Chapter 1: The Choice

When the billionaire came to the group home to do charity work, he gave my younger brother and me two choices.

I still remember the cafeteria that day—the smell of stale pizza and overcooked beans, the electric buzz of rumors about the rich guy in the crisp navy suit, Rolex glinting on his wrist, his cologne cutting through the cafeteria’s stale pizza air. Even the staff was on edge, smoothing their hair and acting like this wasn’t just another Tuesday at Oak Creek Home. My brother and I stood shoulder to shoulder, staring up at the man whose shoes shone brighter than anything in the room.

"You have two choices," he said, his voice flat. "I can adopt one of you, or I can pay for your education."

The billionaire didn’t smile, didn’t offer a pep talk. He just laid out the options—new family or scholarship, nothing in between. No small talk, no stories. My heart thudded in my throat. Was it really better to have someone call you son if it meant being owned? Or was freedom worth eating alone every night?

My younger brother was the first to call him "Dad," eager to become the new golden boy of the billionaire’s family.

A hush fell over the room. Someone’s fork clattered onto a tray. Even the billionaire blinked, surprised. I still remember the flash of greed in my brother’s eyes, the way he almost vibrated with excitement, his hands twitching at his sides like he was about to snatch a winning lottery ticket. His voice cut through the silence: "Dad!" The staff exchanged glances; some looked relieved, others uneasy.

But if you became the billionaire’s son, even if you got into Harvard or Stanford, wouldn’t you still end up working for him, stuck in some soul-crushing 60-hour-a-week job?

That’s what I’d always thought, even as a kid. No matter how fancy your degree, you’d be tied to his world, expected to carry his briefcase, to be another branch on his family tree. I pictured myself in a gray suit, stuck in an office with floor-to-ceiling windows and no fresh air, another face at his corporate table, my life planned out by someone else’s ambitions.

The billionaire already had a biological son. My brother, just a stand-in, was never truly accepted in the family. In the end, he was even kidnapped and left disabled.

It didn’t matter how many holidays my brother posed for family Christmas cards or how many times he called the billionaire "Dad"—he was always the backup, not the real deal. When trouble came, nobody shielded him. I’ll never forget the news: a late-night call, his voice trembling, telling me how everything went wrong, how the family name couldn’t protect him from the darkness that found him.

But I, after years of hard work, was recommended to Harvard or Stanford, completed my bachelor’s and master’s degrees, and finally joined the billionaire’s company as a high-level executive with an annual salary of a million dollars.

I did it the slow way, the hard way. There were nights I ate cold ramen and studied by a flickering desk lamp in a crappy apartment. I made it, though—earned my degrees, built my resume one internship and late-night project at a time. When the offer came from his company, I walked in on my own two feet. Million-dollar salary, corner office, the works. Not as a son, but as the man I’d built myself to be.

On the day the billionaire invited me to a dinner party, my brother broke down, hysterically trying to drag me to jump off a building with him.

I’ll never forget that dinner: white tablecloths, crystal glasses, my name on the place card. Then, outside, the chaos—my brother’s wild eyes, his hands clutching my arm, tears streaking his face as he tried to pull me toward the edge, blaming me for it all. His pain was raw, real, but it scared me. Everything blurred—fancy party, rooftop, the edge. All of it.

When I opened my eyes again, we were back on the day the billionaire gave us the choice.

I felt the world spin. Next thing I knew, I was back in the group home cafeteria. Same smells, same faces, the billionaire standing there with those two choices again. My brother and I side by side, but this time, something was different.

This time, my brother pushed me forward.

He didn’t hesitate. With a shove, he forced me into the spotlight. The cafeteria fell silent. I felt every eye on me.

Knowledge is power—I want to go to school.

I drew in a breath, heart pounding, and the words came out almost before I could think: Knowledge is power. I want to go to school. I could feel the weight of that choice settling over me, heavy but real.

Brother, hurry up and call him Dad.

My brother didn’t wait—he leapt at the opportunity, barely glancing back. The billionaire turned, expression unreadable. In that moment, it all started over.