me. They saw me as a gutter rat in a tuxedo.

One of Sebastian’s old rivals, a boy named Miller, took particular pleasure in baiting me. "I hated Sebastian for being so perfect," Miller told me one day at school, a cruel smirk on his face. "But compared to you?

You’re just a lowclass embarrassment. You lower the property value of the whole school." I was livid.

I bragged to him that I’d won, that I’d kicked Sebastian out. "The fake is gone," I sneered. "A cuckoo bird can’t stay in the nest forever." Miller laughed.

It was a cold, mocking sound. "You idiot. You think you kicked him out?

You did him a favor." He leaned in, his voice a poisonous whisper. "Your parents bought him a penthouse in Chelsea. Five million dollars, cash.

And all those nights they tell you they’re 'staying late for business'? They’re there. With him.

Having the cozy little family dinner you’re not invited to." "You’re lying," I breathed. "Check the books, Gabe. You’re not the heir.

You’re just the mistake they have to keep in the attic. Sebastian is the one they chose. He got the house, he got the freedom, and he still has your parents. What do you have?

A room in a museum and two people who can’t stand to look at you?" 3 I didn't want to believe him, but my gut knew.

When I found the deed in my father’s desk—Sebastian Montgomery, 142 West 22nd St—my mind fractured. I didn't think. I didn't plan. I just drove. I caught them redhanded.

When Sebastian opened the door to the penthouse, I shoved past him. I burst into the dining room like a lightning strike. My parents were there. My mother, the elegant Mrs.

Montgomery, was wearing an apron. She was holding a steaming casserole dish, her face flushed from the kitchen's heat.

My father was sitting at the table, a glass of wine in one hand, the evening news on the TV. It was the most domestic, warm scene I had ever witnessed.

A scene that never happened at the mansion.

Their faces went white when they saw me. "Am I interrupting the family reunion?" I asked, my teeth grinding so hard I thought they would shatter. "A fivemilliondollar penthouse.

How generous of you.

I thought you said he was going back to where he belonged?" My father coughed, trying to regain his composure, his face hardening into that 'stern CEO' mask. "Gabriel, we didn't have a choice.

You grew up in that environment. You know what kind of people the Harts are.

Sending Sebastian there... it would have been like throwing him into hell." "Hell?" I let out a jagged laugh. "It’s where he belongs. It’s where his blood comes from.

Why is that my problem?" I stepped closer, my voice trembling with a decade and a half of repressed trauma. "I know you hate me.

I’m not 'refined.' I’m not 'graceful.' I’m selfish and loud and I have every flaw of a poor kid who suddenly found a golden ticket.

But did I ever have a chance to be like him?" I thought of the Harts—Sebastian’s biological parents. The people who raised me.

They were the laziest, most bitter couple in the county.

They didn't work; they just bled the government and their children dry. "I was four years old when I started scavenging scrap metal with my 'big sister' just so we could buy generic macaroni," I shouted. "When I was older, I worked twelvehour shifts in a packing plant until my fingers bled.

I had to fight for every cent. I had to be mean just to survive." I gestured to my body. "I’m sixteen years old, and I’m barely five feet tall. Do you know why?

The school nurse told me it’s stunted growth from chronic malnutrition. I’m never going to grow another inch.

My body is hollow because I spent my childhood starving while he was taking horseriding lessons!" I looked at my mother, whose eyes were welling with tears. "You’re worried about him falling into 'hell'?

I lived in that hell for sixteen years! Why didn't you save me? Why aren't you heartbroken for the boy I used to be?" Even if Sebastian went back, he would be fine.

My parents would have sent him money. He was an adult soon; he could have gone to college and never looked back. He was already "built." I was the one who was broken.

Sebastian stood in the corner, whispering "I’m sorry" over and over again.

My mother finally broke. "What more do you want from us, Gabriel?" she cried, her voice sharp with exhaustion. "Yes, you suffered. It’s a tragedy. But whose fault is it?

Did I want my baby to be swapped? Did I want to raise someone else’s child?" She covered her face with her hands. "I raised that boy for sixteen years.

If you had a dog for sixteen years, could you just kick it out onto the street to starve? My feelings matter too!

You act like your pain is the only thing in the world, but I lost my son, and I gained a stranger who hates me!" She took a ragged breath and looked at me with a terrifying coldness. "Maybe it was fate.

Maybe you were supposed to be born into that life. Sebastian was meant for this.

You... you were meant for..." She stopped herself, her lip trembling. "I was meant to be trash?" I finished for her. "I’m just born 'lowclass,' is that it?

No matter whose womb I came out of?"