Ken had just dragged his black suitcase to the front door of the mansion. His fingertips were still warm from the Park Avenue sunlight outside when he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
Leave? That'd be way too cheap for them.
He glanced down at the scratch marks on the suitcase handle — scars from his past life, when Liam had deliberately scored it with a key. Back then, Elaine had brushed it off with a casual, "Kids just fooling around."
A stronger thought slammed into his mind: Why the hell should I leave? This is Grandpa's estate. I'm the Howard family's blood grandson. Living in the master bedroom is my birthright. Only by staying here, watching them choke on their own resentment day after day, can I slowly reclaim everything they owed me in my last life.
He spun on his heel. The suitcase wheels screeched across the marble, startling the butler who'd been about to close the door.
Liam — the 17-year-old adopted son — had just been about to follow Elaine upstairs. When he saw Ken turn back, panic flickered in his blue eyes before he quickly masked it with "delight."
"Bro, you're not leaving? That's awesome, I was scared I wouldn't get to see you again!"
"You'll see me. Every damn day." Ken sneered, hauling the suitcase straight toward the second floor. In his head, he was already mapping the next steps. "I'm taking the master bedroom."
The words detonated like a bomb. Everyone in the living room froze.
The master bedroom door was ajar, a faint trace of Liam's cologne seeping out — the one Elaine had just bought him last week at Sephora on Fifth Avenue, marketed as "youthful scent."
In his past life, Ken had been shoved into a storage room without even a window, while this room had been Liam's stage to gloat.
Ken pushed the door open. The sight hit him like a punch: a pale-gold chandelier, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, a custom Italian leather bed, even a walk-in closet dedicated to luxury goods.
Last life, he'd only dared glance from the hallway, Liam smirking at him: "Mom and Dad had this done just for me."
"Bro, what are you doing? This is my room!" Liam rushed forward, reaching to block him — but Ken shoved him aside. Ken's strength was greater; Liam stumbled into the closet door, hissing in pain.
"Your room?" Ken tossed the suitcase onto the leather bed with a thud, sarcasm dripping from every word. "This house was Grandpa's legacy. I'm the Howard family's blood grandson. Living in the master bedroom is my right. And you — an adopted kid — dare claim the heir's room? You think that's okay?"
He knelt to unzip the suitcase, slowly setting his music theory books and business notes on the nightstand. Each deliberate motion screamed ownership, every second tightening Liam's nerves.
Don't worry. This is just the beginning. However you flaunted things last time, I'll make sure you eat that humiliation now.
Panicked, Liam stomped downstairs, shouting: "Mom! Dad! Bro's trying to steal my room!"
Elaine and Richard — just back from Wall Street — hurried up. Elaine blew up first:
"Ken! Are you out of your mind? Liam's lived here five years, he's used to it! If you need a place, there are guest rooms downstairs!"
"Guest room?" Ken rose, eyes like ice. Rage he'd buried for years — the storage room misery, the blatant favoritism — all burst free.
He locked eyes with Elaine and spat the words out one by one: "At three, you lost me at Disney. I slept on iron bunks in an orphanage for seventeen years. At twenty, when you finally found me, you shoved me into a storage room while your adopted son got the master suite. And now you tell me, 'take the guest room'? Elaine, tell me with a straight face — is that fair?"
Richard frowned, pulling out his wallet as if to buy peace. "Ken, here — take a supplementary credit card. Rent an apartment next door, decorate however you like—"
"No need." Ken cut him off, yanking out Grandpa's trust fund papers and slapping them on the vanity. I've got money. What I want is justice — everything that's mine.
"Grandpa left me two million dollars. Enough to buy ten apartments. I'm not fighting because I'm broke. I'm fighting because this is mine. And this master bedroom? I'm staying. Period."
Seeing his parents couldn't stop it, Liam dropped into a squat, clutching Ken's leg, crying: "Bro, I know you're upset, but this room… it's full of memories with Mom and Dad. If you take it, I'll be heartbroken. Please, don't force me!"
That pitiful act had always worked on Ken before. But now? All he felt was disgust. He knew too well the scheming hidden in those watery eyes.
Still pulling that stunt? Not this lifetime.
He gently kicked Liam off and pulled up a video on his phone — the afternoon recording of Liam faking a fall in the foyer. On screen, Liam's "tears" hadn't even dropped before his lips curled in a smirk. Even the moment he squeezed eye drops into his lashes was caught in sharp detail.
"Memories? You mean the kind where you frame me?"
Ken turned the screen toward Elaine and Richard, voice dripping with mockery. Let's see your precious "good son" for who he really is.
"Take a good look. This angel of yours? Just today, he staged a fall to pin the blame on me. If I'd listened to you and moved into the guest room, what's next? He slips your Rolex into my bag and accuses me of theft?"
Richard's face darkened instantly. Ken knew his father — nothing terrified him more than family scandal. Richard Group was preparing a new round of financing. If Liam's antics leaked, stock prices would tank.
Elaine tried to deflect: "He's just a kid. Why record such things? What if it gets out—"
"Just a kid?" Ken sneered, tapping another file. Out came Elaine's own phone call from earlier, demanding he "hand over Grandpa's apartment for safekeeping." The greed in her voice was unmistakable.
"You call that 'not knowing better'? You try to swallow Grandpa's apartment. You want Grandpa's trust fund. Now you're helping him steal the master bedroom? Tell me — do you treat me as your son, or as a thorn in your side?"
Elaine froze, color draining from her face. Liam, realizing his shield had collapsed, faltered mid-sob. He stole glances at Richard's expression, fear finally cracking through the act.
"Here's the deal." Ken pocketed his phone, crossed his arms against the vanity. The power's mine now. Time for them to choose.
"Either Liam moves into the guest room right now, or I send these recordings straight to Wall Street media. Let the whole world see how Richard Group's CEO mistreats his blood son while doting on an adopted one. Your call."
Richard glanced at Ken's phone, then at Liam still crouched on the floor. His jaw tightened. "Liam, move to the guest room."
"Dad!" Liam shot up, disbelief shattering his fake tears. "I don't want the guest room! It doesn't even have a balcony — where am I supposed to dry my clothes?"
"Guest room, or go back to Canada to your foster parents." Richard's voice was glacial. Ken could tell — right now, his father cared only about stock prices. No way would he risk them over Liam's whining.
Ken didn't wait for more. He strode into the closet. Gucci hoodies, Nike limited-edition sneakers, Tiffany necklaces — all Liam's prized trophies — he tossed them out, one by one.
How many times did you flaunt these in my face last life? Now, I'll make you watch me throw them away.
The so-called treasures scattered across the hallway carpet like worthless trash.
"Bro! Don't throw my stuff!" Liam lunged to snatch them back, but Ken pinned his shoulder hard. Pain contorted Liam's face; all he could do was watch his possessions scatter.
Ken leaned close to his ear, voice low, words carved from ice. Hatred surged in his chest. Everything you owed me last life, I'll reclaim piece by piece.
"These things? Half of them were bought with Grandpa's money. When you paraded them in front of me, did you ever think they were rightfully mine? This life, I'll take back every single thing you stole from me. Be ready."
Liam froze. True fear flickered in his eyes for the first time. The Ken before him wasn't the pliable pushover he used to bully.
That night, Ken lay on the leather bed, gazing at the Central Park skyline. For the first time, he felt grounded.
On the nightstand sat Grandpa's old photo — three-year-old Ken in his arms, grinning without a care. Ken touched the picture lightly, whispering with fierce resolve:
Grandpa, I didn't leave. I stayed. I'll watch them pay for everything they did to me last life.
A soft knock at the door. He turned. At the threshold stood Emma, his third sister, 26, a Yale sociology lecturer. She held a glass of milk, eyes darting nervously.
"Bro… are you okay?" Her voice trembled with hesitation. "About this afternoon… I didn't mean not to help you. I just… I just didn't want to upset Mom and Dad."
Ken's gut reaction was bitter laughter. That excuse again — 'didn't want to upset them.' Last life, when you testified for Liam, weren't you worried about me?
He cut her off, voice flat but firm, thick with distance:
"You just wanted it both ways, right? When I stayed up nights fixing your sociology papers, you said the same thing. Later, when Liam framed me for stealing Dad's watch, you told them, 'I saw Ken in the study.' Emma, this time, I won't be the idiot. I won't do your work. If you wanna play both sides, stay the hell away from me. When you end up knee-deep in mud, don't blame me."
Emma's face drained of blood. The milk in her hand trembled, lips quivering — but no words came out. In the end, all she could whisper was "I'm sorry," before fleeing, forgetting to shut the door.
Ken closed it himself and lay back down. In the darkness, he could hear the familiar sounds: Liam whining about the "shabby guest room," Elaine soothing him, Richard muttering on the phone about stock prices. Just like before.
Ken smirked coldly. Perfect. Living here means watching you squirm over petty things, seeing Liam's act fall flat, watching you lose everything you value. That's way better than any Park Avenue condo.
He reached under the pillow, brushing the phone that held today's recordings — his arsenal — alongside Grandpa's trust fund papers.
Tomorrow, time to visit Sophia. Let's see how she passes off the business plan I slaved over as her own. Then Olivia — maybe she's already fishing for another "free hit single."
The curtain of revenge had just risen. And he was ready for every act to come.