I spent my entire previous life locked in a war of attrition with my nemesis. When we died, the cosmic lottery dumped us right back into the same queue, fighting over a rebirth into the very same billionaire dynasty. The Arbiter of Fate laid two soul-tokens on the obsidian table between us. The first was the "Destiny of the Brave"—a blazing golden brand that rendered its bearer utterly fearless, hardwired to fight, scratch, and conquer whatever they desired. The second was the "Destiny of the Coward"—a dull, leaden thing that turned its bearer into a creature of pure, trembling instinct. A born pushover. Damon didn't hesitate for a microsecond. He snatched the Brave token into his fist, his eyes glittering with ruthless triumph. "Fortune favors the bold!" he sneered, laughing right in my face. "The world belongs to those who take it! In our next life, the billionaire parents, the three doting sisters, the high-society pedigree, and the crown-jewel engagement—every scrap of it is mine!" He looked down at me, watching as I carefully, gratefully, cupped the Coward’s token in my trembling palms. He doubled over, his laughter echoing through the void. "Generational wealth handed to you on a silver platter, and you’re still too much of a gutless worm to fight for it?" he jeered, shaking his head with visceral disgust. "Enjoy being a spineless doormat for another lifetime." I stood there, shaking from head to toe, my chin glued to my chest. I didn't dare look up. Not because I was humiliated, but because I was terrified that if he saw my face, he’d realize I was biting the inside of my cheek until it bled just to keep from laughing out loud. He hadn't bothered to read the fine print etched onto the back of the Coward's token. "Whatever the coward fears, shall come to pass." "Yet for every possession, title, or right surrendered out of terror, fate shall repay it tenfold." If he bullied me out of a bedroom, I’d be handed ten luxury estates. If he eventually stole my parents, my sisters, and my dynastic birthright... what in the world would fate give me instead? For the first time in two lifetimes, I was actually looking forward to what was coming. … When I opened my eyes again, eighteen years had flashed by in the dark. I was standing in the cavernous, vaulted center of the Kincaid estate’s grand salon, trapped beneath the collective weight of more than twenty pairs of eyes. My biological mother, my biological father, my three older sisters, an army of uniformed staff, and a flock of blue-blooded relatives who had descended like vultures for the grand reveal—all of them staring at me. My knees went so weak I nearly hit the polished marble floor. Too many people. Too loud, too bright, too scrutinizing. Every evolutionary alarm bell in my nervous system was screaming at me to run. Richard Kincaid, my father, had eyes rimmed in red. He took a choked step forward and extended a trembling hand toward me. "Colby... come here, son. Let me look at you." I managed half a shuffling step before a blur of tailored linen pushed past me and crashed directly into Richard’s chest. "Dad!" Damon wept with theatrical, breathless abandon, clutching Richard’s lapels like a drowning man. "He’s really home. You found your real son... Are you going to throw me away now? Please tell me you’re not getting rid of me!" Richard completely forgot about me. His arms instantly locked around Damon, patting his back with frantic, protective warmth. "What foolishness is that? You’re my boy. I raised you for eighteen years. No one is casting you aside. Ever." It was textbook Damon. In this life, he had been born to the family’s live-in nanny. Sensing a shortcut to heaven, his mother had swapped us in our nursery cribs hours after we took our first breaths. He had lived eighteen years as the golden heir of the Kincaid dynasty while I grew up in damp, rented rooms with a woman who resented my very heartbeat. When the truth finally unraveled, his biological mother was dragged away in handcuffs. Yet the Kincaids couldn't bear to sever the bond with the boy they had poured nearly two decades of pride into. So they kept him. Damon slowly lifted his head from Richard’s shoulder. There wasn't a single tear on his flawless cheeks. He met my gaze over our father’s shoulder, his lips curling into a razor-sharp, insolent smirk. The Brave token suited him terrifyingly well. It made him utterly shameless. He felt no guilt for his stolen childhood, no dread of societal whispers, and certainly no hesitation when it came to trampling the rightful heir. Richard finally remembered I existed. Cleansing his throat, he picked up a velvet-lined box from the low table. "Colby," he said, opening the lid to reveal an antique, deeply saturated emerald signet ring, heavy with white gold. "This belonged to your great-grandfather. I had originally intended to present it to you on your eighteenth birthday. I never dreamed it would take us this long to bring you home..." The moment the box clicked open, Damon was already leaning over it, his eyes alight with covetous greed. "Dad... it’s breathtaking," Damon whispered, his fingers hovering millimeters above the emerald. "I’ve studied this piece in family archives for years." Richard’s hand froze mid-air. Damon immediately pulled back, offering an angelic, self-deprecating smile. "I’m just admiring it, Colby. Please don't misunderstand me. It’s yours." Every pair of eyes in the room instantly snapped to me. My palms went cold, and a fine tremor traveled up my wrists. I despised being put on the spot more than anything on earth. If I claimed the ring, I’d be labeled an insecure, vindictive brute kicking a fragile, displaced brother while he was down. If I turned it down, I’d look like an ungrateful, sullen peasant rejecting his father’s peace offering. Damon leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear as he murmured, "Show some spine, little brother. If you don't even have the guts to claim your own birthright, why the hell did you come back?" The familiar panic surged, lodging in my throat like swallowed glass. "G-give... give it to him," I stammered, dropping my gaze to my scuffed shoes. Damon didn't wait for a second invitation. He plucked the heavy signet ring from the velvet bed and slid it onto his thumb, turning his hand in the chandelier light. "Thank you, Colby," he purred, practically vibrating with smug satisfaction. At that exact second, the Coward’s token nested deep against my soul flared with a sudden, searing heat. "Clack. Clack." The sharp, measured strike of an ivory-tipped walking cane cut through the salon. Walter Kincaid, the patriarch who had built the empire from raw steel and ruthless acquisitions, walked in. The room went dead silent. My mother, Margaret, scrambled out of her armchair. "Father? What are you doing down here? You should be resting." Grandfather Walter didn't spare Damon or the ring a single glance. He stopped squarely in front of me and thrust a heavy, embossed leather portfolio into my chest. "Squabbling like scavengers over a single dead man’s ring," the old man rasped coldly. "These are the deed titles to ten premier commercial properties down on the avenue. They were held in trust. Now that my blood grandson has finally set foot through that door, they return to their rightful owner." I clutched the heavy portfolio against my ribs, my hands shaking harder than ever. Damon stared at the ten deeds, the smug smile curdling on his face. He had boldly snatched a single ring. In return for my cowardly surrender, the universe had dropped ten prime downtown commercial storefronts straight into my lap. The token had not lied to me. Walter patted my trembling shoulder with a hand like dry leather. "Going forward, boy, if you want something in this house, speak up. Don't be afraid." I buried my chin deeper into my chest. Speak up? Absolutely not. I had far too many terrors left to yield. ... After the suffocating tension of the reception died down, Richard led me up the sweeping spiral staircase to view my room. It was the south-facing master suite on the third floor, drenched in amber afternoon sun. They had spent six months preparing it for my arrival. The walk-in closet was stacked high with designer suits bearing pristine tags, and the mahogany bookshelves were lined with framed photographs tracing my childhood. Photographs the Kincaids had purchased from the nanny who had raised me in squalor. My first day of grade school, wearing shoes two sizes too small. My first academic ribbon, pinned to a threadbare sweater. And one particular snapshot of me at eight years old, standing outside a bakery window in the freezing rain, staring at a tiered chocolate cake like it was an alien artifact. Richard touched the glass over that photograph, a fat tear spilling over his lashes. "Colby... from now on, whatever you lack, you come to me. Every single thing this world denied you, your father will make right." I swallowed hard, preparing to nod, when Damon’s voice drifted through the doorway behind us. "Dad... I was actually hoping I could move up to the third floor with Colby." Richard wiped his face quickly. "You’ve had the entire east wing of the second floor your whole life, Damon." "I know, but the third floor is so peaceful," Damon said, casually breezing into the suite. He trailed a manicured finger along the Italian silk wallpaper, inspected the cavernous closet, and finally dropped his weight onto the king-sized mattress. "My national piano competition is in three weeks. I need pure, unbroken focus to practice. The natural light here is perfect. I’ll take this one." Richard blinked, caught off guard. "Damon... this was decorated specifically for Colby." Damon didn't argue. He didn't scream. He simply let his lashes flutter, his lower lip quivering with devastating, practiced vulnerability. Richard’s resolve melted instantly. "Well... maybe Colby wouldn't mind the guest room down the hall?" Richard offered, his voice laced with guilty hesitation. "It’s a bit cozier, but it’s completely furnished." I followed the direction of his pointing finger. The door was a narrow strip of painted wood wedged between the service stairs. It was a windowless linen-and-utility closet the maids used to store seasonal duvets and vacuums. Damon tilted his head at me, a cruel, mocking smile dancing in his eyes. "You wouldn't kick me out on your very first day home, would you, Colby?" he whispered. "You have biological parents now. I have nothing left in this world but their mercy." The eldest daughter, Charlotte, frowned, crossing her arms. "Colby, Damon’s under immense pressure with Juilliard scouts coming. Cut him some slack." Bridget, the athletic middle sister, chimed in with an easy shrug: "It’s just four walls, Colby. A bedroom is a bedroom. What difference does it make?" Piper, the youngest, let out an irritated scoff. "He’s calling you his brother! God, would it kill you to show an ounce of basic grace?" One after another, their voices piled on, suffocating the air out of the hallway. My chest caved in. Cold sweat broke across the nape of my neck. I didn't have the stomach to fight Damon. And I certainly didn't have the courage to make enemies of three hostile sisters within two hours of crossing their threshold. "I... I don't want it," I whispered. Richard startled. "What did you say?" "There are... too many people here," I mumbled, stepping backward toward the safety of the stairs. "It’s too much. I’m scared to live here. I’ll just... I’ll go back to my rented apartment." Margaret had just reached the top of the landing in time to hear my words. Her aristocratic composure shattered. Her eyes swept from the bleak utility closet to the three sisters, her voice dropping into an arctic register: "My flesh and blood finally returns to his ancestral home, and within two hours, you three have him sleeping in a broom closet?" Charlotte, Bridget, and Piper clamped their mouths shut. Damon instantly scrambled off the mattress. "Mom, please! I just wanted to be close to him! Colby said he didn't want the room himself—" Margaret didn't even look at him. She whipped out her phone and hit speed dial. "Arthur," she spoke cleanly into the receiver. "Have the cleaning crews sent out to Lake Shore immediately. Air out the entire private sector." Deep within my soul, the Coward’s token flared with blinding, incandescent heat. A shimmering line of script, invisible to everyone else, unfurled across my vision: "Subject surrendered one primary bedroom out of visceral terror." "Tenfold compensation protocol initiated." My heart thudded violently against my ribs. Margaret terminated the call and turned to me, her gaze softening with fierce, overcompensating maternal guilt. "The family holds ten private waterfront estates along the Lake Shore reserve. They were meant for hosting diplomatic summits and board executives. Since living under a shared roof terrifies you, Colby, all ten properties are deeded to your name as of today. If you grow tired of one, you move to the next." Piper gasped out loud. "Mom! Those properties are worth over a hundred million collectively!" "And what of it?" Margaret snapped, skewering her youngest daughter with a glare. "My son doesn't even feel safe enough to ask for a bed under this roof! If I give him ten houses so he can breathe, who among you dares to tell me it’s too much?" "Not too much at all," I thought quietly. "In fact, it was exquisitely reasonable." Damon sat back down on my stolen bed, his face an unnatural shade of mottled green. He had spent eighteen years of conniving energy to secure a single bedroom. And in five seconds of pathetic retreat, I had become the private owner of ten waterfront estates. ... That evening, the head butler arrived at my doorway carrying a polished silver tray. Ten master keycards and biometric fobs, aligned in two immaculate rows. The moment the hallway emptied, Damon materialized from the shadows, seizing my forearm in a vicious, white-knuckled grip. "You did that on purpose, didn't you?" he hissed through clenched teeth. The pain was real, and my eyes welled with genuine, reflexive tears. "I didn't... I swear I didn't. I was just scared. I didn't want to fight you." He searched my terrified, watery eyes for a long, agonizing beat, before letting out a sharp, dismissive bark of laughter. "So you got ten houses. So what?" he sneered, leaning down into my face. "Mom and Dad’s real hearts belong to me. The girls will protect me to their graves. You’re still a pathetic loser who skulks in corners." I nodded fervently, clutching my bruised arm. "You’re right. You totally won." "Please," I prayed inwardly. "Keep winning. Never stop winning." The Kincaid empire possessed hedge funds, luxury fleets, international holding companies, and ancestral trusts. He had an entire universe left to conquer. ... The following evening, the family hosted an intimate dinner to commemorate my official transition into adulthood. Charlotte, the eldest, produced a slender, navy velvet box from her Birkin bag. Inside rested an exquisite, antique Cartier diamond lapel pin. "Colby, I won this at an auction in Geneva last month," she said, offering a practiced, polished smile. "Consider it your eldest sister's welcome gift." Damon stared at the diamond cluster for two full seconds before dramatically covering his mouth with both hands. "Oh... is that the limited bespoke piece from the winter collection? The one I spent six months trying to track down?" Charlotte’s fingers instinctively paused. "You wanted this exact one?" "It doesn't matter," Damon murmured, his eyes instantly glistening with saintly sacrifice. "Colby just came home. Of course he should have the best things first." Charlotte could never stomach Damon feeling marginalized. She immediately slipped the velvet box into his hand, turning to me with an apologetic pat on my wrist. "I’ll commission something even better for you next month, Colby." Terrified she’d think I was keeping score, I waved my hands frantically. "No! Please don't! It’s way too expensive... What if I lose it? I’d be terrified of wearing it." The token against my chest pulsed. Ten minutes later, Charlotte’s senior executive assistant rushed into the dining salon, holding an urgent corporate folder. "Ms. Kincaid, the acquisition papers for the ten independent luxury jewelry boutiques under our retail arm have cleared regulatory review." Charlotte blinked, glanced at my empty jacket lapel, and made an executive decision on the spot: "Transfer all ten storefronts directly under Colby’s private portfolio. If he ever needs an accessory, have the vaults delivered to him." Damon clutched his lapel pin, his knuckles turning pale. When it was Bridget’s turn, she pulled out two VIP courtside passes to the NBA Finals. "Damon’s favorite franchise. Game seven. I was hoping I could take Colby out, get him used to the city’s energy." Damon instantly looped his arm through hers, leaning his head on her shoulder. "Bridget, you promised on Thanksgiving that you’d take me if they made the finals." Bridget looked torn. Two passes. Three people. The mere thought of forty thousand screaming fans packed into a deafening arena made my throat close up. "You two go," I blurted out, my voice squeaking. "Too many people. It... it terrifies me." Bridget exhaled a visible sigh of relief. "Colby is so reasonable." Thirty minutes later, plagued by sisterly guilt, she signed over the titles to ten custom supercars from her personal collection to balance the ledger. The least expensive among them could have purchased Damon’s courtside tickets fifty times over. Damon’s fork rattled violently against his porcelain plate. "Why does it always have to be ten?" Nobody answered him. Piper, the youngest, was even less subtle. Over dessert, she declared that she was taking Damon out to an exclusive VIP rooftop bash. "He just took top honors in his preliminary concerto," Piper announced, checking her reflection in her phone screen. "We’re going out to celebrate." Richard cleared his throat gently. "Tonight is Colby’s welcome dinner, Piper." Piper shrugged with absolute indifference. "It’s a belated birthday. He can have cake anytime. Besides, my friends have sharp tongues and zero filter. Someone as timid as Colby would end up crying in the bathroom within five minutes anyway." She wasn't wrong. I was terrified of being mocked. I was terrified of being weighed against Damon and found wanting. "I don't want to go," I whispered into my napkin. Piper smiled smugly. "See? Smart boy. Don't force your way into circles you don't belong in." "Clatter." Margaret slammed her silver fork onto the table, the sharp ringing echoing across the dining room. "What do you mean, "circles he doesn't belong in"?" That very night, Margaret bypassed Piper’s shallow club scene entirely and dragged me to a private, closed-door boardroom banquet. The men and women around that mahogany table weren't spoiled trust-fund babies; they were the chief executives and managing directors of ten primary corporate subsidiaries under the Kincaid flag. Margaret stood, resting a firm hand on my shoulder: "This is my biological son, Colby Kincaid. Starting tomorrow, he has full authorization to select any subsidiary he pleases to learn executive management." My hand twitched, sending my ice water sloshing over the linen cloth. "Manage a company?" "Bear the livelihood of hundreds of employees on my back?" The sheer existential dread nearly stopped my heart. The Coward’s token flared like a furnace. By sunrise, the controlling equity of all ten subsidiaries had been legally transferred and registered under my personal name. Damon, meanwhile, returned home at dawn carrying nothing more than a commemorative Polaroid from the club. In the photo, he stood flanked by my three sisters, basking in their laughter like an untouchable prince. He texted it to me within seconds: "You see this? When the music starts, they will always choose me." I set the heavy stack of equity certificates down on my nightstand and texted back with genuine sincerity: "You’re completely right." "Please, make sure they keep choosing you." He didn't reply for the rest of the day. ... Late that evening, I padded down the darkened hallway to fetch a glass of water. Damon was standing outside the library doors, his forehead pressed against the wood, eavesdropping on our parents. Richard’s voice drifted through the gap: "...Doesn't it feel like Colby is becoming a little too obsessed with material assets?" Margaret let out a weary sigh. "He spent eighteen years starving for basic stability, Richard. It’s natural for him to hoard security." Damon turned, catching sight of me in the dim corridor. His eyes were entirely devoid of their usual condescending warmth. He had finally connected the dots. Every single time he snatched something from my hands, fate handed me an empire in return. He stepped into my path, his voice a razor-thin murmur: "Colby... what the hell are you hiding from me?" I clutched my glass to my chest and stumbled back a step. "Don't raise your voice at me... please." He studied my trembling hands, my pale throat, my instinctive retreat—and a cold, calculating grin slowly spread across his lips. "You really are a coward, aren't you?" he chuckled softly under his breath. "Fine. Let’s see what happens to your little magic trick when no one is willing to compensate you anymore." For the next four weeks, Damon completely shifted tactics. He stopped stealing. When Richard offered to take me tailoring on Savile Row, Damon didn't throw a tantrum; he smiled warmly and said, "Dad, you should spend quality time with Colby. He deserves it." When Charlotte planned an introductory gala, Damon volunteered to coordinate the guest list. When Bridget handed me an Audemars Piguet, Damon didn't even cast a jealous glance in its direction. He transformed overnight into the paradigm of the selfless, accommodating, gracious elder brother. I knew better. When a predator stops clawing at the door, it’s because he’s digging a trench underneath the foundation. Sure enough, within a fortnight, toxic whispers began circulating through high society. The long-lost Kincaid heir was an insatiable monster. He had returned home and immediately extorted ten waterfront estates from his weeping mother. He had stripped the displaced golden boy of his jewelry boutiques, his sports cars, and his corporate equity. The social pages labeled me a ruthless hillbilly who hadn't come back for family, but to bleed the dynasty dry before the ink on his birth certificate was dry. When those whispers reached my three sisters, their expressions curdled into disgust. Piper was the first to snap. She kicked open the door to the morning room where I sat reviewing a financial portfolio. "Colby! How much is ever going to be enough for you?" I jumped so hard the papers scattered across the floor. "I... I didn't ask for any of this." "You didn't ask?" Piper slammed her palm onto the table. "Did these assets sprout legs and run into your bank accounts on their own?" Damon hurried into the room, gently grasping her wrist. "Piper, don't yell at him. He grew up without a dime. It’s completely understandable that he’s terrified of being poor." Every syllable sounded like a defense, yet every inflection was kerosene on a bonfire. Piper’s fury spiked. "Being poor doesn't give you the right to strip our house to the studs! He hasn't even been here two months, and he’s nearly emptied the family vault!" I wanted to laugh. The Kincaid empire was valued in the billions. What I held didn't even account for a fraction of their rounding errors. Yet I kept my mouth shut, trembling visibly, terrified that if I smiled, she’d accuse me of treason. Damon watched my terror, a triumphant smirk tugging at his lips. That night, he summoned the entire family to the grand salon. On the glass coffee table lay an immaculate, color-coded spreadsheet he had compiled himself. Ten waterfront estates. Ten luxury jewelry boutiques. Ten hypercars. Ten subsidiary equity blocks. Every single item had its market valuation calculated down to the decimal point. Richard’s face grew grayer with every line he read. "Colby... this cumulative sum is astronomical." Charlotte crossed her arms, her tone chilled. "You’re nineteen years old. Leaving this much capital in your hands isn't just irresponsible—it’s dangerous." Bridget nodded gravely. "What if you get targeted by grifters?" Damon sat quietly between my sisters, speaking in a voice as soft as velvet: "Colby is gentle and indecisive by nature. He can’t handle the predators out there. Wouldn't it be safer for Mom and Dad to hold these assets in trust? When he matures, they can return them." My breath hitched. Damon wasn't trying to steal from me directly anymore. He was cutting off the source. He was ensuring that nobody would ever give me a single compensatory gift again. Margaret remained silent for a long, agonizing minute before her voice broke the quiet: "Colby. Bring out the transfer documents." I drew the folder closer to my ribs. "These were gifts. You gave them to me." "No one is saying they aren't yours!" Margaret’s voice hardened into an executive bark. "We are simply consolidating them under family management. What does a boy your age need with that kind of unearned liquidity?" Damon glided over to my side, affectionately smoothing down the collar of my shirt. "Listen to Mom and Dad, Colby," he murmured. "We’re your family. We only have your best interests at heart." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping so low only my ears caught it: "I can’t beat your weird little cosmic blessing in a fair fight. But if no one ever gives you anything out of pity again... how are you going to get your ten-to-one payout?" "Ah." So that was his grand strategy. If you can’t out-loot the victim, starve the victim of sympathy. Seeing my stubborn silence, Richard’s gaze turned heavy with paternal disappointment. "Colby... in all the years we raised Damon, he never once demanded a single cent from us. We welcomed you back with open arms and aching hearts, but you cannot mistake our guilt for an open checkbook." The three sisters sat opposite me, their faces cold, impassive, united behind Damon. He had won again. Using his fearless, manipulative charisma, he had turned the entire room into his personal firing squad, while I sat frozen, too terrified to speak in my own defense. Margaret stood, signaling the end of the debate. "The decision is final. The family is rescinding every asset assigned to your name. And from this moment forward, no member of the Kincaid family is permitted to hand Colby a single dime."
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