I was washing dishes at a private party in a luxurious lakeside mansion in the American Midwest when I accidentally broke a vase. The host didn’t get angry—instead, he stared at my hands and whispered, “Those scars… where did you get them?”
“I don’t really know,” I answered. “My mom told me I got them when I was a baby.”
In that moment, he froze, then quickly took my hand and said, his voice barely more than air, “Those scars… I’ve been looking for them for twenty-seven years.”
A billionaire grabbed my wrist, looked at the scars I’ve had my entire life, and said five words that destroyed everything I thought I knew about myself:
“I watched you get those.”
I stood there in his mansion, surrounded by people worth more than I’d earn in ten lifetimes, with shattered porcelain at my feet and my catering uniform stained with champagne.
Through the tall windows, I could see an American flag fluttering over the boathouse by the lake, lit by hidden spotlights and reflected in the dark water. Inside, crystal chandeliers glowed over men in tailored suits and women in dresses that looked pulled from New York runways. I was supposed to be invisible that night.
I was supposed to wash dishes, carry trays, collect my paycheck, and go home to my one-bedroom apartment in Columbus, Ohio, a place where the only view was a cracked parking lot, a half-faded red-white-and-blue bumper sticker on the car next to mine, and the distant glow of the freeway. Instead, I was staring into the eyes of a man who looked like he’d just seen a ghost. And maybe he had, because according to everything he told me that night, I’d been declared dead for twenty-seven years.
My name is Declan Morse. At least that’s the name I grew up with. That’s the name on my Ohio driver’s license, my Social Security card, my employee badge at Granger Furniture Distribution, where I’ve worked for the past six years.
It’s the name Pauline Decker called me when she took me into her home as a scared seven-year-old foster kid with no memories of where I came from and scars on my hands that nobody could explain. But that night at the Ashby estate, I learned that Declan Morse might not be my real name at all. I learned that the scars I’ve carried since before I could remember weren’t random.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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