THE RISE OF DAVID LANCASTER

Chapter 6: Now A Lancaster

My fingers trembled around the phone, my breath coming in short, disbelieving gasps. Ten million dollars. Ten million dollars. The number burned itself into my mind, searing away the pain, the humiliation, the despair.

"Who… who are you?" I managed, my voice hoarse but no longer weak. There was something new in it now—something raw, electric. Hope.

The man chuckled, a rich, warm sound. "My name is Vincent Cole, Master David. I’ve been searching for you for a very long time."

Vincent Cole. The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it—like it should have carried weight—made my pulse quicken.

"You’re telling me," I said slowly, forcing my thoughts into some semblance of order, "that I’m the heir of Andrew Lancaster. The billionaire Andrew Lancaster."

"Not just the heir," Vincent corrected, his voice dropping into something almost reverent. "His only heir. His son."

The world tilted.

Son.

The word hit me like a freight train. My father—if he even was my father—had been a ghost my entire life. A name whispered in stories, a face on magazine covers, a man who belonged to the world but never to me. And now… now I was being told I was his blood? His legacy?

"This… this can’t be real," I breathed, but the proof was right there on my screen. Ten million dollars. A drop in the ocean for a man like Andrew Lancaster.

"It’s very real, Master David," Vincent said gently. "And there’s much more where that came from. But first, we need to get you somewhere safe. Somewhere proper."

I glanced around the ruined bar, at the shattered glass, the splintered wood, the remnants of the life I’d been drowning in just minutes ago. Safe? Proper? Those words didn’t belong in this world.

"Where?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Look outside."

I frowned. Pushing through the pain, I dragged myself up, wincing as my battered body protested. Limping to the shattered front window, I peered out—

And froze.

A sleek black limousine, longer than any car had a right to be, was idling at the curb. The windows were tinted, impenetrable, but the door was already opening. A man in a tailored suit stepped out, his posture perfect, his gaze locked onto me.

Vincent’s voice purred in my ear. "Your ride, Master David."

I should have hesitated. Should have questioned it. But in that moment, with the taste of blood still in my mouth and Dylan’s laughter ringing in my ears, I didn’t care if this was a dream, a scam, or some elaborate trap.

Because for the first time in my life—I had power.

"I’m coming," I said, and ended the call.

The man at the limo bowed as I approached. "Master Lancaster," he murmured, like my name was something sacred.

I didn’t correct him.

As the door closed behind me, sealing me in the plush, silent interior, I finally let myself exhale. The past was dead.

The future?

The future was mine.

The limousine door shut with a whisper-soft click, sealing me inside a world of leather, polished wood, and the faintest hint of expensive cologne. The interior was cool, dimly lit, and so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.

The man across from me—Vincent Cole—was older than I expected. Mid-fifties, maybe, with silver threading through his dark hair and sharp, calculating eyes that missed nothing. He wore a suit that probably cost more than my entire bar, and his smile was polished, practiced.

"Welcome home, Master David," he said.

I didn’t feel like a Master of anything. My face was still throbbing, my ribs ached with every breath, and my knuckles were split and raw. But the weight of my phone in my pocket—the proof of that impossible bank transfer—kept me from doubting.

"Home?" I echoed, my voice rough. "I don’t even know who Andrew Lancaster is to me."

Vincent’s smile didn’t waver. "Then let me enlighten you. Andrew Lancaster was—is—your father. A man of extraordinary vision. And you, David, are his only living heir."

His only heir. The words should have meant something. Should have stirred some emotion. But all I felt was numb.

"If that’s true," I said slowly, "why now? Why let me rot in poverty my whole life?"

Vincent’s expression darkened. "It wasn’t by choice. You were hidden from him. Stolen, some might say. He spent years searching. And now that he’s… no longer with us, it falls to me to bring you into your birthright."

No longer with us.

"He’s dead," I said flatly.

Vincent inclined his head. "Yes. But his empire remains. And it’s yours."

The limo glided through the city, the world outside blurring into streaks of light. I should have been overwhelmed. Should have been screaming, laughing, something. But all I could think about was Dylan’s smirk as he kicked me, the sound of glass breaking, the debts I could never repay.

And now… now I could burn it all down if I wanted.

------

The limousine glided through towering iron gates, their intricate designs gleaming under the glow of antique lanterns. My breath hitched as the estate unfolded before me—a mansion so vast it looked like something out of a movie.

The driveway alone was longer than my entire street, lined with perfectly manicured hedges and marble statues that probably cost more than my entire life’s earnings. And the cars—dear God, the cars. Sleek, polished machines—Bugattis, Rolls-Royces, Ferraris—parked like toys in a garage the size of a football field.

Vincent hadn’t been exaggerating.

The limo came to a smooth stop in front of a monstrous, palatial entrance, its double doors carved from what looked like solid mahogany, flanked by six armed guards in tailored black suits.

Before I could even reach for the handle, one of them stepped forward and bowed deeply, his gloved hand opening the door for me.

"Welcome home, Master Lancaster," he said, voice firm with respect.

I almost laughed. Me? A man who had been bleeding on a bar floor an hour ago, now being treated like royalty?

Stepping out, my legs nearly buckled—not from pain, but from sheer disbelief. The mansion loomed over me, its grand columns stretching toward the night sky, its windows glowing like golden eyes. The air smelled of jasmine and wealth.

Before I could process it all, the massive doors swung open, revealing a battalion of staff lined up in perfect formation. Maids in crisp black-and-white uniforms, butlers with immaculate posture, chefs in spotless whites—all of them bowed in unison the second I crossed the threshold.

"Welcome, Master David," they chorused.

My mouth went dry.

The foyer alone was bigger than my entire apartment building. A crystal chandelier the size of a small car hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting prisms of light over the marble floors so polished I could see my own stunned reflection.

Vincent gestured to a young maid. "Sophia will escort you to your quarters. Freshen up. Dinner will be served in an hour, and we have much to discuss."

Sophia bowed, her dark hair pinned neatly back. "Right this way, Master."

I followed her, my sneakers squeaking awkwardly against the marble as we passed oil paintings of men who looked like me—Lancasters, I assumed—their stern eyes following me down the hall.

We ascended a grand staircase, its banister carved from dark, gleaming wood, each step cushioned by plush crimson runners.

Sophia stopped at a set of double doors, pushing them open with a flourish.

And I swear, I almost passed out.

This wasn’t a bedroom. This was a penthouse.

A king-sized four-poster bed draped in silk dominated the space, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the estate’s private gardens and infinity pool. A walk-in closet bigger than my old apartment stood open, already filled with custom-tailored suits, shoes, watches—everything.

To the left, a private lounge with a fully stocked bar and a grand piano (why? I didn’t even play). To the right, a bathroom that looked like a spa retreat—gold-plated fixtures, a sunken tub, steam shower.

"Your wardrobe has been prepared," Sophia said smoothly. "Would you like assistance dressing for dinner?"

I choked. "Uh—no. No, I think I can handle it."

She bowed again. "Very well. I will return to escort you when it’s time."

The door clicked shut behind her.

I stood there, swaying slightly, half-convinced I’d hit my head too hard in the bar and was now hallucinating in a coma.

But no.

The plush carpet under my feet, the cool breeze from the balcony, the weight of a Patek Philippe watch left on the dresser—it was all real.

I walked to the mirror, staring at my bruised face, my torn clothes.

"What the hell just happened?" I whispered.

An hour ago, I was nothing.

Now?

Now, I was a Lancaster.

A grin slowly formed on my lips as I gazed at my reflection in the mirror.

"This is going to be so fun."