Posing as the Billionaire's Grandson

CHAPTER 7

The pungent scent of antiseptic hit my nose as I walked through the dingy halls of City General Hospital alongside my grandmother. The wheelchair I pushed creaked and rattled over the cracked linoleum tiles.

This had become our dreary routine - three times a week I'd help Gram get to her physical therapy appointments. Not that the sessions seemed to be helping much. If anything, her health only deteriorated more rapidly.

"How are you feeling today, Gram?" I asked gently as we waited for the elevator, trying to sound upbeat.

"Oh, just fine dear," she said, giving my hand a light pat even as she struggled for breath. Her skin was paper thin, blue veins starkly visible. But her eyes still held a spark of lively spirit.

The elevator groaned as it carried us up to the third-floor therapy wing. Sanitized, clinical - this place was worlds away from the warmth of family. But it was all we could afford.

I helped Gram out of the wheelchair and onto the exam table, where her therapist soon came to take her through the usual exercises. My heart clenched seeing her frail body bend and stretch in ways it just couldn't anymore.

After the hour-long session that exhausted her, I lifted Gram carefully back into the wheelchair. As we headed out, she lightly squeezed my hand.

"Thank you for doing this, Adam. I know it's not easy." Her voice was soft, tinged with shame at being a burden.

"It's no problem at all," I assured quickly. "I...I just want you back on your feet again soon." The lie tasted bitter, but I couldn't crush her hopes.

Stopping by the billing office on our way out had become routine too. But this time, as the clerk tallied the ever-increasing charges, my heart dropped into my stomach.

The total was staggeringly high, far beyond our meager means. And the clerk was quick to remind us, "Unless a payment is made soon, we will have to suspend further treatment." Her tone made it clear she said this often.

My legs felt shaky and weak as I pushed Gram's chair silently to the pharmacy next. The stark truth was staring me in the face. We were destitute, barely scraping by even with my scholarships. These vital therapies were quickly becoming unattainable luxuries.

What could I even hope to do? Pick up more shifts washing dishes at the diner? Search the couch cushions for loose change? It would never be enough to put a dent in this mountain of medical debt.

For a moment, my mind flashed back to the elegant opulence of the Auclairs. Designer clothes are worth more than my grandmother's life-saving care. Posh country clubs and banquet halls dripping with wealth.

Agatha's words echoed in my memory - "Everyone has their price." As much as it galled me, she was right. Beggars couldn't afford principles. Not when Gram's future hung in the balance.

My hands gripped the push handles tightly. When it came to saving my only family, there was no line I would not cross.

Back in our cramped apartment that evening, I sat quietly as Gram dozed in her armchair. The ravages of illness and exhaustion were etched deeply into her kind face. She deserved so much better in her golden years than this meager existence.

My choice was already made. Tomorrow I would seek out Agatha and take her up on the offer, distasteful as it was. I could swallow my pride and play the Auclair's games if it eased Gram's remaining days.

But I would not grovel - the money was for her care alone. Once she was stable, I would disappear from that family's twisted lives and work to repay every stolen cent. It couldn't be called stealing when it was a life at stake.

Later that night, I lay awake on my lumpy mattress, rain pattering against the thin window. Agatha's world was so foreign, that I had scarcely dared dream of crossing into it. But destiny pushed me here all the same.

In the darkness, I steeled myself for whatever tomorrow would require. My integrity meant little if I couldn't provide for my own. Right or wrong, I was determined to protect those I cared for, the only way I knew how.

Morning came too soon, the feeble light barely piercing the gloom of our apartment. I dressed quietly, careful not to wake Gram. She need never know about the devil's bargain I was making solely for her sake.

Outside, the air was sharp and bitter. I pulled my threadbare coat tighter, my breath fogging. The walk to the upscale fancy district was long but gave me time to clear my head.

By the time I arrived at the restaurant that Agatha sent me the address, the morning crowds were bustling along the slick streets. Pushing inside, I was greeted by the glare of fluorescent lights and cloying perfumes.

The maître d' raised an eyebrow skeptically, looking me over. Though dressed impeccably in the designer suit Agatha had purchased, I didn't belong in this Michelin-star restaurant where the chandeliers probably cost more than my apartment. 

"He's with me, Jean-Luc," Agatha called breezily, gliding up beside me in a cloud of cologne. With a polite nod, Jean-Luc quickly ushered us to a private table in the back, no doubt assuming I was merely a business associate. 

As I sat stiffly across from Agatha, a white-gloved waiter appeared with leather-bound menus. I squinted at the French descriptions and exorbitant prices. 

"Wonderful, we'll have the 8-course degustation and a bottle of your '82 Lafite," Agatha told him airily, handing back the menus. I held my tongue, having no choice but to trust her selections.

Once the waiter disappeared, Agatha fixed me with an appraising look. "Now then, we have important work ahead. I can't have you embarrassing the family again with your lack of etiquette."

I bristled slightly. "It wasn't exactly by choice that I attended your holiday party."

She waved this off. "Regardless, you clearly need refinement if you hope to pass as Paul with his relatives. One does not slurp the soup or attack the plate like a rabid dog."

My face burned with indignation and shame. But keeping up this ruse was now my only means to pay Gram's medical bills, so I had to swallow my pride.  

"You're right," I said stiffly. "My table manners could use some...improvement."

Agatha smiled. "Good, I'm glad you can take constructive criticism. Now, sit up straight..." She proceeded to correct everything from my posture to handling the cutlery properly, even critiquing my eating pace. 

As the elaborate courses arrived, she continued offering haughty pointers between sampling delicate bites herself. Though I chafed at being treated like a misshapen lump of clay, I forced myself to listen.

Finally, Agatha dabbed her ruby lips with the linen napkin and set it aside. "Better. With some practice, you may just pass for a gentleman." I bit back a retort.

"Now, we must work on your conversational skills," she continued. "You'll be facing close scrutiny from the family. Everything from your word choices to tone must match Paul's."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully, then pointed at me. "Pretend I'm Grandfather. Respond appropriately." Clearing her throat, she adopted a pompous baritone. "Paul my boy, will you be attending the races with me this year?"

I fumbled for how best to impersonate Paul's arrogant drawl. "Er, yes Grandfather, I wouldn't miss it for the world...old sport." I resisted wincing at the atrocious accent that sounded nothing like him.  

Agatha tittered. "Oh darling, that was dreadful! Paul would never use such uncultured phrasing." 

She proceeded to grill me with various questions, ruthlessly critiquing my responses until I learned to adopt Paul's bored, cultured tone. It was exhausting.

After grilling me on etiquette and impersonating Paul, Agatha dabbed her ruby lips with the linen napkin and set it aside. "Better. With some practice, you may just pass for a gentleman." I bit back a retort.  

"Now, we need an excuse for your inevitable reticence around the family," she continued. "I suggest playing the troubled youth...a budding addict, perhaps?"

I recoiled instinctively at the thought. "You expect me to act like some junkie around your grandparents?" 

Agatha's crystalline laugh filled the quiet restaurant. "It's called verisimilitude, darling. We'll say you've fallen into bad habits to explain your sullen moods and distance." 

Her smile was wicked with delight at this dramatic twist. I looked away, sickened by the idea even as I knew she was right that we needed some excuse for my behavior.

"Paul was always a brooding child," Agatha mused. "I doubt anyone would question such a sad downward spiral. What do you think?"

"I think this charade is already twisted enough," I replied bluntly. "But I don't see another option."

Agatha clasped her hands, beaming. "Excellent, it's decided then. You'll be the troubled, addicted prodigal son. How tragically perfect!"

I held my tongue, nostrils flaring in disgust. She just smiled and sipped her wine, utterly unbothered by the wild lies we were constructing. Lies that were now my life and future.

After what felt like hours, the check for a small fortune finally came. As Agatha signed the receipt with a flourish, I tried not to imagine what Gram could've received for the cost of this single meal. 

Once we were back outside, Agatha stopped me before I could head home to collapse. "You're improving, but we have a long way to go. I expect you back here again tomorrow, 8 pm sharp. Don't be late."

I nodded mutely, too drained to argue. As her sleek town car pulled away, I felt like nothing more than a puppet on her strings. But the stakes were now life and death.

Trudging up the steps to our dingy apartment, I pushed open the creaking door to find Gram dozing in her chair. My heart clenched. She was why I endured such degradation. For her, anything was worth it.

I gently kissed her papery forehead before sneaking an envelope of bills from my suit pocket. Tomorrow morning, I would call to restart her therapy, though the lump sum required careful rationing.

Checking on the hidden cash stash, I breathed easier seeing it intact. The floorboard now harbored our hopes and futures mingled together. Assuming I could keep stoically playing this part.

That night as I lay in bed, I wondered if there would be anything left of my soul once I became the perfect Paul. But with Gram declining daily, there was no room for doubt. I had to stay the course.

Squaring my jaw, I closed my eyes and slept fitfully, steeling myself for another day of Agatha's demeaning preparations. The road ahead looked increasingly bleak. But I would walk it without hesitation or complaint if it improved Gram's lot. 

Some sacrifices were worth weathering for those you loved. Even if the price was one's dignity and identity. Holding Gram's smiling face in my mind's eye, I found the strength to carry on.