Chapter 1A Feast for the Desperate

When we gathered at my uncle’s house for the New Year’s holiday, my cousin Travis couldn’t wait to flash his phone’s lock screen in everyone’s faces.

"That’s my girlfriend," he announced, puffed up like a peacock. "Daughter of the state regulatory commissioner. Once our schedules clear up, I’ll bring her around to meet the family."

A second later, he slammed the heavy key fob of a Rolls-Royce onto the dining table with a sharp, theatrical thud.

He leaned across the table, fixing me with a patronizing smirk. "You see, Felix? What was the point of all those fancy degrees? You bury your head in books for years, and at the end of the day, you’re still just clocking in to make somebody else rich."

The irony was staggering. Because as it happened, both that orange Rolls-Royce and the girl on his lock screen belonged to me.

Under the table, I pulled out my phone and shot a text to Hannah: Since when do you have another boyfriend behind my back?

Hannah fired back three question marks in less than thirty seconds.

What on earth are you talking about? she texted. Sit tight. I’m driving over right now. I’d love to see who has the death wish to pose as my boyfriend.

It was the second day of the New Year, the traditional afternoon for family visits. We were crowded into Uncle Greg’s living room, and after three glasses of scotch, the flush on Travis’s cheeks had deepened into an arrogant crimson.

"Imported French bottled water," Travis declared, waving a dismissive hand as he slid half a dozen sleek glass bottles across the coffee table toward the relatives. "Thirty bucks a pop. Drink up, drink up. I ordered cases of the stuff last month and couldn't get through it all."

The relatives clucked and gasped, picking up the glass bottles as if they were handling museum artifacts.

"Thirty dollars?" Aunt Brenda gasped, squinting at the label. "For water? What’s in it, liquid gold?"

Uncle Greg let out a disdainful scoff, his chest puffed out in solidarity with his son. "It’s not just water, Brenda. It’s naturally oxygenated mineral water from the Alps. Miracle stuff for blood sugar. If it weren't for Travis, none of you would ever taste anything this refined in your lives."

I sat quietly on the sofa. Two years ago, Uncle Greg had practically begged me to find Travis a job after he bounced out of another trade program. Has he really hit the jackpot in twenty-four months?

If I remembered correctly, my executive assistant, Marcus, had told me he quietly slotted Travis into an entry-level building security post at one of our suburban corporate facilities. How much could an entry-level security guard possibly make to throw thirty-dollar bottles of luxury water around like tap water?

I picked up one of the bottles. It was authentic. In fact, it was the exact brand my household procurement staff had delivered to my estate last month. I’d found the mineral profile too alkaline for my taste after two bottles and had told the staff to store the rest in the garage.

Perhaps Travis just had an expensive palate. People’s private indulgences weren't my business, so I held my tongue.

Predictably, the compliments started rolling in, syrupy and relentless.

"Travis has really made something of himself, hasn't he? Living large out in the city! Look at the things he buys—nothing ordinary!"

"Out of all the kids in this generation, Travis turned out to be the real winner!"

Travis threw a smug, sidelong glance at me, leaning back on the couch with studied indifference. "It’s nothing, really. Just cleared a few million this past quarter."

He tapped his phone screen again, tilting it so the relatives on both sides could get a clear view. "My girl. She had some holiday charity gala with her family today and couldn't make the trip down, but when we get some downtime, I’ll bring her over."

The photo showed a vibrant, striking young woman with effortless elegance, dressed in tailored cashmere. The relatives leaned in, murmuring in envy and awe.

I froze. That was Hannah Ross. My girlfriend.

One of the distant cousins suddenly squinted, letting out a sharp hiss. "Wait a second... I’ve seen her on the society news. Isn’t she Commissioner Ross’s daughter? Travis, you're not pulling our leg, are you?"

Travis’s face tightened with defensive indignation. He quickly swiped open his Instagram. "Look at her Valentine's post from last year! Look at the caption—I’m her guy!"

The relatives crowded around his screen. I leaned forward just enough to catch a glimpse, and a dry, humorless chuckle caught in my throat.

Last Valentine’s Day, Hannah had been over the moon after I surprised her with a vintage Cartier necklace. She had posted a photo of the wrapped box and a silhouette of our hands, captioned simply:

Thank you to my Mr. Bennett.

Travis’s last name was Bennett. My last name was Bennett. The shared family name had handed him the perfect shield to fish in muddy waters.

I calmly took a snapshot of Travis holding up his phone and sent it straight to Hannah, typing out a teasing jab: Running a secret side romance I should know about?

Within two minutes, Hannah’s reply flashed on the screen.

??? WHAT?! I literally just finished brunch with my parents! How do I suddenly have a new boyfriend?!

Sit tight. I'm on my way. I want to see who has the nerve to impersonate my man!

Travis, oblivious to the storm brewing in my inbox, kept holding court, his voice booming across the living room. "After this, I’m taking everyone out to my new country club estate over in Beryl Valley. I had my people reserve the grand dining hall. Dinner is on me tonight."

He reached over and clapped a heavy hand onto my shoulder, deliberately raising his voice so the whole room fell silent. "Felix, my boy. You’ve been grinding away in the city like a mule all year. Now that you're finally home for the holidays, you really ought to seize this chance to relax and see how the other half lives."

Aunt Brenda immediately chimed in, tutting sympathetically. "I remember when you two were boys, Felix always had the better grades. Who would've thought that growing up, Travis would be the one flying high?"

"Exactly," Uncle Greg agreed, shaking his head with an air of world-weary wisdom. "What’s the use of book smarts? At the end of the day, you're still working for someone else’s paycheck."

The veiled jabs and backhanded pity rolled off them in waves. I didn't bother offering a defense. In the business world, I’d long grown accustomed to the kind of people who trampled on whoever seemed down and bowed before whoever seemed rich.

Looking at Travis’s puffed-up chest, I realized he was still holding a grudge over what happened years ago. Back when I had just founded my tech incubator, Uncle Greg had called, demanding I hand Travis a cushy management role. But Travis barely possessed a high school diploma, and he’d drifted through community college without picking up a single marketable skill. What kind of executive role was I supposed to give him?

I could have slotted him into a desk job, but I knew his temperament inside out. The moment Travis realized his cousin owned the firm, he would strut around like a petty king, demanding special privileges and disrupting operations. Yet family was family; I couldn't leave him completely stranded.

So I turned down Uncle Greg on the surface, while privately instructing my executive assistant, Marcus, to quietly place Travis in a stable, well-compensated facility position. Crucially, I told Marcus never to disclose my identity to him.

I thought that by securing him honest work, the matter was settled. I hadn't realized his resentment had been festering all this time.

I gave a faint, resigned smile, deciding against humiliating him in front of the extended family on a holiday. But my silence only emboldened him.

"Felix," Travis said, leaning in with faux concern, "word on the street was that you went off to start some little venture. Why haven't we heard any news lately? You didn't burn through your parents' life savings and feel too embarrassed to admit it, did you?"

He looked around the room, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I heard Uncle Arthur is looking to sell the family house in the district. It isn't to bail you out of some massive debt hole, is it?"

Travis chuckled, tapping his glass. "Just tell me, cousin. If you ask nicely, I might just feel generous enough to toss a little pocket change your way."

I suppressed an eye roll and shifted slightly down the couch. Over the past six years, I had built my holding group into an enterprise with multiple publicly traded subsidiaries. As a CEO with net assets climbing into the billions, the first rule I lived by was that true wealth doesn't shout. Besides, if I laid out the truth right now, they would simply write it off as an insecure lie.

My parents were selling their old four-bedroom house in the city center for a very simple reason: they were moving in with me. Just this past November, I had purchased a private oceanfront villa down in Naples, Florida, fully staffed and furnished, so they could escape the harsh northern winters the moment the holidays wrapped up.

None of that would penetrate Travis’s thick skull anyway.

I reached for the scotch decanter, poured a measured splash into Travis’s tumbler, and said calmly, "Thanks for the concern, Travis. But I’m doing just fine on money."

My polite dismissal wiped the smirk off his face, replacing it with an ugly flicker of contempt. In his eyes, I was merely putting up a pathetic, stubborn front.

He reached into his tailored overcoat, pulled out an unmistakable car key, and slapped it hard onto the mahogany surface.

"Alright, folks! Let's head out to my new estate at Beryl Manor for dinner. Time to show you all what real luxury looks like!"

I glanced down at the key fob. The heavy leather casing and the bespoke silver detailing looked startlingly familiar, but before I could process it, the relatives surged forward, clustering around Travis like a flock of eager birds.

They jostled past me, laughing and flattering him, elbowing my parents and me toward the margins.

Down in the driveway, parked directly under the winter sun, sat a gleaming, papaya-orange Rolls-Royce Cullinan.

My breath hitched.

The relatives erupted into gasps of adoration.

"My god, Travis! You’re a prodigy! Greg, you must be walking on air to have raised such an exceptional son!"

Uncle Greg stood tall, his hands clasped behind his back, throwing another dismissive glance my way. "Degrees don't buy horse power! Bringing in real cash—that’s what separates the men from the boys!"

I stood rooted to the pavement, my eyes locked on the custom license plate.

That orange Cullinan was the exact vehicle sitting in my private residential garage. The dealership had pushed the vibrant orange trim on me, but after driving it twice, I felt it drew too much unnecessary attention, so I’d parked it in the back bay, letting it collect dust.

How had it become Travis’s car?