Chapter 2: Bloodlines and Paper Crowns

The black car pulled up right as the sky turned silver with dawn.

Alex stood at the curb with his cheap backpack and scuffed sneakers, feeling completely out of place next to the sleek, humming engine of the luxury sedan. The windows were tinted so dark he couldn't see inside.

He hesitated for a second.

This could be a scam. Or a setup. Or a really elaborate prank.

But that letter... it hadn't felt fake. There was something about the weight of it, the strange golden seal, and the quiet authority of the man who delivered it that made it hard to shake off. And deep inside, something else whispered—maybe this was finally it. A break. A door. A second chance.

Before he could overthink it, the rear door clicked open.

"Mr. Thompson," said a voice. "Please. We're expected."

Alex slid in. The seats were softer than any bed he'd ever slept on. The driver said nothing as they sped through the city, heading west—away from the noise, the traffic, the broken buildings and bitter memories. After nearly an hour, they turned into a long, tree-lined road that curved up into the hills.

At the end of the drive stood a mansion. No—estate was the better word.

Blackwood Estate.

It looked like something out of an old movie: towering stone walls, ivy crawling up the sides, iron gates that creaked open as if whispering secrets. There were gardens bigger than city blocks and fountains taller than his old apartment building. For a guy who'd just delivered fried chicken in the rain, this place might as well have been another planet.

The car stopped in front of the main entrance. The driver got out and opened his door.

"Inside. They're waiting for you."

Alex stepped out slowly, bag still clutched in one hand like a safety blanket. Two butlers in dark uniforms opened the grand oak doors without a word.

Inside, everything was silent.

Too silent.

He followed a long hallway lined with portraits of stern-looking men in suits and oil paintings of ships and castles and cities he didn't recognize. At the end, there was a heavy set of double doors.

A woman in a navy-blue skirt suit stood beside them, holding a tablet.

"Mr. Alexander Thompson?"

"Uh… yeah. That's me."

She nodded and pushed open the doors. "They're ready for you."

The room was massive. A long wooden table stretched down the center, sunlight pouring through tall windows. At the far end sat three people—two men in tailored suits, one older woman with silver hair and sharp glasses.

"Please, sit," she said, not unkindly, but firmly.

Alex sat.

The older man to her right opened a folder and adjusted his tie.

"Mr. Thompson, I'm Edward Mallory, senior legal counsel for the Dawson Consortium. This is Elizabeth Vaughn, executor of the Dawson estate, and Mr. Callum Brand, head of corporate affairs. We represent what you now own."

Alex blinked. "I… own?"

Elizabeth folded her hands on the table. "You've been named sole heir to the Dawson legacy, which includes over 130 companies globally, holdings across multiple industries, and total assets estimated at over 82 billion U.S. dollars."

Alex coughed. "Eighty... two…?"

"Billion," she confirmed.

He almost laughed. This had to be a joke. A dream. He half expected someone to jump out and yell gotcha!

"I think you have the wrong guy."

Edward Mallory slid a document across the table.

"This is your birth certificate. Issued July 9th, 1998. Mother's name: Caroline Thompson. Father: James Dawson."

Alex stared at the name.

James Dawson.

He remembered his mother once muttering that name after a bottle of cheap wine and a long, tired sigh. She said he was powerful. Dangerous. And gone.

Elizabeth continued. "Your mother was disowned by the Dawson family when she refused to abort you. She raised you on her own. But James left instructions—should anything happen to him, and should the others prove unworthy, the Consortium would pass to you."

Alex leaned back, trying to breathe.

This was too much.

Way too much.

"So… this guy, James Dawson… he's dead?"

Edward nodded. "Three weeks ago. Plane crash off the coast of Sicily. You are his only legal child."

"And the rest of the family?"

"Angry," said Callum, cracking the first smile anyone had shown all morning. "Very, very angry."

Elizabeth shot him a look. "But none of them are legitimate heirs. And James was specific. He wanted someone untainted by greed. Someone who knew struggle."

Alex shook his head. "I'm just… I'm nobody. I make deliveries. I sleep in a one-room apartment with cracked walls and no hot water. Why would a billionaire give me all of this?"

"Because he believed in blood," said Elizabeth, tapping the folder. "And because, perhaps, he regretted what he did to your mother."

Alex's throat tightened. The room blurred slightly at the edges.

"I don't know anything about running companies," he whispered. "I barely passed high school."

"That's why we're here," said Edward. "You won't be alone. But you will be in charge."

Alex looked down at the folder, at the numbers, the maps, the company names. Each one felt like a mountain he wasn't ready to climb.

Then he thought about Jessica.

Her laugh.

The way they looked at him like dirt under their shoes.

He sat up a little straighter.

"What do I have to do?"

Elizabeth handed him a pen.

"Sign here. This gives you full control."

His fingers trembled slightly as he took the pen. It felt heavier than it should have. He hovered over the line for a second. Then he signed.

The moment the ink dried, the air in the room shifted.

Callum stood and extended his hand.

"Congratulations, Mr. Thompson. You're now the youngest CEO in the Dawson Consortium's history."

Alex shook his hand, still half-numb.

"Your life will never be the same," Callum added.

Alex wasn't sure if that was a promise or a warning.

"Now," said Elizabeth, standing as well, "you'll need a change of clothes. There's a press conference in two hours."

"Press… conference?"

She nodded. "It's time the world met you."

They led him down a hallway toward the private wing. Servants bustled past with trays of clothes, tablets, briefcases. Everyone moved with the kind of efficiency that screamed old money.

In the dressing room, he stood in front of a mirror as two stylists adjusted his collar and combed his hair.

"You clean up well," one of them said.

Alex stared at the reflection.

He barely recognized himself.

Black suit. Crisp white shirt. The start of a beard trimmed to a clean jawline. His shoulders looked broader somehow. His eyes darker. He didn't look like the guy who got mocked over chicken deliveries.

He looked like someone who could ruin lives with a phone call.

As he stepped out of the room, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

It was a text.

From a number he didn't recognize.

Congrats on the promotion. You're not ready for what's coming.

Alex froze.

He typed back: Who is this?

No reply.

The black car was already waiting outside to take him to the press conference. But that text stayed with him like a cold hand on his shoulder.

Because in his heart, he knew one thing was true.

Now that he had power, someone out there was coming for him.