Chapter 1

When I was diagnosed with cerebellar atrophy, my dad found out my mom had hidden the family medical history from him.

Flying into a rage, he ditched us, mother and son, and took off with my sister.

Guilt-ridden, my mom threw herself into my rehab. For a while, things started looking up.

But a month later, she left two hundred bucks and a note, and vanished without a trace.

[Lucas, I've done everything I can. We're too broke. Don't blame me.]

I didn't. My parents still had my healthy sister to raise.

I just told myself, "Good luck, Mia. Hope you dodge this genetic bullet. Take care of Mom and Dad when they're old."

Meanwhile, I dragged my twisted legs, crooked mouth, and hunched back to work as a cleaner in a banquet hall—courtesy of some charity-minded corporation.

A year later, I saw it at the entrance: the guest check-in table for my sister's coming-of-age ceremony. Over-the-top lavish.

And there they were, my mom and dad, carefully steadying my sister as she wobbled, their faces full of love and worry.

Mom sighed, "Mia's showing symptoms now... I wonder how Lucas is doing. I was about to tell him who we really are, but then..."

Dad cut her off coldly, "What's there to talk about? He's dead, isn't he? Bad enough luck as it is. The richest man in town doesn't get his money for nothing. Why should that little brat siphon off assets meant for my daughter?

"We agreed to leave in stages so he couldn't latch on. You already wasted a whole month on his rehab, that's more than he ever deserved."

The guests saw the touching family portrait—parents holding up their struggling daughter—and broke into thunderous applause. "Mr. and Mrs. Bennett have been by their daughter's side through thick and thin for a whole year. It's just so touching."

I put down my rag and clapped along as best I could, my hands not quite lining up.

Turns out my parents didn't abandon a sick kid.

I just wasn't worth keeping.

Then, mid-clap, the tears came.

More little drips on the floor I'd just wiped clean.

Zane Carter, the floor manager, had never liked me. He was on me in a second, grabbing my ear and twisting my face practically down to the tile.

"You blind? You expect me to clean up your mess? You make this floor slick, some big shot slips and breaks his neck, your crippled ass couldn't pay for it if you sold every organ.

"You pathetic freak, you think you belong here, gawking at the richest family in town's princess party? What, you getting ideas? With that mug? You think you've got a shot?"

Oh. So I was the son of a billionaire.

No wonder my mother carried the same disease yet never suffered its effects. And my sister still got a front-row seat to the miracles that unlimited wealth can purchase. Only I was the one they left behind, through and through.

A bitter taste rose in my throat. I swallowed it down with the tears and bent over double apologizing.

"S-sor... sorry."

Just a word. Yet for my frozen tongue, they were the hardest mountains I'd ever had to cross.

Zane waved me off. "Just wipe it up. You're hobbling around here like that, and what if the Bennetts see you? Bad luck."

I dabbed the floor dry. He shoved me toward the back.

Then I heard my mother's voice. "Hold on."

Her voice was sharp, but underneath it was that familiar tenderness only a mother had, the same indulgence she showed when tapping my nose as I did homework.

The same pride when she bought me that three-dollar cake at my ceremony, and the same guilt that slipped out as "I'm sorry" while she wheeled me to rehab after I got sick.

I used to think she was sorry for hiding the family medical history. Now I knew: she was just being polite to the kid she'd thrown away.

My body locked up. I tucked my face deeper into my chest. My hunched back made it easy.

I was really scared she might figure out who I was.

She didn't. She walked up and handed out the gifts.

"For my daughter's ceremony. A little something for the staff."

Oh, she was just going through the motions because she saw our uniforms.

Zane bowed low, grabbed them, and started kissing up. But my mom pulled one gift back and pressed it into my hands.

"The way you look... I think I know that illness. I had a son. If he were alive... maybe he'd look like you."

Good. She didn't know me. When she left, I was just a little unsteady on my feet. Now I was twisted, crooked, bent, barely human.

Her eyes welled up. Zane rushed over with a tissue and shoved me hard. "Look what you did, you cripple! Making Mrs. Bennett cry! Apologize!"

I worked my useless lips. The words wouldn't come.

My mom waved it off. "Don't blame him. If anything... thank him. Seeing him like this... maybe it's better my son died. Otherwise he'd end up like that. Thank God I saved him from that."

Oh. So that was how they sleep at night.

A crooked smile tugged at my twisted mouth. Then I looked across the room at my sister, beaming, and felt... nothing. Not even anger.

I turned to go. My broom slipped and clattered to the floor.

The noise turned every head.

My father's eyes found me. I knew: I was in for it now.