My father's words were calm, rational even, as if he truly believed what he was saying.

"Rather than letting Owen get beaten down, it's better to hand everything over to Ethan. At least Ethan is capable and once he takes over, he won't mistreat Owen." My father let out a deep sigh, as if he had made a noble sacrifice. "This is the best solution—I'm doing this for Owen's own good."

My mother remained silent. Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

The lawyer, caught in the middle of this cold, calculated betrayal, seemed to hesitate. But in the end, he quickly excused himself, leaving the room without another word.

I pressed my trembling fingers against the wall, trying to steady myself, but my breath came in ragged gasps. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, my father pulled out his phone and took several photos of the equity transfer agreement before forwarding them to Ethan.

His voice softened, dripping with pride as he made a call.

"My good son, I've already spoken with the shareholders. The meeting has been postponed for three days. Owen won't be able to recover in time to attend, so you'll be the only candidate. Do well and I'll have a celebration banquet waiting for you when you return."

My nails dug into my palm.

"The car accident was a great idea." My father chuckled. "I don't need to tell you what to do next, do I? Make sure to switch Owen's medicine to vitamins—don't harm his health."

The call ended. The sound of his voice still echoed in my ears.

Tears slipped uncontrollably down my face.

So, the car accident wasn't an accident at all. It was planned. Meticulously. Heartlessly. By the very people who were supposed to love me.

Five years ago, the Griffith Family had brought me back from the orphanage. I still remembered that day—the warmth of my mother's embrace, the way my father had held me firmly by the shoulders, looking at me as if he had finally found something precious he had lost. They had sobbed uncontrollably, saying how much they regretted everything.

"Owen, we've wronged you. We should have looked for you sooner."

"We'll make it up to you. You'll never feel unwanted again."

I believed them.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I wasn't just an abandoned orphan. I felt like I belonged somewhere. I thought I had finally found my place, that I was a prince in a fairytale who had been lost but was now home.

They tried to make up for the fifteen birthdays I had spent alone, gifting me fifteen presents as blessings. My mother had personally picked them out, her face filled with guilt and love.

"These are all for you, sweetheart. To make up for the years we weren't by your side."

Not wanting to disappoint them, I had worked desperately hard. I threw myself into my studies, into business, into everything they wanted me to be.

I only wanted to be worthy enough to stand by their side.

Afraid that I would overthink things, my parents reassured me, saying that no matter what had happened in the past, Ethan was only an adopted son. He would never pose a threat to me.

"Owen, you're our real son," my mother had said, holding my hand tightly. "No one can take your place. Ethan understands this, too."

I wanted to believe them.

I spent an entire month meticulously preparing for the shareholders' meeting. I barely slept, pouring over documents, fine-tuning every detail of my proposal. I imagined the pride in my father's eyes, the approving nods from the executives, the feeling of finally proving myself. I wanted to surprise my parents, to make them proud of me.

But in the end, it was all just an illusion—a fleeting, fragile dream. To them, I wasn't their long-lost son. I was just an obstacle standing in Ethan's way. I guessed, in their eyes, controlling Griffith Group was far more important than keeping me.

The weight of that realization crushed me. My fingers curled against the wheelchair's armrests. The autumn air was crisp, but it wasn't enough to numb the ache in my chest.

I didn't even realize how long I had been eavesdropping until a voice jolted me from my thoughts.

"Mr. Owen, why are you here? It's chilly outside. If you catch a cold, Mr. Peter will be worried. Let me push you back inside."

Hearing the housekeeper's voice, my parents quickly rushed to the door. They appeared at the doorway, their eyes widening in shock when they saw me.

For a moment, their faces paled. Then, without hesitation, they took the wheelchair's handles and pushed me back to my room. My mother followed closely behind, her gaze darting to my face as if searching for any signs of distress.

Sitting in the wheelchair, my expression was blank, my heart hollow. My mother knelt in front of me, her red-rimmed eyes glistening with sorrow. Slowly, she reached out and stroked my forehead, her touch filled with what seemed like genuine affection.

"Sweetheart, it's my fault for not protecting you." Her voice trembled.

She lowered her head, gripping my hand tightly. "Tomorrow, I'll have the doctors move into the house to take care of you. You will recover, Owen. One day, you'll be able to stand again..."

Her words were filled with warmth, with love. But now, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't feel it. Not anymore.

I swallowed the bitterness rising in my throat and forced myself to smile. My fingers tightened around her hand as I whispered, "Mom, I want to eat your sweet and sour ribs. Can you make them for me?"

She blinked in surprise, then quickly wiped away her tears and nodded.

"Of course! Whatever you want, I'll make it." She cupped my cheek gently. "As long as you're happy, I'd give you everything."

My father was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he was still busy in his study, meticulously organizing the equity transfer documents, ensuring that everything was in Ethan's favor.

Taking advantage of their absence, I maneuvered my wheelchair toward my parents' bedroom. My fingers trembled slightly as I reached for the safe. I had a hunch. A quiet suspicion that I couldn't ignore.

The passcode was Ethan's birthday.

As soon as the lock clicked open, my breath hitched. I was hoping to find evidence of their schemes against me and I did. But I also found a thick leather-bound photo album sitting neatly inside. I hesitated before pulling it out.

Hundreds of pictures meticulously documented the fifteen years I had spent away from the Griffith Family. School photos, candid snapshots, moments that should have belonged to me—but they weren't mine.

From the very beginning, my parents had known. They had always known that Ethan wasn't their son. And yet, neither of them had ever revealed the truth.

They had still chosen to raise him as their sole heir.

Each photo told a story. Ethan at five, standing proudly in his tailored school uniform as my parents beamed beside him. Ethan at ten, posing in front of the Louvre, my mother's arm wrapped around him protectively. Ethan at fifteen, shaking hands with business executives, already being groomed for the empire that was meant to be his.

By the age of eight, he had mastered three foreign languages. At fifteen, due to his intelligence, he skipped grades and was admitted into a prestigious accelerated youth program at Harvard.

Ethan was the Griffith Family's pride.

As he grew older, my parents' smiles in the photos became more content, more at ease—because they had found their perfect son.

And with that, they had stopped searching for me.

Instead, they had poured everything into Ethan. They took him on lavish vacations, traveling the world together, seeing every breathtaking view life had to offer. They spared no expense.

By the time he graduated from university, he didn't have to fight for a place at Griffith Group. My father had personally brought him in, guiding him step by step until he was ready to take over.

Only then—only when Ethan had fully matured into the heir they had carefully cultivated—did they suddenly remember me.

They hastily retrieved me from the orphanage and brought me back into their home. But not as their son.

Not once did they acknowledge me in front of the media. I had been hidden in the shadows.

I thought it was because I wasn't good enough. Because I hadn't achieved what Ethan had.

So I worked. I studied harder than I ever had before, pushing myself to the limit, trying to carve a place for myself in their world.

But no matter how hard I tried, I could never be good enough.

The last few pages of the album held photos from Ethan's eighteenth birthday. My father had written something on the back of one of the pictures—his familiar scrawled handwriting, filled with warmth and love.

[Ethan, Griffith Group will always be yours. But in return, you must protect Owen forever.]

My lips curled into a bitter smile.

He had promised to keep me safe. And perhaps, in his own twisted way, he had.

By ensuring that I would never be able to walk again.