11 years earlier…
If you had seen me back then, you wouldn't believe I'm the same man you just met.
I wasn't always Richard Cade — billionaire, feared, respected.
Back then, I was just Richie.
Fat Richie. Unwanted Richie. The punchline in my own family.
We lived in a gated estate in Long Island — one of those neighborhoods where the gates were tall and the neighbors wore pearls to pick up mail. The Cade mansion had ten bathrooms, three kitchens, a gym we never used, and a garden that cost more to maintain than most people's entire yearly income.
I should've been living the dream.
Instead, I was living like a ghost in my own home.
---
Breakfast in the Cade household was a warzone.
"Pass the eggs, Michael," said my mother, her voice dripping with affection as she smiled at my brother.
"Can I get the juice, Sophia? Rachel?"
No mention of me.
I was sitting right there. Same table. Same blood.
I cleared my throat softly.
My mother looked over, raised a perfectly arched brow.
"Is there a reason you're breathing so loudly, Richie?"
I blinked. "I—I wasn't trying—"
"Well then, maybe try harder," she snapped, without missing a beat.
Laughter erupted. Even the maid smirked before catching herself.
---
Ellen Cade, my mother, was a full-time professional socialite and part-time emotional terrorist. Botoxed to perfection, always dressed like she was going to a gala — even if she was just heading to brunch.
My father, Gregory Cade, was worse.
CEO of Cade Construction. Hard as nails. Old-school.
The kind of man who thought emotions were for weaklings and poverty was a personal failure.
"You know what your problem is, Richie?" he said once while reading the Wall Street Journal. "You eat too much and think too little."
"I got an A in my business class," I offered gently.
He didn't look up. "Michael built a stock portfolio at sixteen. You got an A in coloring books."
---
Michael was the golden child.
Tall, athletic, born with abs and privilege.
Played football. Drove a Porsche by senior year.
He partied, skipped classes, and still got praised like he was Jesus with a LinkedIn.
My sisters, Sophia and Rachel, were practically clones of our mom. Blonde, polished, brutal behind fake smiles. They had tens of thousands of Instagram followers and routinely told people I was a "step-cousin."
"Your hair looks like it lost a fight with a toaster," Rachel once said before a family photo.
---
The only person who ever made me feel human was Lena Rivers.
She was my best friend since middle school. Funny, wild, and had this laugh that could ruin your bad mood in two seconds flat.
She didn't care that I was fat or quiet.
We used to sneak snacks into the movies, talk for hours about starting a business or leaving New York for L.A.
I thought… maybe she even liked me. Maybe more than just a friend.
---
And then… Prom Night.
I wore a cheap tux. Too tight. The shoes squeaked.
Hair gelled so hard I looked like a buttered porcupine.
But I was excited. Lena said we'd go together — "not as a couple, just as besties," she had texted. But I still hoped.
I showed up at the venue early. Sweating. Smiling. Nervous.
Then the doors opened.
And Lena walked in…
...on the arm of Ethan Jacobs.
Ethan. Senior quarterback. Shirtless in half the yearbook.
And Lena? She was laughing, clinging to his arm in her shimmering red dress. The same one she said she picked for me.
They kissed. Not a light peck. No — full-on, deep-throat tongue Olympics. The crowd cheered.
I stood frozen mid-step.
"Richie?" she said with a laugh, noticing me. "Oh! I forgot to tell you. I got… um, a real date."
The crowd turned. Phones came out.
Ethan snickered. "You wore a clip-on bowtie, man?"
Lena giggled. "Honestly, I only told him we'd go together because I felt bad. He begged me."
"No, I didn't," I said quietly.
She waved dismissively. "Come on, Richie. You think I'd actually go with someone who sweats just from walking?"
People burst out laughing. Even the janitor looked away in pity.
My face burned.
"You know what? You were just a good laugh. A charity case," she said, stepping into the dance hall without looking back.
---
I left early, heart shattered, eyes damp.
The limo driver asked if I wanted to stop anywhere.
I told him, "Just take me home."
I got back around midnight. Slipped into the house like a ghost. Shoes off. Shoulders slumped.
I didn't want to talk. Just wanted to crawl into bed, eat chips, maybe cry quietly.
But fate… had other plans.
---
As I opened my bedroom door, I heard it.
Moaning. Loud moaning.
Confused, I stepped inside.
The bedsheets were moving. Thumping. Gasping.
I yanked the covers back—
Chelsea, my girlfriend, was naked.
Michael, my brother, was also naked.
They froze.
"Jesus, Richie!" Chelsea shrieked, grabbing a pillow.
Michael just grinned like he was in a beer commercial.
"Sup, bro."
"What… what the hell are you doing?!" I cried.
Chelsea glared. "Why are you home so early?!"
"In my bed?!"
Michael stretched. "You didn't look like you were gonna need it tonight."
Chelsea snorted. "What do you want me to do? Pretend this was a real relationship? You're like a teddy bear — soft, sweet, and no action."
"I thought you—"
"You thought wrong," she snapped. "You can't even kiss right. You sweat when you hug. I wanted a man. Not a mattress with feelings."
I staggered back, stunned. Rage boiling in my chest. Shame coating my skin.
"I should've known," I muttered.
Michael stood up, bare as ever. "Dad always said you were too soft for this world. We just proved him right."
---
An hour later, I sat in the garage, bags packed, hoodie on, tears dry.
I was leaving.
I had nothing planned. No money. No job. But I couldn't stay another second.
Vanessa, the housekeeper, found me.
"You're leaving?" she whispered, shocked.
"I have to."
She looked around. "Your father's going to kill you."
"Good," I said. "Maybe then he'll look me in the eyes."
She sighed and handed me a $100 bill. "Take this. Get far away, Richie."
I hugged her. She was the only one who ever showed me kindness in that house.
---
As I opened the front door, my father was waiting.
Gregory Cade, in a robe and whiskey glass.
"You leave now," he said, "and you're out of the family. No trust fund. No support. Nothing."
"I don't want your money," I said.
"You won't last a week out there."
"I'll take my chances."
He stepped closer. "We gave you everything."
"You gave me a room. You never gave me a reason to stay."
My mother walked past in her silk robe. "Don't forget to leave the spare key, Richie. I don't want you crawling back in like a raccoon."
From upstairs, Sophia shouted, "Can I have his monitor?"
Rachel added, "Take the fridge snacks before he eats them all!"
Michael leaned over the railing, still shirtless. "Send us a postcard when you're homeless!"
---
I stepped outside.
Cold night. Heavy air. No car. No backup plan.
Just a duffel bag, a few bills, and a hear
t that had been stomped, laughed at, and lit on fire.
And yet… somehow, I smiled.
Because something inside me clicked.
This wasn't the end.
It was the beginning.
The world had turned its back on me — and now?
It was my turn.