The check felt like a counterfeit bill, the credit card like a child's toy in Taurus's hand as he walked away from the gleaming facade of the Atlas Building. Five billion dollars. A mother he never knew was alive. A father who had spent two decades searching. An arranged marriage to an heiress named Diana Mark. The words tumbled in his mind, a chaotic, unbelievable symphony. The city, which had seemed overwhelming and vast just hours ago, now felt like a stage set, unreal and distant. His feet carried him forward, numbly, towards the bus stop, towards the familiar, suffocating cage he called home.
His head buzzed, thoughts colliding like runaway trains. Relief warred with a bitter resentment. His parents hadn't abandoned him deliberately, they were victims of a terrible accident. That eased a deep, buried pain he hadn't realized he carried. But twenty years. Twenty years lost. Twenty years living under the Ragnars' casual cruelty, their indifference, their constant devaluation of his worth. They had accepted him, yes, but not as family. As a tool. A free laborer. Had they known? Had they suspected his real identity and deliberately kept him hidden? The thought sent a cold wave of suspicion through him, solidifying the years of small injustices into a deliberate, calculated betrayal.
And Diana Mark. Betrothed since childhood. A condition in a will that held the key to his identity and his fortune. The idea of marrying a stranger, an heiress from a world he couldn't fathom, felt like another kind of cage, albeit a gilded one. He was trading one form of servitude for another, it seemed, bound by the terms of a will written by a father he never knew. Was freedom truly conditional?
The bus ride back was a blur. He stared out the window, but didn't see the streets, only the swirling images in his mind: the lawyer's calm face, the number on the check, his mother's name, Diana Mark. He clutched the slip of paper with her number, his lifeline. Could he call her? What would he say? 'Hello, I'm the son you lost twenty years ago, also I'm now a billionaire and about to marry a stranger?' The thought was paralyzing. He wasn't ready. Not yet. He needed time to process, to understand.
Sneaking back into the Ragnar house was easier than sneaking out. The late afternoon was the Ragnars' quiet time. Tony was still out. Mr. Ragnar was likely just getting home, settling in with a drink. Mrs. Ragnar might be on the phone. He slipped through the garage door he'd carefully left unlocked from the inside, closing it softly behind him. The air in the garage felt stale, oppressive, a stark contrast to the open sky he'd just experienced. He was back in his box.
He went straight to his small room, the few items in his hands feeling heavier than they should. The check. The credit card. The number. He had to hide them. Somewhere safe. Somewhere the Ragnars would never look. He scanned the sparse room. No locked drawers. No hidden compartments. His eyes fell on the small, dusty desk. The legs were wobbly, the top scratched. He ran his hand underneath. There. A loose piece of wood at the back.
Working carefully and silently, he managed to pry the small panel loose. It revealed a shallow cavity, perfect for flat objects. He took the check and the credit card, wrapping them tightly in the plastic bag he'd used earlier, and tucked them into the cavity. He pressed the wooden panel back into place. It wasn't foolproof, but it was better than leaving them exposed. No one ever bothered with his desk.
Now, the phone number. His mother's number. This felt different. More personal, more vulnerable. He couldn't hide it with the money, couldn't risk losing it if the Ragnars somehow found the check. He needed it on him, but completely hidden. He took off his worn jacket, examining the lining. The hem along the bottom was thick. With careful fingers, he managed to work a small section of the stitching loose. He folded the slip of paper into a tiny square and, with painstaking precision, pushed it into the channel within the hem. Using a loose thread he found on the floor, he managed to loosely stitch the section closed again. It was a crude fix, easily missed unless someone was looking very closely.
He put the jacket back on, feeling the faint presence of the paper hidden within the fabric. A direct line to the woman who gave him life, who had lost him, who was waiting. He wasn't ready. Not yet. He needed to figure things out first. What was he going to do? Stay and serve until he could safely leave? Confront the Ragnars with his newfound knowledge? The lawyer said six months. Six months to marry Diana Mark. Six months to claim his life.
Exhaustion finally caught up to him, a crushing weight that physical labor usually induced, but this was mental, emotional. He sank onto his thin mattress, the hard surface a cruel reminder of his current reality. He closed his eyes, the image of the multi-million dollar check burned onto his retina.
He had to get up early. Before sunrise. Resume the chores. Be the invisible slave. Pretend the last few hours hadn't happened. Pray the Ragnars hadn't noticed his absence, hadn't found the hidden items, hadn't discovered his secret.
He set the mental alarm, a habit forged by years of needing to wake before his captors. The weight of the proof, of the inheritance, of the impossible future, pressed down on him, a burden far heavier than any physical labor. He drifted towards a restless sleep, a billionaire slave with a hidden fortune and a mother waiting, trapped in a cage that felt smaller and more suffocating than ever before.