They Prefer The Fake Heir Anyway

I have always been a deeply cautious, risk-averse person.

My mother could watch hundreds of millions of dollars vanish from her stock portfolio in a single afternoon without so much as blinking. My father bought commercial real estate the way normal people bought groceries at a corner store. And my little sister started investing her own trust fund at the age of three, earning herself a reputation as a ruthless shark in the venture capital world.

And then there was me. I was the kind of guy who agonized over whether to spend an extra fifty cents for an extra egg on my street-cart breakfast burrito.

I lived this life of luxury in a state of perpetual anxiety, constantly waiting for the universe to demand its interest on my unearned good fortune.

Until the night of my eighteenth birthday gala, when the "real" son showed up with a DNA test in hand.

I let out a massive, quiet sigh of relief.

I knew it. How could a cautious, ordinary guy like me actually belong to a multi-generational billionaire dynasty?

On the night of the gala, I stood on the elevated stage wearing a custom-tailored tuxedo worth more than a decent suburban home. I felt entirely out of place.

"Dad, this fabric is driving me crazy. Its so itchy. Can I please change into something else?"

My father cast a stern, silent look in my direction and gestured for the stylist to touch up my makeup.

"Toby," he said, his voice low and steady. "Just remember, your most important job tonight is to keep your mouth shut."

I pouted, metaphorically zipping my lips, and stared blankly at the sea of high-society guests mingling below. It was a suffocating kind of misery.

"Charles, sometimes I seriously wonder if this boy is actually ours," my mother sighed, swirling her champagne. But before she could finish her thought, the grand double doors of the ballroom were flung open.

A young man wearing a faded, twice-washed T-shirt strode into the room. He held a sheaf of papers high in the air, his voice cutting through the classical music. "This is a DNA test! I am the biological son of the Harrington family! Youve all been lied to by Toby!"

The room fell into a dead, stunned silence. Then, a wave of frenzied whispering erupted.

"Swapped at birth? I knew coming tonight would be worth it!"

"Honestly, I always thought Charless boy was a bit odd. Absolutely zero ambition. Last month, my kid asked him to invest in a tech startup, and the boy literally pulled a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket! What is anyone supposed to do with ten dollars?"

Hearing their hushed gossip, I swallowed hard.

Honestly, it felt amazing. I knew it.

There was no way a guy like mesomeone who needed a full mental preparation session just to order extra baconcould be the heir to a historic empire.

Looking at the boy standing by the entrance, I felt a sudden urge to run down, shake his hand, and thank him.

Before I could say a word, he pointed a trembling finger at me and shouted, "Toby! You never expected me to find this place, did you? Youve known all along that I was the real Harrington. Why did you hide it?"

I blinked, completely baffled. What kind of script was he reading from? I had never seen this guy before in my life.

I opened my mouth to speak, instinctively reaching for the tiny notebook in my pocket where I kept track of my daily expenses. My fingers met empty air; tonights tuxedo didn't have room for it, so I had left it upstairs.

My lack of response only seemed to embolden him. "My name is Damian. Though, of course, it will soon be Damian Harrington. A person of my rightful standing belongs in this family!"

He puffed out his chest, marching proudly up to the stage, and grabbed my wrist with a tight, aggressive grip.

"It wasn't enough for an impostor like you to steal my identity. You even stole the heirloom our father left for me!"

He glared at the silver bracelet on my wrist, then looked at my father.

This felt entirely wrong. I had worn this simple silver band for over a decade. It wasn't gold. It wasn't platinum. How much could it possibly be worth?

"This piece is worth a fortune, Toby! You could work a lifetime and never pay it off! If you behave like a good little dog from now on, I might consider letting you off easy." Damians eyes welled with tears, looking as though he were the one who had been deeply wronged.

"Are you saying the bracelet on his wrist is stolen from you? And that its worth a million dollars?" My father set his glass down. His voice was soft, but it instantly silenced the entire ballroom.

"Yes!" Damian stood tall, squaring his shoulders. "Dad, the evidence is right here. Kick him out of the house!"

Every eye in the room landed on me. I clenched my fists, wanting to defend myself, but the words caught in my throat.

After what felt like an eternity, my father spoke.

"Impossible." He paused, looking at Damian. "Id believe he had the guts to rob a bank before I believed he had the guts to steal from you."

Damians expression crumbled. "Dad, are you seriously protecting an impostor?"

He dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face. "I was taken to some backwater town when I was a child. I had to fight tooth and nail just to get an education and make it to the city. Only when I arrived did I realize someone else had stolen my life. It was you, Toby! Youve been living in luxury every single day while I suffered. Don't you feel any guilt at all?"

My expression remained neutral, but internally, I was nodding along.

To be fair, I had suspected for years that I wasn't a Harrington. The Harringtons were giants.

My mother, Diana, was a Wall Street legend who could lose millions in a bad trade, shrug, and say, "Money comes and goes, but the thrill remains." My father, Charles, checked his iPad every morning to see if there were any skyscrapers downtown he felt like buying. And Maeve, my sister, was a prodigy who took her pocket money, threw it into clean energy, and tripled her returns in six months.

I was the glitch in their perfect system.

When I was six, my father gave me a black card. I used it to scrape dirt off my shoes with the neighborhood kids. When I finally realized it held an unfathomable amount of wealth, I immediately returned it to him, untouched.

When I was eight, I found a fifty-cent coin on the school playground. I stood in the scorching sun for hours waiting for the owner. When no one showed up, I marched to the local police precinct to hand it in, meticulously detailing the time, the location, and the specific path of the ants crawling nearby.

I knew I didnt fit in.

Even among the other wealthy heirs in our circle, I was a running joke.

"Toby? The guy doesn't even know the difference between a Rolex and a Timex."

"I saw him at a charity gala once. He was literally counting the zeros on the auction catalog with his mouth wide open. It was hilarious."

I knew what they whispered. And I agreed with them.

I mean, look at me. How could someone like me be a billionaire's son?

My father took a slow sip of his drink and smiled. "Toby literally signs an IOU every time he asks me for ten dollars. If you truly believe he stole from you, you are welcome to call the police. But let me remind you, filing a false police report is a crime."

Damian's sobbing came to an abrupt halt.

He wiped his eyes quickly and handed the DNA report to my father. "Maybe... maybe I misremembered the bracelet. But this paper doesn't lie."

My mother skimmed through the documents, pinching the bridge of her nose. With a quiet nod to the estate manager, the entire ballroom was cleared of guests within ten minutes.

"Charles," she said quietly. "Explain this. Where did this boy come from?"

My father looked genuinely bewildered. To prove his innocence, he insisted on taking the entire family to the hospital that very night for an official, expedited DNA test.

Until the results came back, Damian was allowed to stay at the estate.

The next morning, we gathered at the long dining table. I was meticulously organizing my plate, placing the salad, the eggs, and the toast in a precise, logical sequence. Experience had taught me that eating in this exact order prevented indigestion and kept me full longer, which meant I wouldn't get sick and cause unnecessary trouble for the family.

Just as I raised my fork, Damian decided to make his move.

He picked up his glass of orange juice, tossing it back as if it were a shot of expensive whiskey, and stood up.

"Everyone, since I am sitting at this table, it means you recognize me as a Harrington. Therefore, I cannot keep this secret any longer."

Damian took a deep, dramatic breath. He pointed at Benson, our butler, who was in the middle of serving breakfast, and then turned a triumphant glare toward me. "Benson, I heard you with my own ears this morning. You said Toby stole two hundred thousand dollars in cash from the family safe! Toby, what do you have to say for yourself now?"

Benson nearly dropped the platter in his hands, waving his arms in a panic. "I never said such a thing! Master Damian, where on earth did you hear that?"

Damian slammed his hand on the table. "I am the rightful heir of this family! You should be addressing me with respect! Don't worry, Benson. If you tell the truth, I personally guarantee you won't lose your job."

Benson looked on the verge of tears. "Ma'am, Sir... I was simply murmuring to myself. Master Tobys allowance this month was twenty dollars more than last month, and I was merely wondering if he had enough for his needs. It was twenty dollars, sir! Not twenty thousand!"

I looked up from my plate, staring at Benson in sheer horror.

How did he know about the extra twenty dollars?

I had planned to use that money to splurge on a massive, fully loaded breakfast burrito from the food truck down the street before I got kicked outone with extra bacon, avocado, and hot sauce. Now my secret indulgence was completely ruined.

Damian completely misread my expression. He assumed my silence was a confession of guilt.

"Look at him! If he didn't steal the money, why is he looking so utterly ashamed?"

My sister, Maeve, let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Damian, you haven't even been officially recognized, and you're already trying to run the household? Also, don't project your own petty, small-minded thoughts onto my brother."

I nodded in agreement. She was right. I might not be the real heir, but I knew what belonged to me and what didn't.

"You... Maeve! I know you haven't accepted me yet," Damian stammered, his voice trembling as he wrapped his arms around himself. "Growing up is a lonely road, but I am willing to bear this pain for the family."

I stared at him, bewildered. He was incredibly theatrical. Frankly, he didn't behave like a Harrington at all.

"Enough," my father said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. His tone was cold and absolute. "Benson, go upstairs and flip Tobys mattress."

Benson looked immensely relieved and hurried up the stairs.

A few minutes later, he returned, holding a small stack of crumpled bills. "Ma'am, Master Toby had exactly three hundred and five dollars taped under his bedframe. Nothing else."

No one in the family looked surprised. I, however, let out a small gasp.

"Wait. How did you guys find my stash?" I asked, my face burning. I thought I had hidden it so well.

"You tape money under your bedframe? What are you, a squirrel, Toby?" Damian shrieked, unable to accept that my grand fortune amounted to barely three hundred dollars.

"It's for emergencies!" I defended myself, my cheeks flushing red. "What if the family suddenly goes bankrupt?"

"Bankrupt?" My mother nearly choked on her water. "Toby, we are literally on the Forbes list."

My father tossed his napkin onto the table, eyeing Damian coldly. "Do you see? His risk awareness is the highest in this entire family. And you think he stole two hundred thousand dollars?" He offered a chillingly calm smile. "Damian, until the DNA results are officially delivered, you are a guest. Accuse Toby again, and see what happens."

Damian swallowed his words, quickly shutting his mouth.

Just as the tension began to ease, my father's phone rang.

"Mr. Harrington, the expedited DNA results are ready."

As expected, my DNA test confirmed I had no biological relation to the Harringtons.

Damian strutted back into the living room like a victorious rooster, pointing a finger directly at my face. "You. Get out of our house."

He turned to the housekeeper. "And burn everything in his bedroom. I don't want any of his cheap, common things touching my space. Mom, I need thirty million dollars. I found an investment project with a guaranteed thirty percent return."

He threw himself onto the Italian leather sofa, crossing his legs arrogantly. "Toby, youve spent eighteen years living my life. It's time to pay it back."

I nodded, quietly pulling my worn little notebook from my pocket. I had been preparing for this day since I first learned to read and write.

"Ive kept track of everything," I said, showing him the first page. "Over the years, my basic living expenses and education have cost the Harrington family exactly 0-03,140. I will find a job and pay every cent back to you."

I bowed politely and turned to grab my suitcase.

"Wait!" Damian jumped up, grabbing the handle of my bag. "Thirteen thousand? Are you kidding me? This family is worth billions! You must be hiding the rest!"

"I"

"Toby, what are you doing?" my mother interrupted, her voice gentle but firm. "This house has dozens of rooms. There is no reason for you to leave."

"Mom..."

"Your mother is right," my father added. "Even if your risk aversion is a bit extreme, it balances the rest of us out perfectly."

"Dad..." My eyes welled with tears as I looked at them. "I'll do my best to keep up with everyone. I'll start by ordering that extra egg tomorrow morning."

And so, Damian officially moved into the estate, legally changing his name to Damian Harrington.

At his welcome-home party, he paraded around in a bespoke suit, raising his glass to every high-profile guest in the room. "Hello, Im Damian Harrington. If the family business needs anything in the future, you can come directly to me."

The guests smiled politely, and one young heir joked, "Well, Damian, I actually have a tech venture on the table. It only requires a modest eight-figure buy-in. Interested?"

Damians eyes lit up. "Oh? That cheap? Bring me the contract, and Ill sign it tonight."

I reached out, gently tugging at Damians sleeve, silently pleading with him to stop talking. An eight-figure sum wasn't pocket changeit was tens of millions of dollars. An investment of that scale required rigorous due diligence, not a casual agreement over cocktails.

"Get off me!" Damian shoved me aside, sending me stumbling. "Toby, you just don't want me making connections with your old friends, do you? Why else would you ruin my conversation?"

My elbow hit the sharp edge of a marble pillar, a dull ache blooming through my arm.

Before I could speak, Damians eyes widened as if a sudden realization had hit him. "Oh, I get it. Are you afraid I'll tell Dad that youve been quietly selling off our family heirlooms?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, letting out a tired sigh.

Damian was at it again. He just couldn't resist trying to frame me. Why didn't he ever learn?

As expected, Damian's words acted like a sudden frost, chilling the entire room into absolute silence.

"You don't believe me?" Damian looked around, pulling a sleek smartphone from his pocket. "This time, I have proof."

He tapped the screen and held up a video for the guests to see.

The footage showed a grainy figure in pajamas slipping into the study in the dead of night, pocketing something small, and slipping away. While the resolution was low, the silhouette did look remarkably like me.

"See? This is the 'honest boy' you all adore!" Damian proclaimed, standing tall. "The emerald suite in the safe is a family heirloom worth eight million dollars. I saw him take it with my own eyes!" He pointed directly at me. "And the money he got from selling it is hidden right under his bed."

The room erupted into a flurry of whispers. My fathers hand froze mid-air with his drink. My mothers brow furrowed as she looked at me.

"If you don't believe me, send someone to check his room right now! Or better yet, let's all go and see!" Damian challenged.

"Benson, go check Toby's room," my father said, his face unreadable.

Benson nodded reluctantly and walked upstairs. A few minutes later, he returned, holding a neat stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills. It was at least two hundred thousand dollars.

Silence descended on the room once more.

"See! Caught red-handed!"

After three attempts, Damian had finally succeeded in framing me. His voice cracked with manic excitement. "This is the money from the heirloom! The video is here, the cash is here. You have to believe me now!"

I parted my lips, but the words felt heavy. "I didn't do this"

"Save your breath!" Damian stepped forward, raising his hand to strike me in front of everyone. "An impostor like you belongs in the gutter! Why are you still clinging to this family?"

But before his hand could make contact, the heavy doors of the ballroom were pushed open.

A middle-aged woman in a tailored business suit rushed in, breathing heavily, carrying an exquisite mahogany box. She sprinted directly toward my father, bowing deeply. "Mr. Harrington, I am so incredibly sorry. One of my junior appraisers made an error and accepted an item of yours."