Bought To Be Their Scapegoat

Rich people have a favorite catchphrase, unspoken but universally understood: Reality is whatever I decide it is.

And so, simply because I possessed the exact bone structure and eye color of the Kensington familys runaway heir, they collectively decided I was their son, Sean.

I explained it to them. Over and over again. I told them my name wasn't Sean Kensington. My name was Cole Bennett. It was printed in black ink on my NDA, right next to my signature.

But they would just stare at my face, their expressions dead serious. Since youre finally home, stop throwing tantrums, theyd say. Using a fake name? Is that really necessary? Do you honestly expect us to cut ties with you? Or is this about Tristan? Will you only be happy if we throw him out? Hes lived in this house for twenty years. Giving him away now would be abandonment.

That was how I learned about the twisted ecosystem of the Kensington estate. There were two sons: the biological heir, and the golden replacement.

When the real Sean was finally found and brought back to the family, he couldn't stomach the reality waiting for him. The Kensingtons favored their adopted son, Tristan, in every conceivable way. Even Seans own childhood fiance, a high-society heiress, always took Tristans side. Three years ago, after a massive, foundation-shaking argument, Sean walked out of the estate and vanished into thin air.

Then, they found me.

I looked so terrifyingly much like him that even his fiance, Betty Montgomery, mistook me for him. She even organized a lavish, highly publicized proposal ceremony to welcome me back into her life.

Except, when the day of the proposal arrived, Betty stood under the crystal chandeliers in front of hundreds of elite guests, bypassed me entirely, and dropped to one knee in front of Tristan.

Tristan gasped, his hands flying to his mouth in perfectly choreographed shock.

"Oh my god... I had no idea she was going to propose to me," Tristan whispered, looking at me with wide, innocent eyes. "You two have always been so close. I really thought this was for you..."

Betty stood up, looking down her nose at me.

"Sean, so what if you share their blood?" she said, her voice dripping with icy condescension. "Tristan and I grew up together. I hope today serves as a lesson. Learn your place in this hierarchy, and stop coveting things that will never belong to you."

Beside me, my friend Carter was practically vibrating with rage. "Are you seriously going to take this?" he hissed. "They're humiliating you!"

I let out a slow, quiet breath.

Could I take this?

Yes. I absolutely could.

...

When the diamond ring slid onto Tristans ring finger, the collective gaze of the ballroom shifted to me. I could feel the weight of their mockery, a hundred pairs of eyes peeling back my dignity.

"He really thought it was going to be him. Hilarious."

"If I were him, Id find a hole to crawl into and die."

"He deserves it. Everyone knows Tristan and Betty are the real power couple. He just uses his biology to try and steal everything Tristan has."

Carter lunged forward, his fists clenched, but I grabbed the back of his jacket, yanking him back.

"They're doing this on purpose, man! How can you just stand there?" Carter demanded, his face flushed.

"Why wouldn't I?" I asked quietly.

I looked past the whispering crowd and watched Tristan pull Betty into a tight embrace. Over her shoulder, he caught my eye and let a slow, triumphant smirk curl the edge of his lips.

Looking at that smirk, I didn't feel anger. I felt an overwhelming, intoxicating wave of relief.

I finally get to stop acting in this psychotic family's play.

Three years ago, when I first applied for an entry-level corporate job at Kensington Holdings, the CEOMr. Kensington himselfhad taken one look at me and teared up.

"Sean," he had choked out. "After all this time... you're finally willing to come back?"

You left because of a petty fight with Tristan, and hes been blaming himself ever since.

I had tried to explain. I brought out my ID. I am Cole Bennett.

But the delusion of the ultra-rich is a fortress. They refused to hear it. They offered me a choice: I could leave and try to survive in a city they practically owned, or I could stay.

Betty herself had cornered me in the lobby that day, shoving a sleek black card into my chest.

"Are you trying to drive Tristan into another depression?" she snapped. "Your little disappearing act nearly ruined him. If you stop throwing these tantrums, Ill honor our engagement. But the prerequisite is that you stop making Tristan's life miserable. Stay. Theres three hundred thousand dollars on this card. It reloads every month."

Three hundred grand. A month.

Who would say no to that?

So, I became the ghost of Sean Kensington. I kept my head down. I stayed out of the way. I practically lived as a vampire, sleeping during the day and haunting the estate at night, collecting my paycheck.

But Tristan was relentless. He had a pathological need to frame me. He would throw himself down the sweeping mahogany staircases. He would deliberately slip peanut oilhis known allergeninto his own soup and go into anaphylactic shock.

There were security cameras. I pointed out the footage time and time again. But nobody in that house ever wanted to look at a screen that proved their golden boy was a sociopath.

At three hundred thousand a month, it wasn't a salary. It was hazard pay for my fading sanity.

But tonight, the mask was off. They weren't even pretending anymore. Which meant I could finally hand in my resignation.

Under the blinding glare of the chandeliers, I stepped forward and approached the happy couple.

"Congratulations to you both," I said, my voice steady and clear. "I'm genuinely happy for you. I wish you a lifetime of joy together. And on that note, I'll be taking my leave."

Tristan froze, his smirk faltering.

Bettys perfectly manicured brows snapped together. "Sean, what kind of act is this?"

Instantly, Tristans eyes welled with tears. "Don't be like this. I swear, I had no idea Betty was going to do this. If you're upset, hereyou can have the ring."

"I don't need it," I said, taking a step back.

"No, I mean it!" Tristan insisted, stepping into my space and grabbing my hand, trying to force the heavy diamond onto my palm. "Take it!"

"Seriously, let go"

I pulled my hand back. It was a reflex, a slight push to break his grip.

The ring slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the marble floor.

Tristan gasped, his eyes instantly brimming with devastated tears. "Do you really hate me that much?"

"That is enough!" Betty stepped between us, shoving me backward. She shielded Tristan like he was a fragile piece of glass.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Betty snarled, her voice echoing in the sudden silence of the ballroom. "Yes, you have the Kensington blood. But Tristan and I have known each other for twenty years. If we're getting down to brass tacks, you are the outsider here!"

A fuse blew in my chest. Three years of biting my tongue finally snapped.

"You're right!" I shouted, the sound ringing out over the gasps of the crowd. "I am an outsider! I'm not your missing heir. I am not Sean Kensington! My name is Cole Bennett!"

The ballroom plunged into a dead, suffocating silence.

I was breathing hard, my chest rising and falling sharply.

Tristan covered his mouth, a sob escaping his lips. "How can you say something like that just to throw a tantrum? Do you have any idea how much that hurts me?"

I stared at him, my eyes wide. "What?"

Did none of them speak English?

I pointed a rigid finger at my own face. "Look at me! Look closely! I don't even look exactly like him. His eyes are slightly wider than mine. His earlobes sit lower. Open your damn eyes!"

"Stop it!" Betty shoved me again, harder this time. "I told you, you are never to make things difficult for Tristan again."

Behind her, Tristan buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with manufactured grief.

The murmurs in the crowd morphed from shock into disgust.

"What is he trying to pull? Hes a carbon copy of Sean."

"Lying through his teeth just to make Tristan look bad. He's just playing the victim to force Tristan into giving Betty back."

Betty glared at me, her eyes flat and cold. "My patience has limits. If you keep making these unreasonable scenes and attacking Tristan... don't expect any mercy from me."

...Was there a single sane person in this room?

I threw my hands up. "Fine! You don't believe me? Let's go get a DNA test. Right now."

Both Betty and Tristan flinched, staring at me in shock.

I pointed straight at Tristan. "Lets go back to the estate. Well swab Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. We'll pay for the rush order. And then you can all see, in black and white, whether or not I belong to this family!"

Bettys frown deepened. A flicker of genuine uncertainty crossed her face.

The guests exchanged uneasy glances.

"He doesn't sound like he's bluffing... is he actually going to do it?"

"Wait, could he seriously not be Sean?"

"Look at his posture. He's dead serious."

Betty opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Tristan let out a loud, agonizing wail.

"I know I'm the outsider!" he cried, gripping his chest. "You don't need to use this to humiliate me! You don't need to keep reminding me that I don't share their blood!"

With a theatrical sob, he kicked the fallen diamond ring across the floor, covered his face, and sprinted toward the exit. When a waiter tried to gently stop him, Tristan violently shoved the poor guy aside.

I stood there, completely stunned. "Wait, I wasn't talking aboutah!"

Two hands hit my chest with the force of a battering ram, sending me stumbling backward.

Betty looked at me with a hatred so pure it was almost glowing. "When are you going to stop ruining everything?" she screamed.

"Listen to me! I am not Sean!"

"Shut up!" She spun around, her heels clicking frantically as she chased after her weeping fianc. "Tristan! Tristan, wait, where are you going?!"

Carter sidled up next to me, watching the chaos unfold. "Is there something literally wrong with the brains of the one percent?"

"I'm starting to think it's a genetic requirement," I muttered, rubbing my chest.

I turned my back on the ballroom and walked out.

I had made enough money. Regardless of whether they believed me or not, I was going back to the estate, packing my bags, and getting the hell out of Connecticut.

But the moment I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Kensington mansion, two massive security guards stepped out of the shadows and grabbed me by the arms.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kensington heard about the stunt you pulled, making young Master Tristan cry," one of them rumbled, his grip like a vice. "They left orders. You're going in the attic to reflect on your behavior for three days."

"What? Wait! I'm not Sean! I'm seriously not! Let me go!"

My protests were useless. They dragged me up three flights of stairs, shoved me into the dusty, unfinished attic, and the heavy door slammed shut with a sickening thud.

I pounded on the wood until my knuckles bruised, screaming until my throat was raw. Nobody came.

Eventually, I slid down the wall and sat on the floorboards in the dark.

I stopped fighting.

Fine, I thought. Three days. I'll just leave in three days.

But by the second day, a terrifying reality began to set in. They hadn't sent anyone up with food.

By the third day, I didn't know how many hours had passed. The hunger had hollowed me out, and I didn't even have the energy to call for help anymore.

Three days. Not a single drop of water.

I realized, with a quiet, creeping horror, that I might actually die up here.

Suddenly, there was a soft rustle. A plastic-wrapped slice of bread slid under the narrow gap beneath the door.

I scrambled toward it, my hands shaking so badly I barely managed to rip the plastic open before tearing a piece off with my teeth.

"It's me."

The voice on the other side of the wood made me freeze.

"Tristan?" I rasped, my voice barely a croak.

"I believe you," Tristan whispered, his tone hushed and urgent. "I believe you aren't Sean. I can get you out of here, but you have to promise me something. You can never, ever come back."

It was a deal I would have sold my soul for.

"Swear it!" he demanded.

"I swear it," I choked out. "I will never step foot in this house again. I will never look at another Kensington for as long as I live!"

"Wait here. I'm going to get the key."

Of all the things I expected, being rescued by Tristan Kensington was at the bottom of the list. He was a manipulative psychopath, but right now, he was opening a door that was saving my life.

He snuck me out through the service quarters and drove me to a hotel in the city. He even carried my duffel bag up to the room.

But the moment I swiped the keycard and pushed the heavy hotel door open, my stomach dropped.

We weren't alone.

Seven or eight massive, heavily tattooed men were standing in the center of the room, their arms crossed, staring at us with predatory eyes.

Before I could even process what was happening, Tristan shoved a baseball bat into my hands. In one fluid, violent motion, he grabbed the collar of his own silk shirt and ripped it down the middle, popping the buttons off.

Then, he unleashed a blood-curdling scream.

"No! Please, Sean, I'm sorry! Don't let them touch me!"

I stood there, paralyzed, the bat heavy in my grip.

Three of the men lunged forward, grabbing Tristan and dragging him toward the bed. I hadn't even found my voice to yell when the sound of frantic, pounding footsteps echoed down the hallway.

"Tristan!"

"Oh my god, my son!"

The hotel door burst wide open. It was Mr. and Mrs. Kensington. And Betty.

"Tristan!" Betty shrieked. Her eyes went completely red as she took in the torn shirt, the men, and the baseball bat in my hands.

She crossed the room in a blur, shoving me violently against the wall before turning and slapping the largest thug hard across the face. "Do you want to die?!" she screamed at him.

Mrs. Kensington dropped to her knees, her hands trembling violently as she took in the angry red marks Tristan had deliberately scratched onto his own neck just seconds prior.

Mr. Kensington turned to me, his face purple with rage. "Sean! He is your brother! How could you be this vicious? This evil?!"

"I..." I dropped the bat as if it had caught fire.

Tristan curled into a pathetic ball, burying his weeping face in Bettys chest.

"It's okay, you can have her," Tristan sobbed, his voice trembling with manufactured trauma. "I know you love Betty. I can give her back to you. I know you're the real son, and everything belongs to you. If you just ask, I won't say a single word of protest. But why... why did you have to hire these men to ruin my purity? Did you just want Betty to be disgusted by me? Did you want mom and dad to throw me away?"

He broke down into hyperventilating sobs.

I just stared.

...Wow.

I genuinely had to hand it to him. I never saw this coming.

Mrs. Kensington threw her arms around him, burying her face in his hair as she screamed at me. "How did we give birth to such trash?! To think up something so vile to destroy your own brother! Are you even human?!"

"You're all insane!" I yelled, my exhaustion replaced by pure, blinding adrenaline. "I am not a Kensington! I just happen to share his face! I have absolutely zero interest in Betty! She is a pawn in his gamehe set this entire thing up!"

Betty let out a sharp, cruel laugh.

"Do you really think spewing garbage is going to save you?" she said, her voice dropping into a terrifyingly calm register. "Tristan is my fianc. No matter what happens to him, he will be my husband. You thought you could use cheap, filthy tactics to ruin him? Fine. I'll just ruin you first."

She stood up, smoothing her skirt.

"Take him to the cold storage."

My blood ran cold. "What?"

Her security detailthe men Tristan had supposedly hired to 'attack' himgrabbed me by the arms and dragged me out of the room.

I fought them like a cornered animal. "I am not Sean! Run a damn DNA test! Let go of me! Let me go!"

But money is a louder language than truth.

As they shoved me into the back of a black SUV, I realized something profound: the three hundred grand a month was nothing compared to the monsters I was dealing with.

The commercial freezer at one of the Montgomery family's distribution centers was kept at five degrees Fahrenheit.

I was wearing a thin t-shirt and jeans. The moment they hurled me onto the frost-covered concrete and slammed the heavy steel door, the cold hit me like a physical blow.

I scrambled to my feet, pounding on the metal.

"I am not Sean! You have the wrong person!"

"Still playing the victim?" Bettys voice was muffled through the thick insulation. "This door operates on biometric scans. Only Kensington and Montgomery fingerprints can open it. You keep up the act, and you can freeze to death in there."

I heard the sharp click of her heels turning away.

Panic flared in my chest. "Betty? Betty! I am not Sean! I'm going to die in here!"

But there was no answer. Only the low, mechanical hum of the refrigeration units.

I retreated to the corner, curling my body into the tightest ball possible. I blew hot air into my cupped hands, trying to trap the warmth against my face.

But it wasn't enough. The chill seeped through my clothes, into my muscles, and finally settled into my bones.

I started to shake uncontrollably. Then, terrifyingly, the shaking stopped. Hypothermia was setting in. My mind began to drift, blurring the edges of my terror into a heavy, seductive sleepiness.

Through the fog, I heard a sharp beep.

The heavy lock disengaged. The door cracked open, letting in a sliver of warm, dusty warehouse air.

I dragged myself across the floor, my limbs feeling like lead. I pushed the door open.

There was no one there. The corridor was empty.

I don't know how I made it back to the Kensington estate. Pure, spiteful adrenaline, mostly.

When I stumbled into the grand parlor, they were all sitting by the fireplace. Mr. and Mrs. Kensington were fussing over Tristan, while Betty paced the floor, her phone in hand.

"Is that bastard still pretending in the freezer?" Betty snapped to someone on the phone. "Drag him out. I want him on his knees apologizing to Tristan."

"You don't need to drag me," I croaked. "I'm right here."

She jumped, spinning around. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second before hardening into a sneer.

"Oh, look who it is. I thought you said you weren't Sean?" she mocked. "How did you get out, then? Did your phantom identity open the door?"

I scanned the room. All the key players were right here. Whoever had pressed their finger to that scanner to let me out... it wasn't one of them.

When I didn't answer, Mr. Kensington slammed his fist on the coffee table.

"Tristan doesn't share our blood!" he roared. "It's only natural he feels insecure! Giving him preferential treatment is our duty as his parents! You are our biological sonnothing can change that! So why do you insist on competing with him? On hurting him? Are you even a part of this family?"

He stood up, pointing a trembling finger at the floor. "Get on your knees and apologize. Or you are no longer a son of mine."

A dark, broken laugh scraped its way out of my throat.

"Sure!" I shouted, my voice cracking but loud enough to echo off the vaulted ceilings. "I'll kneel. I'll even bow my head to the damn floor! But since you are so adamant that I am your flesh and blood..."

I locked eyes with the patriarch.

"Where is my dividend?"

They all froze.

I took a step forward, the residual cold radiating off my skin. "Don't think I don't know the financials. Tristan gets an eight-figure payout from the family trust every single year. You claim I'm your son. You claim I belong here. Fine!"

I held out an open palm.

"I'm not greedy. Five million. Transfer it to my account right now, and I will drop to my knees and apologize to your golden boy."

"You...!" Mr. Kensington choked, his face reddening.

"What?" I cut him off, my voice sharp as glass. "You want me to play the dutiful son, but you won't give me a dime of what's mine? You funnel the entire family wealth into someone with no blood tie to you, and call it love?"

I looked at Mrs. Kensington, who was staring at me in shock. "Is that what family means to you?!"

Mr. Kensington opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"You talk a big game about me being your child," I sneered, "but when have your actions ever backed that up? For three years, all you've done is demand I step aside, make myself small, and swallow abuse so Tristan can feel better about himself. What have you ever actually given me?"

The parents exchanged an uneasy, guilty look. Even Betty looked slightly taken aback by the sheer venom in my voice.

"You refuse to give me what is mine, and then you punish me for fighting for scraps!" I yelled. "You want me to be magnanimous? You want me to play nice? Pay me!"

The parlor was dead silent. Only the crackle of the fireplace dared to make a sound.

"If you won't pay," I whispered, dropping my hand. "Then don't talk to me about apologizing. Don't talk to me about kneeling. You don't deserve it."

I turned my back on them and walked toward the grand foyer.

"Wait."

Mr. Kensington's voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Five million," he said, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. "I'll wire it. And then you will get on your knees and grovel for Tristan's forgiveness."

Hah.

These pathetic, twisted people. They were willing to pay off their 'biological son' with his own birthright, just to buy a moment of satisfaction for the imposter.

I slowly turned back around.

"Deal," I said smoothly. I reached into my jacketthank God I had packed it before the galaand pulled out a folded legal document. "Oh, and you'll be signing this."

I tossed it onto the glass coffee table.

It was an Irrevocable Deed of Gift. I had my lawyers draw it up weeks ago, just in case I ever found an exit strategy. It explicitly stated that the funds were a voluntary, unconditional gift, immune to any future legal recall or clawback.

Mr. Kensington grabbed a pen, scrawled his name across the bottom, and threw the pen at my chest.

"Three years out in the wild," he spat with disgust, "and you've turned into nothing but a calculating, greedy street rat."

I didn't care. I didn't care about his insults. I didn't care about his opinion.

Because my phone vibrated in my pocket.

$5,000,000 USD successfully wired to account ending in 4921.

I walked over to where Tristan was sitting, looking at me with wide, nervous eyes.

I dropped to my knees. The hardwood floor dug into my joints.

I leaned forward. Thud. I hit my forehead against the ground.

Thud. Again.

Thud. A third time, loud and hollow.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice entirely devoid of emotion. "I was wrong."

I stood up. I didn't brush off my jeans. I didn't look at their faces. I turned on my heel and walked out of the Kensington estate for the absolute last time.

As I passed Betty, she took a half-step toward me, her mouth opening as if to speak.

I didn't even glance at her. I just kept walking.

She left her hand suspended in the empty air.

As the massive iron gates of the estate closed behind me, my burner phone buzzed. It was a call from a detective at the NYPD missing persons bureau.

"That missing persons report you filed three years ago?" the officer's rough voice came through the speaker. "The kid named Sean Kensington? We found him."