The Real Heiress Is in Queue, Please Wait

The day the true heiress, Lydia, came back, she threw everything out of my room.

I'm the real daughter of this family. You, the imposter, can get the hell out.

Oh, and before you go, she added with a sneer, you can pay back the money you've cost my family for the last twenty years. Lets call it half a million a year. Ten million dollars. Wire it directly to my account.

I silently held out my phone, displaying a QR code for the Heir Verification System.

"Of course, Miss Lydia. But before we get to that, you'll need to join the queue and await identity verification."

Lydia slapped my phone away. "Evelyn Ashworth, who the hell do you think you are, trying to stop me from reuniting with my parents?"

"I'm not stopping you," I explained patiently. "I'm just asking you to follow the process. There's a line."

But Lydia, desperate to claim her new life, wasn't listening. "You think someone like me waits in line? Just wait until I find Mom and Dad. You'll be thrown out onto the street where you belong."

What Lydia didn't know was that four hundred and ninety-nine people had come before her, all claiming to be the long-lost Ashworth heiress. My parents, overwhelmed, had long ago delegated the entire verification process to me.

...

Lydia cornered my mother by the elevators, just as she was leaving a board meeting.

"Mom!" she cried, dropping dramatically to her knees. "It's me! I'm your real daughter!"

My mother didn't even glance down.

Her assistant, Alex, stepped forward immediately. "Miss, if you wish to make a claim, please use the online booking system."

Tears streamed down Lydia's face on cue. "Mom! Please, just look at me! My life has been so hard..."

My mother finally looked up. She checked her watch. "Thirty-six seconds. Five seconds slower than last month's girl. Not a record-breaker, kid."

Lydia froze. "What?"

My mother pulled out her tablet and swiped a few times. "Candidate YM37, Lydia, age twenty-two. Resides in a low-income apartment complex on the east side. Both parents deceased, completed university on a scholarship."

The color drained from Lydia's face. "You... you investigated me?"

My mother patted her shoulder. "The acting's not bad, but the script is stale. I suggest you watch episode eight of The Heiress Swap. That girl gave a much more convincing performance."

And with that, she was gone.

At three in the afternoon, my father was doing his rounds at the Ashworth Department Store.

Lydia appeared again, this time with a new strategy.

"Dad!" she called out, holding up a photograph. "Look, I looked just like you when I was a child!"

My father took the photo and examined it.

"Nice photoshop job," he said dryly. "But next time, remember to make the ears smaller. The Ashworths don't have ears that big."

Lydia grew frantic. "But this is really me!"

"Kid," my father sighed, "last year, someone came to us with an AI-generated deepfake video. The technology was far more professional than this." He handed the photo back to her. "Go find Evelyn. She handles these things."

Lydia stomped her foot in frustration. "Dad! How can you be so heartless?"

"Call me Mr. Ashworth," he said, not even turning back.

At eight that evening, my grandmother's private jet landed. Lydia had been waiting in the VIP arrivals lounge for hours.

"Grandma!" she cried, kneeling and bowing her head to the floor. "I'm your real granddaughter!"

My grandmother, still groggy from the flight and the time difference, squinted at her. "What number is this one for the year?"

Her bodyguard replied, "The fifty-seventh, ma'am."

Grandma nodded. "Does she have an appointment?"

Lydia was stunned. "N-no..."

"Then that won't do," Grandma said with a wave of her hand. "Last year, a girl knelt at the airport for three days straight before we made an exception and squeezed her in." She had the bodyguard help Lydia up and tucked a business card into her hand. "Here's my granddaughter's contact info. Schedule an appointment first."

Lydia looked down at the card.

It read: Evelyn Ashworth, Head of Heiress Claims.

Her face turned a sickly shade of green.

The next day, Lydia stormed into our house.

"I want a DNA test!" she slammed her hand on the table. "Now! Right now!"

My parents exchanged a weary glance.

"Honey," my mother began, "it's not that we're unwilling..."

"You're scared, aren't you?" Lydia sneered. "Scared the test will prove I'm the real one."

My father rubbed his temples. "We had our blood drawn thirty times last year. We've already done it fifteen times since January. My doctor says I'm on the verge of becoming anemic."

Lydia was speechless.

I walked in, carrying a tray of tea. "Actually, there are other ways."

"What ways?" she eyed me suspiciously.

"Hair or nail clippings," I said. "The technology is very advanced now; a blood sample isn't always necessary."

Lydia's eyes lit up. "Then let's do it now!"

I smiled. "We can. But you'll still have to wait in line."

"What line?"

"There's a monthly quota for my parents' hair and nail samples. This month's is already full. There are over two hundred samples ahead of you in the queue for testing. The earliest slot for yours would be next month."

Lydia exploded. "Evelyn Ashworth! You're doing this on purpose!"

I shrugged. "I'm just following procedure."

Lydia couldn't wait. She paid twenty thousand dollars to a scalper for an expedited appointment slot. This got her into the "Token Authentication Room" on the third floor.

She strode in, head held high like a proud rooster.

"I have the keepsake!" she declared, pulling out half of an ornate silver locket. "The nurse at the hospital gave this to me back then! It's one of a kind!"

The staff member, a young man named Kevin, took the locket and scanned her appointment barcode.

"Candidate YM37, Lydia. Keepsake category: Locket." Kevin read from his screen. "We currently have 287 items registered under the locket category."

Lydia's smile froze. "How many?"

"287," Kevin confirmed, pulling up the data. "143 of them are halves, and 144 are complete."

"That's impossible!" she shrieked.

Kevin offered a polite smile. "It started with two halves that fit together. Then it evolved into quarters. He gestured to a website on his monitor. "Now we even have a 'Locket Shard Jigsaw Puzzle' service. Ninety-eight dollars, free shipping."

Lydia looked like she was going to be sick.

I patched my voice through the room's intercom. "Miss Lydia, your locket appears to be a 'standard edition.' Market value is about three hundred and eighty dollars."

Lydia whipped her head around, searching for the camera. "Evelyn Ashworth! You set me up!"

"It's called market research," I replied cheerfully.

But she wasn't done yet.

"I also have a birthmark!" She pulled down the collar of her shirt. "A butterfly on my left shoulder! It's unique!"

Kevin sighed and pulled up another database. "Of the 500 'heiress' candidates who have registered this year, 108 claim to have a butterfly-shaped birthmark."

Lydia's eyes widened. "How many?"

"108," Kevin repeated, enlarging the data visualization. "76 on the left shoulder, 32 on the right."

"But mine is different!" Lydia insisted. "It has a special shape!"

Kevin nodded. "Yes. Candidate #43, Candidate #87, and Candidate #201 said the same thing." He clicked through a gallery of photos. "#43's butterfly has spots, #87's has stripes, and #201's is, and I quote, 'rendered in 3D.'"

Lydia's lips trembled. "Impossible..."

I couldn't resist twisting the knife. "Miss Lydia, perhaps you should add a tattoo? Tattoos are now being accepted as potential authenticating marks."

Furious, she hurled her teacup against the wall.

"You'll have to pay for that," Kevin said, instantly printing an invoice. "Custom-ordered porcelain. Two thousand, eight hundred dollars."

She still wouldn't give up.

"I look just like Mrs. Ashworth when she was young!" she pointed at a portrait on the wall. "Look at me!"

Kevin sighed again and turned on the projector. An image of another young woman appeared on the screen. She didn't just resemble my mother; she was a stunning mix of my mother, my father, and even my grandmother.

"We refer to her as the 'Family Portrait Composite,'" Kevin explained. "She won last year's 'Most Ashworth-like' award."

Lydia was quiet for three days. But I knew she was plotting something.

Sure enough, she showed up at the Ashworth family's quarterly gala.

Halfway through the evening, a piercing shriek cut through the chatter.

"My necklace is gone!" Lydia cried, clutching her throat. "It was a birthday gift from my foster mother!"

The entire ballroom fell silent. All eyes turned to her.

Lydia sobbed, "It was right here just a moment ago..." Her gaze swept the room before landing squarely on me. "Miss Ashworth," she said, her voice trembling, "you were just in the powder room, weren't you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "I was."

"Well..." she hesitated for dramatic effect, "could I... could I just take a look inside your purse?"

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.

My mother frowned. "Young lady, what exactly are you implying?"

Tears welled in Lydia's eyes again. "Mom, I don't mean anything by it, I just want to find my..."

I laughed, cutting her off. "Fine," I said, handing her my clutch. "Be my guest."

Lydia took the purse and made a show of rummaging through it. Then, with a theatrical gasp, she "accidentally" tipped it upside down.

Its contents spilled onto the floor. Lipstick, keys, a phone.

And a glittering diamond necklace.

"I found it!" Lydia exclaimed. "This is it!" She snatched the necklace and stared at me, her eyes brimming with tears. "Miss Ashworth, why would you..."

"Lydia," I interrupted, my voice calm and clear. "Do you know why the Ashworth ballroom is equipped with 128 security cameras?"

She froze. "What?"

I pulled out my phone and played the surveillance footage on a nearby screen. The video clearly showed Lydia sneaking up behind me and slipping the necklace into my open purse.

"Over the past three years," I announced, pulling up a file from our database, "a total of 47 'heiresses' have attempted this exact stunt."

A staff member near the stage chimed in, "This marks the 48th time. Can we please get some new material?"

I picked the necklace up from the floor. "And another thing... I bought this last week. I still have the receipt." I looked directly at her. "Where's yours?"

Lydias face was a mask of fury and humiliation. "Is this how the Ashworth family treats their own daughter?"

My grandmother let out a cold laugh. "The last person who said that is currently serving a five-year prison sentence."

Lydia fled the ballroom.

The next day, the tabloids exploded.

#AshworthHeiressInLateNightRendezvousWithRivalExec

The accompanying photo showed me helping a man into a car. The angle was deliberately misleading, making it look like we were kissing. I glanced at the source: a notorious paparazzi blogger.

I scrolled through the comments.

"Here we go again. How many is that this year?"

"The last guy who tried to pull a stunt like this had to pay a $5 million settlement."

"Dude, I'd delete this post. The Ashworth legal team is faster than Amazon Prime."

I posted a response on my public social media account: "Thank you, Lydia, for the free publicity on my new green energy project. And for helping me set a new record for the fastest lawsuit filed."

Attached was a photo of the freshly filed court documents.

Lydia panicked, deleted the post, and vanished.

On the third day, Lydia somehow got her hands on a visitor's pass and snuck into the company headquarters. She walked into my office carrying a cup of coffee.

"Miss Ashworth," she said, keeping her head down. "I'm sorry about yesterday..."

I didn't take the cup. "Just put it on the desk."

She set it down but didn't leave.

"Is there something else?" I asked.

She bit her lip. "Can you forgive me?"

I smiled faintly. "You should probably go now."

She turned to leave, her shoulders slumped in defeat.

I picked up the coffee, sniffed it, and then pressed a button on my desk console.

"Miss Lydia is suspected of attempted poisoning," I announced into the intercom. "Please escort her for questioning."

Lydia whipped around. "You're lying! I didn't do anything!"

I pointed at the cup. "Did you know that all Ashworth corporate drinkware is custom-made?"

She stared, confused.

"There's a chemical sensor at the base," I explained, showing her my phone. "It can detect most common substances."

The screen displayed a clear alert: LAXATIVE DETECTED. 23rd attempt this year.

Lydias face went white. "That's... that's impossible!"

Security guards rushed into the room.

"You can't do this to me!" she shrieked as they took her arms.

I held up a thick binder of files. "I can," I said coolly. "Based on the eighty-nine individuals who have tried this in the past five years. All of whom were successfully prosecuted."

As they dragged her away, she was still screaming, "Evelyn Ashworth! You just wait! I'll be back!"