Mitchell's POV
Back in the stark silence of my room, after a shower that did little to wash away the sting of the slap or the chill of their words, my mind kept circling back to one thing: him.
Mr. Wright.
Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled out my old, cracked phone and typed a hesitant search into the browser: Mr. Wright with the descriptions of his looks. The results were a deluge of financial articles, society column speculation, and breathless reports on his company's latest global acquisition. I scrolled, my eyes skimming until I found a picture.
My breath hitched. There he was, in a grainy press photo, looking more like a brooding aristocrat from a historical portrait than a modern CEO. But the camera didn't do him justice. Not even close. The screen couldn't capture the depth of those wine-dark eyes, the almost palpable intensity of his presence. If I could feel my pulse quicken looking at a pixelated image, it was a miracle I hadn't simply fainted dead away in that hospital room.
"Hehe," I laughed to myself, a soft, mischievous sound in the empty room. Alistair. The name suited him—elegant, ancient, and powerful.
My smile faded as I kept reading. Buried in a years-old society blog was a fleeting, cryptic mention: The elusive Mr. Wright is said to be perpetually searching for his 'moonshine,' a metaphor that has baffled the city's gossipmongers for years.
His moonshine. So, he had a woman he longed for. A specific, lost love. A traitorous pang, sharp and foolish, stabbed through my chest. Of course, a man like that wouldn't be unattached in spirit, even if he was physically single. The brief, absurd fantasy that had flickered in the car—of that silent, powerful attention being for me—dissolved into silly ash.
"Sister, come down for dinner. We have a guest." Clara's voice, syrupy-sweet, slithered under my door.
I frowned. A guest? Since when did Clara summon me to dinner for anything other than a public humiliation? My stomach growled, reminding me I'd had nothing since the exquisite breakfast Alistair had ordered for me at the hospital. The memory of that simple, thoughtful act was a warm ember against the cold of this house.
Heading downstairs, the sight in the formal dining room confirmed my suspicions. Donald, with his parents, sat like a happy future family unit with Clara and my—no, the—Turnerstones. They were all smiles. Donald was piling prawns onto Clara's plate with a sickening devotion. I could already see the headline: A Twist of Fate: CEO Weds True Love After Discovering Childhood Connection.
I took my seat silently, noting with a sinking heart that every dish on the table was rich, spicy, or seafood-based—everything my hospital discharge notes explicitly said to avoid for a week due to my head injury and medications. They hadn't even bothered to pretend. I had told the cook about my head injury but still….
"She should eat some more prawns, son," Mrs. Williams said in her grating, shrewd voice, eyeing Clara with approval.
Donald's father cleared his throat, turning his pompous gaze to me. "Mitchell, we won't beat around the bush. It's better to be direct."
I gave a curt nod, already scanning the table for the least offensive piece of bread.
"Clara will be marrying Donald next week. The wedding will proceed, but with the rightful bride."
He announced it like a royal decree, pausing, undoubtedly expecting hysterics. The room was silent, waiting for my explosion. Mother even had a faint, prepared smile of pity on her lips.
I didn't give them the satisfaction. Instead, I quietly pulled out my phone, the cracked screen a testament to my former life, and opened a food delivery app. I would use the last of my meager savings on a bland soup.
Just then, the butler appeared at the dining room entrance, looking unusually flustered. Behind him was Mike, Alistair's driver-assistant, holding two elegant, insulated packages.
"Ms. Turnerstone," the butler announced, "this is for you."
All eyes swung to Mike, then to me. Clara's gaze sharpened, calculating. Of course,
Mike was more handsome than Donald and had more commanding presence. Mike offered a polite, professional smile that didn't reach his eyes when he looked at the assembled "family."
"My boss instructed me to deliver this. The meal is prepared in strict accordance with your doctor's dietary recommendations." He placed the packages gently before me. I recognized the logo instantly—La Ciel, the most exclusive, impossible-to-get-into restaurant in the country. The cost of these two containers and the small bottle of almond milk beside them likely surpassed the entire extravagant, callous feast spread before the rest of the table.
The silence now was of a different quality. Shock. Bewilderment. Covetousness. Clara's face was a masterpiece of suppressed envy. Who do you know? her eyes screamed.
But Mike wasn't done. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a sleek, matte-black box, placing it next to the food. "The boss also noticed your phone was damaged. He thought you might need an upgrade."
My hands trembled slightly as I opened the box. Nestled inside was the latest smartphone, a model that had literally been unveiled to the world yesterday. It wasn't just expensive; it was a statement of impossible access and instantaneous power. Money doesn't just talk, I thought, dizzy, it rewrites reality.
Donald's face was priceless. His smug assurance evaporated, replaced by stunned confusion and a dawning, emasculated insecurity. Mr. Williams looked from the phone to me as if seeing a stranger. Mother's mouth was a tight, thin line.
Overwhelmed, I managed to whisper, "Please… tell him thank you. I truly appreciate his kindness."
I moved to see Mike out, but Mother, desperate to reassert control over the narrative, chirped, "Clara, dear, see the guest off, please."
It was the same exact phrase, the same delegating of my connection, she'd used with Donald.
Mike's polite mask slipped for a second, revealing a flash of steel. "That won't be necessary, Mrs. Turnerstone." He turned his full attention to me, his voice softening just a fraction. "You need to rest. The doctor's orders. The boss… and I wouldn't be happy to see you stressed." Then, to my utter astonishment, he reached out and gave my head a gentle, almost brotherly pat.
A warmth spread through me, so foreign and welcome that the words tumbled out before I could think. "Thanks, big brother."
The effect on Mike was instantaneous. His professional demeanor melted into a look of genuine, surprised delight. A wide, real smile broke across his face. Calling him 'big brother' made him that happy? A corresponding smile touched my lips. If such a simple gesture of familial warmth brought him joy, I would gladly keep saying it.
As Mike left, the dining room's frozen tableau slowly crackled back to life, but the power had irrevocably shifted. They were no longer looking at the discarded adoptee.