Chapter 3My Janitor Mother Is Secretly Wealthy

Terrified of losing his "golden ticket," Bennett grabbed Adam’s leg and nodded feverishly.

“Dad! I want to go with you! You’re the only one who cares about me! I’ll be the best son, I promise!”

Adam hesitated, his eyes flickering toward me.

At that moment, Mom knelt down so we were eye-to-eye. Her voice was a soft balm. “Matt? What about you? Do you want to go with your father?”

“I’m staying with you, Mom,” I said instantly.

She had just been rejected by her youngest, and my words brought a sudden, fragile light to her eyes. She pulled me into a hug. “I promise you, Matt. I will make sure you grow up happy. I’ll give you everything I can.”

“I’ll stay with you forever,” I whispered, meaning it.

In my last life, she had given Bennett all of her love, and he’d spat on it. This time, I would be the one to cherish it.

“Claire!” Adam shouted. “I didn't agree to this! You can’t just take Matt!”

Mom didn't even look at him. She told me to take Bennett upstairs to pack our things.

I nodded and took Bennett’s hand. I forced my voice into the pitch of a frightened seven-year-old. “Come on, Ben. Let’s go upstairs.”

My brother’s small face contorted with a sneer that no six-year-old should possess. He followed me, but I could feel the malice radiating off him.

As we climbed the stairs, I was already calculating. I needed a way out—a way to ensure May wouldn't come for me.

A few steps from the top, I felt his hand on my back. He shoved.

In that split second, I saw my opening. Instead of catching myself, I leaned into the fall. I tumbled backward, aiming my forehead for the sharp corner of the mahogany banister.

The pain was white-hot and immediate. My seven-year-old body wasn't as resilient as my adult mind, and the agony forced a jagged scream from my throat.

Bennett scrambled down next to me, forcing out fake tears. “Matt! Oh my god, you fell! Mom! Dad! I’m so scared!”

Mom was there in a heartbeat, screaming for an ambulance.

Adam, however, just stared at the gash on my head. “Matt! You idiot! Look what you did! What if that leaves a scar?”

May Stanford was a perfectionist. She viewed her children as curated works of art. A scarred heir was a flawed product.

Seeing Adam’s panicked face, I knew I’d won.