Chapter One
Dave was twenty-nine, tall and well-built in a way that made him look like someone who'd done his share of hard work. His skin was the deep, even brown of someone who spent time outdoors; his eyes were a striking, steady brown that took in more than he let on. He moved with calm assurance—handsome, decent, and careful—like a man who preferred to keep his thoughts close to his chest.
He stood by the living room window, one hand on the sill, watching the dusty street below. The house was modest—an honest, weathered structure in an average neighborhood where people got by on little luxuries and lots of resilience. The paint flaked at the corners, the front gate sagged a little, and the roof had a few patches where rain had been coaxed away more than fixed. Inside, a threadbare sofa faced a small TV; the kitchen table was scarred but steady; mismatched dishes lived in a tired, clean cabinet. It wasn't much, but it was theirs.
In his quiet moments Dave let his mind wander to a different life: clean marble floors, a wide driveway, a house that didn't complain when the electricity was on. He pictured his mother and brother free of small, daily worries—the water bill, the bus fare, the way the rice bag seemed smaller every week. He wanted those things for them. He wanted to stop pretending tomorrow would be the same as today.
"Dave, what are you doing over there?" His mother's voice was soft and familiar. Helen—forty-seven, steady as a metronome—appeared with a grocery bag in hand, a small smile tucked under the fatigue at the edge of her eyes.
He turned, letting a smile form that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Mother. When did you get back? I didn't hear you."
"I've been watching you for a bit." She set the bag on the table and folded her hands. "Are you alright?"
He hesitated. "I'm fine. I just… wish I could do more. You work so hard—" His chest tightened. "I want to make things easier for you and Eric."
Helen stepped closer and squeezed his shoulder, the kind of touch that carried years of trust. "You've done more than I can tell you, Dave. Don't carry the whole world on your shoulders."
"Since Dad died," Dave said, voice low, "it feels like it's my job to fix everything. I'm supposed to be the oldest. If I'm not—" He let the sentence trail off.
"And who decided you've failed?" Eric's voice cut in light and warm. His younger brother—twenty-four, lanky, always hungry—stuck his head out of his room on cue, rubbing his stomach theatrically.
Helen laughed softly as she unpacked the groceries. "You need to stop apologizing for trying." She moved to the kitchen, humming as she put things away.
Eric flopped onto the sofa. "So what's for dinner? I'm starving."
"You do anything other than eat in this house?" Dave teased, the edge in his voice softening.
"Only when the food's bad," Eric said, grinning.
Laughter filled the small room for a beat—a small, bright thing that made the weight on Dave's shoulders shift. For a moment the future he worried over felt a little less far away.
The Bernard's mansion
The mansion was a statement of power and taste—sprawling white stone walls, sweeping staircases, and tall windows that poured sunlight into every corner. The sitting room alone could fit an entire small apartment. Plush cream carpets muffled footsteps, and a grand chandelier hung above like a crown, its crystal teardrops scattering gold light across the polished marble floor. Deep leather sofas sat around a gleaming glass coffee table, while gold-framed paintings and fresh orchids added quiet elegance.
On one of the sofas lounged Edwin, twenty-nine, handsome in the kind of way that came with knowing it. His tailored shirt was crisp, his hair carefully styled, and his every movement carried the weight of arrogance. Across from him sat his mother, Emily, forty-seven, perfectly groomed in silk and diamonds. They both carried themselves as though the world should pause when they spoke, each holding a delicate wine glass like royalty at leisure.
"Mum," Edwin began, a smirk tugging at his lips, "I can't believe we're finally back in the state."
Emily swirled the wine lazily. "Yes… it's been a long time, son."
His expression darkened. "I still can't forget the day Dad threw us out… and took my little sister. I was only four, but it's burned into me. I'm still… haunted by it."
Emily didn't even blink. "Edwin, you must forget about that. It's been decades. You were a child. And from what I heard, the house they lived in burned down years ago. They both died. That chapter is over. This—" she lifted her glass slightly, "—is our new life. The past belongs in the past."
Her words were delivered with not the faintest trace of sorrow.
"You're right, Mum." Edwin's smirk returned. He lifted his glass higher. "Cheers to our greatness."
"Cheers," she replied. Their glasses touched with a soft chime, and laughter echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
Just then, Bernard entered—a man in his fifties with the kind of presence that turned heads. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his tailored navy suit fitting like it had been cut for him alone. Silver hair framed a strong, confident face, and a gold watch gleamed on his wrist. His cologne—a warm, rich blend of cedar and spice—seemed to announce him before he even spoke.
"So," Bernard said, his deep voice filling the room, "what's the celebration about?"
Emily's face lit up. "Hi, sweetie." She rose gracefully, crossed the room, and kissed his cheek.
"Hi, Dad," Edwin greeted, standing briefly.
Bernard's gaze moved between them. "Well? What's the occasion?"
Emily smiled and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Our success, honey. Everything we've achieved."
Edwin gave a knowing smirk and stepped out, leaving them a moment alone.
Bernard arched a brow. "Our success?"
Emily's tone softened as she looked into his eyes. "Yes, Bernard. You've been the best thing that's ever happened to me. After everything I went through, you loved me… you took care of my child. And now, look—he's grown into a fine man."
Bernard's smile was warm but proud. "Sweetie, I made you a promise, and I kept it. He's made us proud. And I love him just as much as I love you."
"You're so sweet," Emily murmured, leaning in as Bernard kissed her forehead. Their smiles lingered, framed by the glittering light of the chandelier above.
The Leonard mansion
The Leonard mansion was a picture of elegance—sweeping marble staircases, glistening chandeliers, and walls adorned with priceless art. The scent of fresh lilies from a vase on the center table drifted through the air.
Leonard stood in the spacious sitting room, hands clasped behind his back, a faint smile playing at his lips. The moment he saw his daughter, Isabel, walking gracefully down the stairs in a flowing pastel dress, his eyes lit up.
"Take a look at my daughter," he said proudly. "You are so beautiful."
"Thanks, Daddy," Isabel replied with a warm smile, leaning in to kiss his cheek.
"I still remember when you were a little girl," Leonard said, his voice softening. "I always knew you were beautiful, but time… time went by so quickly. Just look at you now, Isabel—you've grown into a fine young lady. And you've made me proud."
"Dad," she said, her tone filled with affection, "whatever I've become is because of you. You've always been there for me, especially since Mum left us. I promise you—I'll keep making you proud."
Leonard opened his arms. "Come here, give me a hug."
They embraced warmly, the bond between them as clear as the polished floor beneath their feet.