Chapter 4: A New Home, A New Game

Taking a deep breath, I returned to reality.

The world snapped back into focus. Same cafeteria, same billionaire, same impossible choice waiting for me. My hands were trembling, but nobody seemed to notice.

Just as I was about to defend myself, the director came over.

Mrs. Shaw bustled in, clipboard in hand, her sharp eyes taking in the scene. She always wore her hair pulled tight, her voice carrying through any room.

"Mr. Campbell, welcome. Thank you for your kindness and support."

She shook the billionaire’s hand, her smile wide and practiced. “We’re lucky to have you, sir. The kids need all the encouragement they can get.”

"Have you chosen your adopted son? Nathan is very obedient; the teachers and kids all like him, and he has a real talent for learning—he’s preparing for Harvard or Stanford."

She gestured to me, pride obvious in her voice. The other staff nodded, murmuring agreement.

My name is Nathan Carter.

For a moment, the weight of my name settled over me, grounding me. It was a good, strong name—one that fit on college applications and business cards alike.

The director was talking about me.

It felt strange hearing my future laid out like a resume summary. For once, I didn’t need to boast.

So I didn’t need to brag about myself.

I stayed quiet, letting my record speak for itself. I could see the billionaire sizing me up, his eyes sharp.

After hearing this, the billionaire looked at me with some suspicion: "Nathan, do you really do so well here at the group home?"

His tone was mild, but the question was pointed. I could sense he was searching for the real me behind the recommendations.

"He just has a good relationship with the director," my brother said, afraid I’d win favor. He quickly raised his hand to interrupt.

My brother’s interjection was quick, his words dripping with accusation. He wanted to cast doubt on everything I’d earned.

"My brother often plays chess with the director; they’re close."

He made it sound like a crime, like learning from adults was something to be ashamed of. Some of the younger kids giggled, but Mrs. Shaw just rolled her eyes.

The director saw right through this and understood my brother’s little game.

She pressed her lips together, her patience clearly wearing thin. The billionaire’s gaze lingered on her, waiting for her response.

He interrupted my brother’s words with a forced cough, then smiled and said,

Mrs. Shaw cleared her throat—a signal for everyone to settle down. Her smile was warm, but her eyes said, “Don’t mess with me.”

"Nathan’s always up for a game of chess with the staff—kid’s got a mind like Bobby Fischer," Mrs. Shaw said.

She turned the insult into praise. “He’s a thinker. Always two steps ahead.”

"Mr. Campbell, you shouldn’t judge a person just by what others say. I think it won’t take long before you realize how right your choice is."

She stood a little taller, her voice filled with conviction. “Give him time, sir. Nathan will surprise you.”

The billionaire nodded in agreement, his expression softening, and patted me on the shoulder.

The touch was brief but reassuring, a rare sign of approval. I let myself breathe a little easier.

"Alright, Nathan, let’s go."

His words sounded almost like a command. My heart skipped a beat.

I was led out of the group home by the billionaire.

We walked past rows of mismatched chairs, kids craning their necks to watch. Someone whispered, “Lucky break,” as we stepped through the front doors.

A luxury car was parked at the curb.

The black BMW gleamed in the late afternoon sun, a stark contrast to the faded bikes and beat-up minivan parked nearby. I felt a twinge of nerves as I approached.

Just as I was about to get in, my brother ran over and shoved me aside.

He moved fast, nearly knocking me into the side mirror. His desperation was almost comical.

He quickly opened the front passenger door.

With a flourish, he pulled open the door, his best imitation of a chauffeur. “After you, sir!” he said, grinning like he’d just won a prize.

"Mr. Campbell, please."

He gestured grandly, waiting for praise. The billionaire just looked at him, amusement flickering in his eyes.

The billionaire was slightly surprised, then politely declined: "Thank you, but I don’t sit in the front passenger seat."

His tone was polite but firm, like a man used to being driven, not chauffeured. My brother’s face fell instantly.

My brother’s smile froze instantly.

He stood there awkwardly, hand on the door, trying to salvage his pride. I fought the urge to laugh.

I opened the car door and said, as if casually, "The seat behind the driver is the safest. Dad, please get in."

I tried to sound offhand, but I’d read somewhere that the real power sits in the back. The billionaire nodded approvingly, his eyes glinting with respect.

The billionaire nodded approvingly.

For a second, I thought I saw a genuine smile—a rare thing from a man so used to hiding his feelings.

I left the group home with him.

The door closed behind me with a satisfying thunk. As we pulled away, I caught a last glimpse of the building I’d called home for so long.

Through the car window, I saw my brother flash a malicious, triumphant smile at me.

He stood on the curb, arms crossed, his grin smug and confident. I could almost hear him thinking, “You’ll never beat me.”

As if to say: "Let’s see how you compete with me in this life."

His eyes said it all. The battle lines were drawn—again.

I only found it ridiculous.

He didn’t realize that life’s not a game you can win by shortcuts. I looked away, focusing on the city beyond the window, the possibilities ahead.

Would someone who only seeks pleasure ever be willing to settle down and study?

I doubted it. Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

Does my brother really think my recommendation was just dumb luck?

I shook my head, thinking of the late nights, the sacrifices, the choices that got me here. Luck had little to do with it.