You Begged The Wrong True Heir

The entire internet knew that the Clevelands had finally found their long-lost biological son. What the internet didn't know was that this "long-lost heir" had already rejected their invitations to return home three times. The first time, I told them I was studying for finals. The second time, my hamster was giving birth, and I couldn't possibly leave her. The third time, Mercury was in retrograde, and it felt like bad energy to travel. By the fourth time, the Clevelands decided they had had enough. They sent their private driver to ambush me right outside my university gates. I stared at the sleek, black Cadillac Escalade idling at the curb, let out a slow sigh, and muttered to myself, "Well, since you're already here, I guess I'll go." When I stepped through the grand double doors of the Cleveland estate, a young man in a crisp white linen shirt was sitting on the velvet sofa in the main parlor. The moment his eyes locked onto me, they welled up with tears. "Kit, you're finally home," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Did you stay away so long because you hate me?" The Cleveland patriarch, Edward, immediately handed him a tissue with a pained expression, shooting me a look of deep resentment. My biological older sister, Victoria, didn't bother sugarcoating it. "You staying away like that made Ollie feel guilty every single day. Doesn't your conscience bother you at all?" Then there was the girl the Clevelands had arranged for me to marry—Amelia Bancroft. She was even more dramatic. "Mr. Cleveland," she said, her voice cold and aloof. "Ollie and I grew up together. You should think carefully about this engagement. Don't make things difficult for him." They all looked at me with varying degrees of hostility. I scanned the room, found the deepest, softest armchair, sat down, and pulled out my phone to summon an Uber Black. "Calling off the wedding, then? Works for me. I agree." I tapped the screen. "If that's all, I'll be heading back." 1 "Christopher, have you forgotten even the most basic manners?" Victoria pushed her gold-rimmed glasses up the bridge of her nose, her voice as flat and clinical as someone reading the morning's stock market report. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't slam her hands on the table. She just stared at me with that patronizing, pitying look wealthy adults save for misbehaving children. "Ollie sat in this room and waited for you for four hours. He prepared this entire welcome dinner for you." She sighed, her eyes narrowing. "You haven't even had a sip of water, and you throw a tantrum about calling off the engagement before walking out. Is this how the Edwiins raised you, or do you honestly think throwing a fit will make us feel guilty?" I glanced down at my phone screen. "Driver is 1.5 miles away." I let out a quiet sigh. "Ms. Cleveland, my name is Kit Edwiin." I raised my eyes to meet hers. "And I only agreed to call off the wedding because Ms. Bancroft here just told me to think carefully. I've always been good at taking advice. Since she doesn't want this arrangement, I see no reason to force myself onto her. Isn't this a win-win for everyone?" Amelia's brow furrowed slightly. She was transitionally beautiful—pale, cool, and distant, like a marble statue of some ancient goddess. Even her frown carried a sense of effortless superiority. "Christopher," she said, taking a step toward me. Her tone was gentle, but it carried the weight of an unspoken threat. "I know you've spent years away from high society, and you probably feel bitter. But marriage isn't a game." "What I said just now was simply because I don't want you taking your frustrations out on Ollie. He has a weak heart; he can't handle stress." She paused, her voice softening into a rehearsed display of empathy. "If you felt my attitude was harsh, I apologize. But don't use breaking our engagement as a cheap chip to threaten your family." What a masterful display of high-society diplomacy. With a few sentences, she painted herself as the noble protector of the weak, while pinning the label of "ungrateful, dramatic child" squarely on my chest. Oliver's tears flowed even faster now. He clutched the sleeve of Julia, the Cleveland matriarch, his voice trembling like a leaf in an autumn gale. "Mom, please don't blame Kit." He choked back a sob. "He went through so much out there. It's only natural he resents me." "If my being here makes him this miserable, then... I'll pack my bags and leave tomorrow." As he spoke, his body swayed precariously, as if he might collapse right there on the Persian rug. Julia let out a sharp gasp and wrapped her arms around him. "What are you saying, sweetheart? This is your home! Where on earth would you go?" Once she finished comforting Oliver, she turned her gaze back to me. The warmth in her eyes instantly froze into jagged shards of disappointment. "Christopher, must you tear this family apart before you're satisfied?" Julia's voice was quiet, but every word felt like a deliberate blow. "Ollie personally decorated your room. He even gave up his favorite wing of the estate for you." "And the minute you walk through the door, you pierce his heart by threatening to break the engagement. Do you have any idea how many nights he's cried himself to sleep, feeling like he stole your life?" I watched this performance of maternal devotion in silence. It was almost beautiful, in a tragic way. If I were indeed a fragile, broken boy who had spent sixteen years suffering in a rural town, desperately starving for a mother's touch, this subtle knife would have cut me to ribbons. I would be on my knees, weeping and begging for forgiveness. But I wasn't that boy. My adoptive mother, Catherine Edwiin, had given me a piece of advice before I left: "Kit, when you're dealing with idiots who don't speak your language, never try to explain yourself. Explaining yourself is giving them power." So, I tapped my phone screen and canceled the Uber. "Since Mrs. Cleveland thinks I'm just throwing a tantrum," I said, leaning back into the plush leather of the armchair, crossing my hands over my knee. "Then let's do this, Ms. Bancroft." I looked directly at Amelia, a flawless, polite smile curving my lips. "Call your family lawyer right now. Have them draw up a formal termination of the engagement." "You sign it, I sign it. Tomorrow morning, we'll run a notice in the papers stating that Christopher Cleveland is unrefined, unfit for the Bancroft family pedigree, and that you, Amelia Bancroft, have formally rejected me." "That way, you preserve your family's pristine reputation, and you get to fulfill your childhood-sweetheart dream with Ollie. It's perfect. I won't even ask for a termination fee. Consider it my wedding gift to the two of you." The air in the parlor turned to ice. Victoria's perpetually composed face finally cracked. Amelia's eyes went utterly cold. They had clearly never dealt with someone who refused to play by their rules. In their minds, I was supposed to either scream and shout or beg for their acceptance. They hadn't expected me to sit across from them like a cold-blooded corporate executive, casually offering them the most logical exit strategy. "What kind of foolish game is this?" Victoria walked over, standing over me, her voice taking on the sharp edge of an older sister trying to enforce discipline. "This engagement was arranged by our grandfather. Do you honestly think you can dissolve it with a wave of your hand?" "If you actually want to be a part of this family, go upstairs, wash up, put on some decent clothes, and come down for dinner. Stop trying to test our patience with these cheap, manipulative parlor tricks." Oliver gently tugged on Victoria's sleeve, his eyes red and watery. "Tori, don't be so hard on Kit. He's probably just exhausted." He turned to me, his gaze dripping with a sickeningly sweet tenderness. "Kit, dinner is going to get cold. Please, come eat something. We can talk about the engagement some other time." I looked at his hopelessly innocent face. What a perfect golden bridge he was offering me. If I stepped onto it, I would become the forgiven sinner—the unruly child who threw a fit and was graciously tolerated. And from that moment on, I would always be beneath him in this house. I stood up, smoothing the front of my white shirt—the one they clearly deemed "cheap." "Sure," I said, looking at Oliver. "Since my little brother is practically begging me, let's have dinner." I wanted to see exactly what kind of game they were playing at the dinner table. "But," I paused at the entrance of the dining room, looking back at Amelia, "I suggest you get that paperwork ready as soon as possible, Ms. Bancroft." 2 The Cleveland dining room was massive, illuminated by a crystal chandelier that cast a blinding, sterile glow over everything. The long mahogany table was piled high with exquisite dishes. I was placed at the very far end of the table—the maximum distance from Julia and Victoria, but in a spot where I had a perfect, unobstructed view of them piling food onto Oliver's plate. "Kit, the chef made this special wild mushroom and white truffle soup. It's incredibly restorative." Oliver personally spooned some soup into a bowl and nodded for the maid to place it in front of me. He offered me a warm, saintly smile. "I'm sure you didn't get to have things like this while you were away. Drink up, it's wonderful for your health." The steam rose from the bowl, carrying a delicate, earthy aroma. I looked down. Floating near the bottom of the broth were tiny, almost imperceptible flecks of crushed peanuts. This body had a severe peanut allergy. Even a trace amount would trigger anaphylaxis and send me into respiratory failure. It wasn't a secret. Before they brought me back, the Cleveland's family attorney had run a comprehensive background check, and my medical records had been forwarded directly to their inbox. I didn't pick up my spoon. I just stared at the bowl. "Why aren't you eating?" Julia elegantly sliced her filet mignon, not even bothering to look up. "Ollie had those truffles flown in specially from Italy. He barely kept any for himself so you could have them. I suppose growing up in the wild makes it hard to appreciate decent food." Victoria raised her wine glass, taking a slow sip. Her voice was flat. "Christopher, this is the Cleveland estate, not whatever rural town you came from. Learn to accept kindness when it's offered to you. And lose the defensive attitude. Nobody here is trying to hurt you." I raised my eyes, locking onto Victoria's—eyes that pretended to be rational but were completely blinded by prejudice. "Is that so?" I smiled, sliding the bowl toward the center of the table. "Since Ollie is so concerned about my health, maybe he should take the first sip? Show me how it's done." Oliver's face stiffened. He obviously hadn't expected me to call his bluff so publicly. "Kit, I had this made specifically for you..." He bit his lip, tears once again welling in his eyes. "Did I do something wrong? Why do you always treat me like an enemy?" "That's enough!" Amelia slammed her fork down onto her plate, unable to watch any longer. "Christopher, you are being incredibly malicious." She looked at me as if I were a lost cause, an unruly animal. "Ollie has been weak lately, and he's exhausted himself trying to prepare for your arrival. Instead of showing an ounce of gratitude, you sit there throwing cheap, bitter barbs. What is it that you actually want?" I leaned back in my chair, observing the self-righteous jury sitting before me. No screaming. No hysterical shouting. They used their high-class education and refined manners to deliver the most vicious, cutting remarks. This was the polite cruelty of the ultra-wealthy. I stood up, picked up the bowl of soup, and walked straight over to Oliver. "I'm not eating it because I am severely allergic to peanuts." I watched Oliver's pupils contract in sudden panic. My voice remained soft, as if I were reading a bedtime story. "Page two, line three of the medical report your lawyer handed you. It's written in bold." "If my dear brother was so incredibly thoughtful in planning this welcome dinner, how did he manage to forget something that could literally kill me?" Julia's knife scraped sharply against her plate and stopped. Victoria's brow furrowed deep. She turned her cold gaze toward the butler standing near the sideboard. Cold sweat beaded on the butler's forehead. "M-Madam... Ms. Cleveland... the report did mention it. I... I briefed you on the medical files yesterday morning." Julia's face flushed a blotchy red and then went pale. Yesterday morning, her mind had been entirely occupied with soothing a weeping Oliver. She hadn't had a single second to spare for the medical file of a boy from the country. "Kit, I swear I didn't know!" Oliver scrambled out of his chair, tears streaming down his face. "The kitchen always uses peanut oil or peanut garnishes for this broth... I really didn't know! I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry!" He wept so pitifully, you would have thought he was the one who had almost been poisoned. Amelia immediately stepped between us, shielding him, glaring at me with raw fury. "Christopher! It was an honest mistake! Ollie didn't do it on purpose! Must you use every single opportunity to act like a victim just to make everyone feel guilty? Do you have any idea how petty and small-minded this makes you look?" I couldn't help but laugh out loud. It was truly brilliant. I, the person who had almost been sent to the ER, hadn't even raised my voice, yet they had already painted me as the bitter, small-minded villain. "Ms. Bancroft is entirely correct." I nodded, gently setting the bowl down in front of Amelia. "An honest mistake. Since Ollie didn't mean it, and you care so deeply about him... why don't you drink it, Ms. Bancroft? After all, it would be a terrible sin to waste truffles flown all the way from Italy, wouldn't it?" Amelia stared at the soup, her face turning an ugly shade of gray. Of course she wouldn't touch it. She wasn't allergic, but she was an extreme germaphobe. She would never eat something that had been pushed around and handled by someone else. I watched their frozen expressions, my smile widening. "What? Nobody wants it?" I pulled a linen napkin from the table and slowly wiped my hands. "It seems the Cleveland family's kindness is a little hard to swallow. I'm full. Enjoy your dinner, everyone." I turned and walked toward the grand staircase, not offering them a single backward glance. Victoria's cold voice cut through the silence behind me. "Christopher, tomorrow evening, Lord Bancroft wants to see you at the family estate. You had better lose this prickly, defensive attitude of yours. If you ruin tomorrow's dinner, you won't even have the right to step foot in this house again." I didn't stop. I just gave a casual wave of my hand. "Understood. Oh, and a quick reminder, Ms. Cleveland: stop trying to threaten me with throwing me out. I haven't deleted my Uber app yet." 3 The room Oliver had "prepared" for me was located on the far east wing of the third floor. The moment I opened the door, a heavy cloud of expensive men's cologne hit me like a wall. The room was massive, decorated in an aggressively masculine, high-tech style—essentially a giant gaming suite. On the nightstand sat a polished crystal picture frame containing a photo of Oliver and Amelia laughing together on a beach. On the mahogany desk sat Oliver's old customized gaming keyboard and mouse. Inside the wardrobe, a few of his lightly worn designer jackets were still hanging. This wasn't a room prepared for a returning son. It was a territory marked. Every square inch was designed to scream: "Every corner of this house belongs to him." Even the place where I slept was meant to exist under his shadow. "Kit? Do you like it?" I hadn't heard Oliver walk up. He stood in the doorway, looking fragile and tentative. "These were some of my favorite things. I wanted you to have them." He watched me, a faint, hidden spark in his eyes—a quiet hope that I would lose my temper. I walked over to the bed, picked up the crystal frame, and studied the photo for a moment. "I love it," I said, turning to him with a warm, genuine smile. "You're so thoughtful, Ollie. You even anticipated that I might have nightmares sleeping in a strange bed. With Ms. Bancroft's face guarding the room like a gargoyle, I'm sure no evil spirits would dare come near me." Oliver's polite smile faltered for a fraction of a second. He clearly hadn't expected me to deflect his little jab so easily. "You have a unique sense of humor, Kit," he murmured, his lips twitching. "Get some rest. We have to see Grandfather Bancroft tomorrow." Left with nowhere to direct his frustration, he turned and walked away, looking thoroughly unsatisfied. I shut the door and flipped the picture frame face-down on the desk. The following afternoon, the Cleveland family's personal stylist arrived early at the mansion. Oliver emerged in a bespoke, ivory-white suit, looking like a pristine lily. Julia and Victoria showered him with praise in the foyer. "You look absolutely beautiful, Ollie. Lord Bancroft will adore you." Julia's eyes shone with maternal pride, as though Oliver were the only child she had ever birthed. Then, I walked down the stairs wearing my old grey hoodie and jeans. The laughter in the foyer died instantly. Victoria squinted at me, her eyes filled with unshielded disgust. "You plan on showing up to the Bancroft estate looking like that?" Her tone was dripping with disdain. "Tonight is Lord Bancroft's eightieth birthday gala. The most influential families in the city will be there. Dressing like a vagrant is a direct insult to us. Do you want to make the Clevelands a laughingstock?" Oliver quickly stepped forward, grabbing my arm. "Kit, don't be mad at Tori, she's just worried about you. I know you probably didn't have access to nice clothes back in the country, and real suits can feel restrictive. I had the stylist alter one of my old suits for you." He signaled a maid, who brought forward a garment bag. "The fabric is incredibly soft. You'll look amazing in it." The maid unzipped the bag to reveal a navy-blue suit. It was a style from last season, and it had clearly been tailored down to a size that was far too small. I estimated the shoulder width. If I forced myself into it, I wouldn't even be able to lift my arms, let alone move comfortably at a formal dinner. This was his "thoughtfulness." Force me into a dated, ill-fitting hand-me-down to permanently cement my status as the "poor country relative" in front of the city's elite. "Go ahead and try it on, Kit," Oliver urged, his eyes wide and innocent. "We're running late. Amelia's car is already waiting outside." Julia chimed in, her voice sharp with impatience. "Go change, Christopher. Stop keeping your elders waiting. The Cleveland name is not a toy for you to play your stubborn games with." I looked down at the navy-blue suit in my hands. I didn't get angry. I didn't throw it on the floor. I simply looked at Oliver. "Are you absolutely sure you want me to wear this, Ollie?" "Of course," Oliver smiled, his voice sweet as honey. "It's one of my absolute favorites." "Alright." I nodded, turning toward the dressing room. Fifteen minutes later, I pushed the dressing room door open. The foyer fell into a dead, suffocating silence once again. I wasn't wearing the navy-blue suit. I was still wearing my own white shirt and dark trousers. However, I had rolled the sleeves up to my elbows, revealing lean, defined forearms. Around my left wrist, a simple black braided cord was loosely tied. "Christopher!" Victoria finally snapped, her voice rising to an uncharacteristic pitch. "What is wrong with you? We told you to change!" I walked over unhurriedly and tossed the navy-blue suit onto the velvet sofa. A sharp "rip" echoed through the room. The suit—which had already been altered to a microscopic size—split wide open at the shoulder seam from the sheer force of the casual throw. "Oh, I am so sorry," I said, looking at Oliver's suddenly pale face, my tone dripping with mock apology. "The quality of your clothes doesn't seem very good, Ollie. I barely dug my arms into the sleeves, and it tore right open." "I figured, if my suit split open in the middle of Lord Bancroft's gala... well, I don't think the Cleveland family's dignity would ever recover from that, would it?" Julia trembled with rage, pointing a finger at me but unable to find the words. "You... you are utterly impossible!" Victoria took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing down her disgust. "We don't have time for this." She cast a freezing look at me. "If you insist on going out there and embarrassing yourself, fine. But once we arrive at the Bancroft estate, you stay behind Ollie. Do not speak unless spoken to." I shrugged indifferently. Stay behind him? Not a chance. I was going to have a front-row seat for the show. 4 The Bancroft estate sat on a sprawling hill on the outskirts of the city, designed like a grand English manor. Lord Bancroft’s eightieth birthday gala was an incredibly lavish affair. Sleek sports cars and luxury sedans lined the winding driveway, and the grand ballroom was filled with the glittering elite of high society, draped in silks and diamonds. When I followed the Clevelands into the hall, nearly every eye in the room turned toward us. In a sea of bespoke tuxedos and designer evening gowns, my rolled-up white shirt and dark trousers stood out like a stray dog at a dog show. "Who is that? Why is he dressed like he's going to a casual brunch?" "I think that's the biological son the Clevelands just brought back." "Good lord, you can take the boy out of the country... he doesn't even know basic etiquette." "Look at Oliver, so refined. That's what real breeding looks like." The whispers drifted through the air like a rising tide. Oliver walked slightly ahead of me, his arm wrapped around Amelia's. He kept his head lowered, looking deeply pained by the whispers, but his grip on Amelia's arm tightened. Amelia patted his hand soothingly, casting a sharp, warning glare back at me. Julia and Victoria accelerated their pace, putting a noticeable distance between themselves and me, as if walking near me were an embarrassment they couldn't bear. I followed at a leisurely pace, completely ignoring the judgmental stares. "Edward, Julia, congratulations," a wealthy middle-aged woman smiled as she approached. It was Amelia’s mother, Mrs. Bancroft. "And this must be your eldest?" Her eyes swept over me, and her brow twitched with immediate distaste. She was a woman who lived and died by appearances. My outfit was a direct affront to her standards. "Yes, Christopher has been away for a long time. His manners are still... rustic," Victoria offered smoothly. She didn't bother defending me; instead, she distanced herself with cold efficiency. "He'll learn," Mrs. Bancroft said dismissively, turning to lead us toward the head table. Lord Bancroft sat at the center of the table, slowly turning a set of heavy jade worry stones in his hand. "The Cleveland boy is back," the old man boomed, his eyes sharp. "Now that you're back, you'll need to learn how things are done in our world. The engagement between you and Amelia was arranged by your grandfather and me decades ago." "But love cannot be forced." The old man set the stones down, looking at Amelia and Oliver. "Amelia and Oliver grew up together. They share a deep bond. You've just arrived, and you don't understand our ways. Forcing this marriage would only make everyone miserable." He spoke with the calm, unassailable authority of a patriarch. "So, tonight, while our closest friends are gathered... we are officially dissolving the engagement." "Of course, the Bancrofts will not leave you empty-handed. We are developing a new high-end waterfront plaza downtown. We will allow the Clevelands a ten percent equity stake. Consider it compensation." The grand hall fell into a hush. Everyone leaned in, eager to watch the drama of an elite rejection unfold. A ten percent stake in a prime development to buy off a country boy's dreams—to them, it was an incredibly generous act of charity. Julia and Victoria exchanged a quick glance, a flash of pure greed igniting in their eyes. The Clevelands had been trying to get a piece of that waterfront project for months without success. Now, they got to solve the awkward engagement problem and walk away with a massive financial windfall. "Lord Bancroft is entirely right," Julia spoke up quickly. "Christopher... well, he simply doesn't have the refinement for Amelia. This is truly what's best for both children." Oliver looked up at Amelia, his eyes brimming with tears of gratitude. "Thank you, Grandfather Bancroft." Amelia looked down at me with a cold, superior pity. "Christopher, do you understand? My grandfather has given you the best possible outcome. You don't have to struggle to fit into a world where you don't belong, and you've secured a massive deal for your family. You should be grateful." Grateful? I nearly laughed out loud. They were selling my dignity to line the Cleveland pockets, and I was expected to thank them for it? I could hear the gears of their greed grinding from a mile away. I looked at Lord Bancroft, then at the Cleveland family standing beside him. A wave of absolute disgust washed over me. "Lord Bancroft," I said, stepping forward, looking the old patriarch dead in the eye. "I agreed to call off the engagement yesterday. But I have one condition." Lord Bancroft's brow furrowed deep. "A condition? What right do you have to demand conditions? A ten percent stake is an astronomical sum for someone like you. Young man, do not let greed blind you." "Greed?" I let out a cold laugh. "You misunderstand, Lord Bancroft. My condition has nothing to do with money. My condition is that the public announcement of this dissolution must state the truth." I turned to face the entire room of watching guests, my voice ringing out clear and undeniable. "It must state that Amelia Bancroft is unfaithful, having carried on an illicit affair with Oliver Cleveland behind my back before the wedding could even take place. And that I, Kit Edwiin, broke off the engagement because she is too dirty for my tastes." The room erupted into a frenzy of shocked gasps. Amelia’s face turned a violent shade of red. "Christopher! How dare you!" Oliver let out a sob, covering his face. "Kit, how could you lie about us like this..." Julia, trembling with pure rage, raised her hand and swung it toward my face. "You ungrateful little bastard! I'll teach you some respect!" I didn't flinch. I didn't move to block her. But just as her hand was about to strike my cheek— The massive mahogany double doors of the ballroom were slammed open. "Touch him, and I'll ruin you," a cold, commanding voice echoed through the hall, cutting through the chaos like a knife through ice. Everyone turned toward the entrance. Standing in the doorway was a tall, elegant woman draped in a tailored black wool coat. Her features were striking, her eyes cold as winter. The guests, who had just been enjoying the drama, collectively gasped as they recognized her face. It was the woman who sat at the absolute peak of the country's financial empire: the head of the Edwiin conglomerate, Helena Edwiin.