The morning air was freezing. Emmett walked out of the massive iron gates of Patterson Manor. He wore his oldest clothes. A faded gray hoodie and worn-out jeans. He held a copper tram token in his hand.

He stopped on the sidewalk. He turned around and looked back. The manor sat on a hill, surrounded by morning fog. It looked like a giant, beautiful tomb.

A loud screech of brakes pulled his attention away. A rusted city tram stopped in front of him. The doors rattled open.

Emmett stepped up. He dropped his token into the slot. He walked down the narrow aisle and sat in the very back row, pressing his shoulder against the cold window.

The tram drove away from the wealthy suburbs. The scenery outside the window changed. The perfectly cut green lawns disappeared. They were replaced by cracked sidewalks, brick walls covered in soot and grime, and the tall, dead smokestacks of abandoned factories.

The inside of the tram smelled like cheap cigarettes and unwashed clothes. A baby cried loudly two rows ahead.

In his past life, Emmett would have covered his nose. He would have looked at these people with disgust. Now, he just closed his eyes and leaned his head against the vibrating glass. He let the noise wash over him. It was real. It was alive.

An hour and a half later, the tram stopped in the middle of the industrial district. Emmett stepped off. The cold wind whipped a dirty newspaper across his boots.

He walked down the broken pavement. He headed toward his family's tenement housing complex.

He stopped at a corner grocer. The bell above the door jingled.

He walked down the narrow aisles. He grabbed two loaves of fresh bread, a large carton of milk, and three boxes of the expensive chocolate his younger siblings loved. He carried them to the counter. He pulled out the few dollar bills he had saved.

The store owner, a heavy man with a dirty apron, scanned the items. He looked Emmett up and down. He sneered.

"What's wrong, pretty boy?" the owner mocked. "Did the rich folks kick you out? Couldn't cut it in the big house?"

Emmett's face didn't change. He didn't feel the hot flash of anger he used to feel. He just looked at the man's tired eyes.

"Thank you," Emmett said politely. He picked up the heavy canvas sacks and walked out.

He walked two blocks to a peeling brick building. He took a deep breath. He walked up the wooden stairs. Every step groaned under his weight.

He reached the third floor. He stood in front of a door with chipped white paint.

He raised his hand to knock. He stopped. His fist hovered in the air.

For five seconds, he couldn't move. His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice. The guilt was suffocating. The last time he saw his mother in his past life, she was lying in a cheap coffin, dead from a sickness she couldn't afford to treat. Because he had kept all his money to buy tailored uniforms.

He swallowed hard. He knocked on the wood.

He heard hurried footsteps inside. The lock clicked. The door opened two inches.

His fifteen-year-old sister, Elspeth, peeked out. Her eyes were sharp and guarded.

When she saw Emmett, her eyes went wide. Then, her face hardened into a glare.

"What do you want?" Elspeth asked coldly. "Did you come to beg Mom for more money to buy your stupid fancy clothes?"

The words felt like a knife twisting in his stomach. He deserved it.

Emmett didn't argue. He just lifted the heavy grocery bags and held them out to her.

Elspeth looked at the food. He saw her throat move as she swallowed. She was hungry. But she kept her hands by her sides. She was too proud.

A weak cough came from inside the apartment. "Elspeth? Who is at the door?"

Emmett pushed the door open gently. He stepped past his sister.

The apartment was tiny. The air smelled heavily of damp mold and old cooking oil.

His mother lay on a sunken, ripped sofa in the living room. She wore a faded blanket over her shoulders.

When she saw Emmett, she gasped. Tears instantly filled her eyes. She pushed her weak arms against the cushions, trying to sit up.

Emmett dropped the bags on the floor. He crossed the room in three long strides. He dropped to his knees on the dirty carpet. He reached out and grabbed her hands. Her skin was rough and freezing cold.

"Mom," Emmett whispered. His voice shook. The emotion broke through his flat mask. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. For everything. I was a selfish bastard."

His mother looked shocked. She pulled one hand free and touched his cheek. Her thumb brushed his skin.

"Emmett," she cried. "You're home. As long as you're safe, nothing else matters."

Two small heads peeked out from the bedroom door. Maeve and Tobin. They stared at him with big, scared eyes. They barely recognized their older brother.

Emmett turned his head. He reached into the grocery bag. He pulled out the boxes of chocolate. He looked at them with the softest expression he had ever made.

He waved the boxes.

The kids couldn't resist. They ran across the room and crashed into his legs.

Emmett dropped the chocolate. He wrapped his arms around their small bodies. He pulled them tight against his chest. He buried his face in their hair.

Elspeth stood by the door. She watched them. Her eyes turned red. She wiped her face with her sleeve and quietly closed the front door.

Emmett looked around the cramped, poor room. The block of ice inside his chest finally melted.

He squeezed his siblings tighter. He made a silent vow. He didn't care how much blood he had to spill. He didn't care who he had to destroy. In this life, he was going to rip the Patterson family apart, take their wealth, and build a fortress for his family.

It was early afternoon. The living room of the cramped apartment was quiet. Emmett reached inside the lining of his gray jacket. He pulled out a thick, yellow envelope.

He placed the envelope on the scratched coffee table. He pushed it toward his mother. It contained every dollar of his miserable monthly salary from the manor.

His mother stared at the cash inside. Her eyes widened in shock. She shook her head and pushed it back.

"No, Emmett," she said weakly. "You need this. You need to buy things for yourself. You need to fit in with the other staff."

Emmett picked up the envelope. He gently forced it into her cold hands. He folded her fingers over the paper.

"The manor pays for everything," Emmett lied smoothly. His voice was calm and reassuring. "I get free food. Free uniforms. I don't spend a dime. Keep it. Buy medicine."

Elspeth stood by the kitchen counter. She stared at the stack of bills. She bit her bottom lip. She looked at Emmett and whispered, "Thank you."

Emmett stood up. He walked to the kitchen sink. He picked up a wrench from the counter. He tightened the leaking pipe under the faucet with three sharp, efficient twists. The dripping stopped instantly.

He wiped the grease off his hands with a paper towel. He looked at the broken clock on the wall.

"I have to go back," Emmett said. "Curfew."

He walked to the front door. He stopped and crouched down in front of Elspeth. He looked directly into her eyes. His expression turned deadly serious.

"Listen to me," Emmett said. His voice was low. "No matter what happens, never trust people who drive expensive cars. Never trust the rich. Do you understand?"

Elspeth frowned. She looked confused by the sudden warning. But she saw the intense, dark look in his eyes. She nodded slowly.

Emmett stood up. He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. As he walked down the stairs, he heard Maeve and Tobin cheering as they opened the chocolate. A small, genuine smile touched his lips.

When he stepped outside, the sky had turned dark gray. The wind whipped his thin jacket around his waist.

He walked fast toward the tram stop.

A sleek, black motorcar sped down the street. Its tires hit a deep pothole filled with dirty water. A massive wave of muddy water splashed toward the sidewalk.

Emmett reacted instantly. He jumped backward, his boots hitting the brick wall. The water missed his legs by an inch.

He stood still. He stared at the glowing red taillights of the motorcar as it disappeared down the street. His eyes were cold.

The tram arrived. It rattled and shook. Emmett climbed aboard. He sat in the back, surrounded by the smell of bleach and despair.

The tram drove back toward the wealthy suburbs. The sky turned completely black. In the distance, the lights of Patterson Manor glowed like a massive fortress on the hill.

Emmett got off at the back service entrance. He walked to the security checkpoint.

A large security guard patted him down roughly. The guard's hands checked his pockets and his waist. It was a humiliating process.

"Didn't even go get a drink on your day off?" the guard mocked. "Boring."

Emmett gave him a blank, stupid smile. He didn't say a word. The guard waved him through.

Emmett walked into the servant corridors. The air felt thick and heavy. A group of maids stood in the corner, whispering frantically.

Emmett's ears picked up the words "Master Alistair" and "screaming." His heart rate picked up, beating in a steady, controlled rhythm.

He walked into the men's locker room. He pulled off his jacket.

Rory leaned against the next locker. He looked around nervously.

"Master Alistair is playing in a massive polo match tomorrow," Rory whispered. "He's betting a fortune."

Emmett's hand froze on the metal door of his locker. The metal clinked softly.

Tomorrow. The polo match. The memory rushed into his brain. The horse getting spooked. Alistair flying through the air. The sickening crunch of his neck breaking on the grass.

"I hope he wins," Rory babbled. "If he wins, he usually throws a hundred-dollar bill at whoever brings him his boots."

Emmett turned his head. He looked at Rory's hopeful, greedy face.

"Don't get your hopes up," Emmett said. His voice was flat and hollow. "Accidents happen very fast."

Rory frowned. "You're always ruining the mood." Rory turned and walked away.

Emmett stood alone in the locker room. He looked at his reflection in the small mirror taped to the door. There was no pity in his eyes. Only cold, calculating anticipation.

He closed the locker. He walked down the hall to the head butler's office. He looked at the corkboard on the wall. He scanned the duty roster for tomorrow.

His finger traced the lines. There it was. Tomorrow afternoon. Emmett: Stables cleanup duty.

It was the perfect position. The stables were the communication hub when the accident happened. He would be right in the middle of the chaos.

Emmett smoothed the curled edge of the paper with his thumb. He turned and walked into the dark corridor.

Outside, a loud crack of thunder shook the manor. The storm was coming. And the clock was ticking down to zero.

It was two o'clock in the afternoon. The sky was a bruised, ugly purple. The air was thick with humidity.

Emmett wore heavy rubber boots. He stood inside the wooden stalls of the Patterson stables. He held a metal pitchfork. He pushed the dirty hay and horse manure into a wheelbarrow. His movements were slow and steady.

Suddenly, the loud, violent screech of rubber tires tore through the quiet afternoon.

Emmett stopped. He leaned on the pitchfork. He looked through the wooden slats of the stall.

An estate's heavy transport carriage slammed on its brakes in the gravel driveway. The doors flew open.

Angus, the old stable master, ran out of the break room. The brass whistle around his neck was swinging wildly.

"Clear the south lawn!" the security captain shrieked from the courtyard. "Clear the landing pad! We need the fastest physician's carriage now!"

Emmett didn't move. He stood perfectly still in the shadows. He watched the panic erupt outside. His eyes were cold and unblinking.

Two white medical wagons flew through the main gates, their sirens wailing. The estate's emergency alarm system activated. Red strobe lights flashed against the dark sky.

Rory sprinted around the corner of the main house. He ran toward the stables. His face was chalk-white. He grabbed the wooden fence, gasping for air.

"He's dead!" Rory screamed. His voice cracked. "Master Alistair! He fell off his horse! The horse stepped on his neck! He's not breathing!"

Old Angus dropped to his knees in the dirt. He grabbed his gray hair. "The family is ruined," Angus moaned. "We're all ruined."

Emmett dropped his pitchfork. The metal clattered loudly against the stone floor. He forced his eyes wide open. He dropped his jaw, creating a perfect mask of shock and terror.

He ran out of the stall and grabbed Angus by the shoulders, pretending to support the old man.

Half an hour later, the swift medical transport clattered down the road. It took Alistair's broken body away. The manor fell into a dead, heavy silence.

By evening, Elias ordered all lower-tier servants to stay in the underground break room. The room was packed. The air was hot and smelled like nervous sweat.

Moira sat in the corner, violently biting her fingernails. "Without an heir, the Wall Street trust will liquidate everything," she said, her voice shaking. "They'll sell the house. We're all fired."

Rory sat on the floor, holding his head. "My etiquette book is useless! We're going to be homeless!"

Emmett sat in the darkest corner of the room. He held a plastic cup of lukewarm water. He watched them panic like trapped rats.

He took a slow breath. He let his shoulders slump. He made his voice sound hesitant and confused.

"I remember..." Emmett started softly. He paused, acting like he was trying to recall a distant memory. "I think... the Viscount isn't the only bloodline."

The entire room went dead silent. Forty heads snapped toward him.

Rory scrambled off the floor. He grabbed Emmett's arm. His fingers dug into Emmett's sleeve. "What do you know? Tell us!"

Emmett jerked backward. He pulled his arm away, acting terrified of the sudden attention.

"I-I don't know," Emmett stuttered. He looked down at his shoes. "I was delivering files to the main house once. I heard the lawyers talking."

Emmett let the silence stretch for two seconds. Then he dropped the bait.

"The Viscount has a brother," Emmett whispered. "And that brother has a legal son. I think his name is... Kearney Bernard."

Moira stood up. She crossed her arms and glared at him. "You're a footman. You don't know anything about trust inheritance laws. You probably misheard them."

Emmett immediately shrank back. He hunched his shoulders. He looked up at Moira with wide, submissive eyes.

"You're right," Emmett said quickly. "I don't have much formal schooling. I don't understand half those complicated legal words."

He played the stupid, uneducated servant perfectly. Moira rolled her eyes and sat back down, satisfied that she was smarter than him.

But the seed was planted. The name "Kearney" echoed in the quiet room.

The heavy metal doors slammed open. Elias, the head butler, marched in. His face was pale and furious.

"All leave is canceled," Elias barked. "The estate is in a period of mourning. If any of you speak to the press, you will be sued for millions under your NDAs. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," the servants mumbled in unison. They all stared at the floor.

Elias turned and marched out.

Emmett kept his head down. But beneath his dark hair, his eyes gleamed with sharp satisfaction. His first pawn was on the board.

He knew how fast rumors spread in the servant quarters. When Kearney finally arrived, the servants would already be expecting a new master. And Emmett would be the one pulling their strings.