Chapter 3: Ghosts of the Past

My brother kept trash-talking me.

His voice was a constant buzz in my ear, never missing a chance to undermine me. He always found a way to twist my intentions, turning every small kindness I’d shown into a scheme in his eyes.

I don’t even know why he hates me so much.

There were days I’d replayed our childhood in my mind, searching for the moment where things went wrong between us. Was it competition, jealousy, or just bad luck? Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

In my previous life, when we had to make the choice, I was afraid his life would be hard, so I deliberately let him choose first.

I’d thought I was doing the right thing, putting his future ahead of mine. Maybe I was naïve, maybe just too hopeful.

Actually, the one the billionaire really had his eye on was me.

That’s the cruelest irony. Even back then, all the adults knew it. My grades, my record—it was me they whispered about in the hallways, me they watched during those visits.

Before deciding to adopt, rich people always do their homework.

They had files on us, probably credit reports and background checks on our dead parents. The whole deal was like a business merger.

My grades were excellent, my character good; the director and teachers wouldn’t lie.

The staff had vouched for me in every meeting, their voices earnest: “Nathan is a good kid. He helps out. He studies hard.”

But for my brother, I handed over the chance to be adopted.

I remembered the look on his face when I stepped aside, letting him have the first pick. For a moment, I’d seen gratitude. It didn’t last.

And after my brother entered the billionaire’s family, he cut off all contact with me.

I watched from afar, texting him on holidays and birthdays, leaving voicemails he never returned. Soon enough, it was as if I didn’t exist.

He probably feared I’d ask him for money. Every time I called out of concern, he’d be the first to say he had no money, not noticing the cheers of people around him as he opened a thousand-dollar bottle of champagne.

I saw his life online—luxury cars, fancy dinners, friends in designer clothes. Every time I reached out, he was quick to claim he was broke, his voice cold and dismissive.

But I didn’t mind. Knowing he was doing well, I felt relieved and didn’t ask for anything.

That was enough for me. I just wanted him to be safe, to have a shot at happiness, even if we’d grown apart.

Until years later, I got a call from him.

It was late—past midnight. I almost didn’t answer. His voice was raw, shaky, and filled with rage. I could barely understand him at first.

He cursed me, saying I wasn’t human, that I deliberately let him choose first back then.

It was like all his bitterness had built up, waiting for this moment to explode. His accusations were sharp, cutting into old wounds I’d tried to forget.

He blamed me for not telling him the billionaire had a biological son.

It was a detail I’d barely known myself. But to him, it was a betrayal. He’d spent years feeling like an outsider, and now he needed someone to blame.

He said he soon lost favor, and not long ago was kidnapped, losing a leg.

His voice cracked as he told me about the night it happened—the panic, the pain, the realization that money didn’t buy real protection. I imagined him alone in some hospital room, staring at the ceiling.

Now he could only live with a crutch and a wheelchair.

He described his new life—ramps, cold stares from strangers, the constant ache of loss. He sounded defeated, the anger barely masking his grief.

He said he hated me.

Those three words echoed in my head for days. I wanted to reach through the phone, to make him see the truth, but it was too late for that.

At that time, I was in a combined bachelor’s-master’s program, and my first reaction was to fly back to see him.

I almost bought a plane ticket that night. The idea of facing him, of trying to patch things up, gnawed at me. But something held me back.

But as I grew older, I realized I had changed, not so easily moved anymore.

The world had hardened me, taught me that some wounds never heal, no matter how hard you try. I was tired, worn down by years of silent forgiveness.

Thinking back on his disdain and ridicule after being adopted, I realized he had changed too.

I remembered all the times he’d turned his back, the laughter when I called, the silence when I needed him. We were strangers now, connected only by blood.

So I advised him to take care of himself and cooperate with his treatment, then hung up the phone.

I kept my voice gentle, but distant. “Take care of yourself, man. Get the help you need.” Then I let the call end, feeling both lighter and emptier than before.

The gears of fate kept turning.

Time marched on. Old grudges faded, but the scars remained, etched into both our lives.

After I graduated, a company wanted to hire me at a very high salary.

I got the email late one night, the numbers almost too good to believe. I thought it was a scam at first.

I was overjoyed.

I remember dancing alone in my tiny kitchen, the thrill of possibility flooding through me.

When I arrived, I realized it was the billionaire’s company.

The logo on the glass doors stopped me cold. All roads, it seemed, led back to him.

So all these years, he had been watching me.

A chill ran through me as I realized how closely he’d followed my journey—every test score, every scholarship, every job offer.

Ever since that day of choice, he had never stopped paying attention to me.

I was never truly out of his orbit. Even when I’d tried to forge my own path, he’d been there in the background, pulling strings.

He appreciated me greatly, saying I was very suitable for their company.

His praise was quiet, reserved for closed-door meetings. But it meant more than I’d expected.

He even admitted that his original plan was to choose me as his son.

Hearing him say it out loud—after all those years—felt like both a vindication and a twist of the knife.

Now that I couldn’t be his son, I could be his trusted confidant.

He called me his right-hand man, the son he’d never had. The irony wasn’t lost on either of us.

However, when I was invited to the dinner party—

It was supposed to be a celebration. I wore my best suit, braced for toasts and handshakes, not the storm that followed.

I saw my brother, whom I hadn’t seen in years. Seeing me succeed, he felt neither surprise nor joy.

His face was twisted with something darker than jealousy—resentment, maybe, or just the raw ache of loss.

Only deep jealousy.

It clung to him like a shadow, poisoning every word he spoke.

He dragged me up to the rooftop, saying I had changed his fate, that he should have been the one to study.

He gripped my arm, voice trembling with fury. The wind whipped around us, cold and sharp. My brother’s grip was iron, his nails digging into my arm. He said I’d stolen his life, that I’d always looked down on him. I tried to explain, but the words died in my throat.

I ruined his life.

He said it again and again, as if repeating it could make it true.

At that moment, I saw him for who he was. I didn’t want to explain, just turned to leave.

I looked at him—really looked—and saw a man broken by his own choices. I felt sorry for him, but I knew I couldn’t save him.

But I didn’t expect that his mind was already twisted. In his rage, he actually hugged me and jumped off the building.

I never even had time to scream. For a split second, we were falling together—two brothers, locked in a tragedy of our own making. Then everything went dark.