BANNED FROM THE GALA: Homeless Orphan Shows His Dead Mother’s Ring—And the Billionaire Host Falls to His Knees!

"Get away from me," I said, backing against the vanity until the wood dug into my spine.

Mark took slow, measured steps across the floorboards. The beam of his flashlight danced across the shrouded furniture, casting monstrous shadows on the plaster ceiling.

"You really think you're going to inherit this estate?" Mark whispered, his voice silky, venomous. "Arthur is a dying old fool blinded by guilt. But I built the modern Vance Empire. I doubled our shipping revenue. Do you think I'm going to let some sewer-born bastard walk in here and take my seat at the table?"

"My mother told me what you did," I spat, my voice trembling but defiant. "She wrote it down!"

Mark’s eyes widened slightly, then narrowed into vicious slits. He closed the distance between us in two lunges, his fingers clamping around my throat with terrifying force. He lifted me half off the ground, pinning me against the mirror until the glass cracked behind my head.

"Where is it?" Mark hissed, his hot breath smelling of expensive bourbon. "Where's the journal?"

"Let him go, Mark."

The voice cut through the dark like a blade.

Standing in the doorway was Mr. Henderson, Arthur’s veteran butler, flanked by two armed security guards holding tactical shotguns. Henderson was in his seventies, but his eyes were like cold steel.

"Mr. Arthur Vance has requested the young master’s presence in the grand study," Henderson said, his voice flat and lethal. "And he suggested that if you lay another finger on the boy, Mr. Mark, the Greenwich Police Department will be called to escort you off the property in cuffs."

Mark’s grip lingered for another suffocating second before he let go. I dropped to the floor, coughing, gasping for air, clutching my throat.

Mark smoothed the lapels of his sweater, his smile returning like a mask. "Just making sure our new guest wasn't sleepwalking, Henderson. Carry on."

Ten minutes later, I was back in the study. Arthur was sitting behind his desk, holding an open Manila folder with a red wax seal broken at the top. His hands were shaking so violently that the paper rustled like dry leaves.

Dr. Sterling stood beside him, looking pale.

"The results from the state crime lab just came in via courier," Arthur whispered, looking up at me through tears.

He didn't read the scientific jargon. He simply pointed to the bold black letters typed across the summary sheet:

**PROBABILITY OF PATERNITY/LINEAGE: 99.98%**

**CONFIRMED: GRANDSON OF ARTHUR VANCE.**

**DIRECT MATERNAL LINEAGE: CAROLINE VANCE.**

"It’s true," Arthur wept, opening his arms. "You’re Caroline’s boy. You’re my grandson."

I ran toward him, collapsing against his chest as the old man wept openly, wrapping his heavy arms around me. But over his shoulder, through the open doorway, I saw Mark Vance watching us from the dim hallway.