Posing as the Billionaire's Grandson

CHAPTER 8

My phone buzzed, the screen flashing an unknown local number. Likely a telemarketer. I almost sent it to voicemail before reconsidering - it could be the hospital with an update about Gram.

“Hello?” I answered cautiously.

“Adam, thank god," came Philippe Auclair's strained voice. "I've been trying to reach you. How did you get this number?” I asked sharply.

Philippe cleared his throat. “My assistant looked it up, but that's not important now. Why are you working with my niece Agatha?"

I bristled at his intrusive tone. "That's none of your business. Our arrangement doesn't concern you."

"Look, you don't understand how dangerous she is," Philippe pressed urgently. "Agatha has no good intentions getting involved.”

I gave a harsh laugh. "And you do? At least your niece is honest about what she wants."

Philippe sputtered indignantly. “Now see here, I only had the family’s best interests at heart...”

“Save it,” I cut him off. “I'll stop working with Agatha when you can pay me even half of what she does. But we both know you can't. So I suggest you let this go.”

The line went quiet for a moment before Philippe sighed deeply. “You’re right, I'm in no position to make any offer. But please, at least meet me before making any rash decisions.”

I hesitated, reluctant to get drawn any deeper into this family’s web. But something in Philippe’s tone gave me pause.

“Text me the details,” I said finally. “But this better not be another ridiculous scheme.” I hung up before he could respond.

Sure enough, a few minutes later a text came through with an address in the city and a time that night. Against my better judgment, curiosity won out.

After dinner, I slipped out and took the bus downtown. Philippe had chosen a small, dimly-lit restaurant in a part of the city I rarely visited. The hole-in-the-wall restaurant he had chosen left much to be desired. Cramped wooden booths lined dingy walls stained yellow from decades of smoking indoors. A bored waitress chewed gum as she took Philippe's order, casting me suspicious glances, likely wondering what a shabby teen was doing in this establishment. I sank lower in my seat, alert for any eavesdroppers.

“Thank you for coming,” Philippe said earnestly as I slid into the seat across from him. His eyes were sunken and weary.

“I’m here for one reason,” I said bluntly. “To tell you to leave me alone and let me handle things with Agatha my way.”

Philippe held up his hands. “I know, I know. And you’re right, it’s your business what arrangements you make with my family.”

He looked down at the table, tracing patterns in the condensation from his water glass. "Adam, I'm desperate for your continued discretion in this matter. My father would surely disown me if..."

I cut him off with a raised hand. "Our arrangement stands. I'll keep playing Paul at your family events. But no more deception for deception's sake."

Philippe slumped back, relieved. "Yes, of course. Though maintaining this ruse will require some...creative thinking moving forward."

I studied him across the pitted tabletop. His suit was rumpled and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. He seemed like a shell of the arrogant billionaire I first met. Despite myself, I felt a flicker of pity for the man.

"Then let's discuss logistics," I said, trying to keep my tone casual rather than conspiratorial. "Your father believes Paul will be attending Dunamis College soon, yes?"

Philippe nodded slowly. "An idea Raphael helped plant in his mind. I still don't fully comprehend why mentioning that school impressed him so..."

I waved this off impatiently. "Regardless, he'll expect 'Paul' to be present on campus and at family events for holidays. How will we explain his absence when the real Paul wakes?"

At this, Philippe averted his eyes. "I...I'm hopeful my son will regain consciousness and resilience in due time. Perhaps plastic surgery to alter his appearance..."

I gave a harsh laugh at this absurdity, making Philippe cringe. "Come now, be realistic," I admonished him. "Best case scenario, Paul lives quietly overseas, far from you all."

Philippe's face clouded at the thought of his only son's future so uncertain. "I just pray he finds some small measure of peace and happiness beyond this mess I've made," he said quietly.

His sincerity surprised me. I had assumed Philippe only cared about protecting himself and the family's reputation.

"If that's truly your hope, why insist Paul will attend Dunamis at all?" I asked, unable to mask my skepticism. "Wouldn't it be easier to simply say he's recovering overseas now?"

Philippe grimaced, looking older than his years. "You're right, of course. But my accursed pride made me hope that Paul could still gain Father's respect. I see now that was foolishness."

He ran a hand tiredly through his graying hair. "Let us simply say Paul has taken an indefinite sabbatical from his studies and social obligations. It should forestall too many probing questions until I devise a more permanent solution."

I nodded slowly. Perhaps the man was being truthful about only wanting to care for his son now. "Very well. A simple story is best. Now, about this golf game with your father..."

We proceeded to discuss tactics for continuing the ruse, now with somewhat clearer consciences. I still had grave misgivings about deceiving the ailing old man. But revealing the truth would help no one, least of all Paul.

After we had hashed out details for maintaining appearances in the coming weeks, I slid out of the booth to take my leave. Philippe surprised me by grasping my hand earnestly.

"Thank you, Adam. Truly. You've done more for my son than I ever could."

I shifted, uncomfortable with the praise. I was here out of necessity, not charity. But Philippe's melancholy sincerity was difficult to doubt.

As we prepared to leave, I paused. “Let’s be clear though. If you mistreat or endanger me in any way, my next call will be to the police to report your inappropriate conduct with a minor.”

Philippe paled, then nodded quickly. “You have my word. No more deception or manipulation, only business from here on.” We shook firmly on it.

The lights of the city blurred past the grimy bus window on my ride home. I reflected on his words. Was I doing right by Paul, keeping the truth hidden out of expediency and sympathy for Philippe? The moral footing felt less certain by the day.

Back in my dim apartment, I found Gram sleeping peacefully with a ghost of a smile on her lined face. My chest swelled seeing her properly cared for.

Quietly I knelt and kissed her forehead. Whatever burdens this long con placed on my soul, it was worth it for her comfort. I would play the role fate assigned me without complaint.

Slipping into bed that night, I wondered if Charles Foster Kane ever foresaw where his ambitions would lead in the end. “A man who has no moral compass is a man who cannot see,” Gram often said. I could only pray that when this winding road reached its end, I would still recognize the person staring back from the mirror. For now, I could only take things one day at a time.