Part 3Rejected By Peasants Crowned By Kings

"Father, that's far too cruel to Sabrina!"

Genevieve’s eyes instantly flooded again. She took an urgent, theatrical step forward.

"She spent her entire life out in the cold. Now that she's finally home, how can we deny her the right to call you Mom and Dad? If you're doing this out of concern for my feelings, I don't care about my comfort. I'll explain everything to our friends myself—"

"Genevieve, stop it!"

Marian cut her off with sharp authority, though her eyes were filled with nothing but doting ache.

"You are always far too generous, swallowing every slight just to keep the peace."

She swung back to me, the maternal softness instantly evaporating into a veneer of chilled marble.

"Sabrina, your father's directive is meant to preserve the integrity of this family. Genevieve has excelled since childhood; she is our public ambassador, the face of the Bradford legacy. If rumors of swapped infants and fractured lineage hit the press right now, it would destabilize our stock and turn Genevieve into the laughingstock of the circuit."

Marian lifted her porcelain teacup, delicately blowing across the fragrant surface.

"You are a sensible girl. You ought to understand the necessity of the greater good. Keep your head down, do not cause friction, and this family will ensure you are provided for. You will receive a monthly allowance of ten thousand dollars, and your wardrobe will be matched to Genevieve's standard."

She delivered the terms like an empress granting a pension to an impoverished subject, waiting for me to fall to my knees in gratitude.

Andrew smoothed his cuff, lending his measured voice to the verdict.

"Mother is entirely correct. Sabrina, you lack the social polish, cultural references, and network required of an heiress in our circle. Presenting you as a distant beneficiary protects our public standing and prevents you from making a humiliating spectacle of yourself at dinners. It is, in truth, the kindest shelter we can provide."

What a breathtaking piece of logic.

For the preservation of their stock price, for Genevieve's fragile reputation, and under the magnificent banner of protecting "me", they had erased my existence with surgical precision. They wouldn't even permit me the syllables of family.

I rested my chin in my hand.

Memories from my sophomore year of college flickered across my mind. I had dated a boy who showered me with sweet texts and vintage vinyl, right up until the evening I found him with his hands buried in my best friend's hair against the brick wall behind the library.

When I caught them, he had worn this exact expression—reasonable, wounded, profoundly patronizing.

"Sabrina, you're just so strong. You can survive anything on your own. But she's fragile. She needs me to breathe. We didn't plan this—you're so mature, you understand, don't you?"

I had laughed then, too. Right in their flushed faces, I had deleted every picture, wiped every shared playlist, and wished them absolute, miserable codependency.

People thought I was detached. The truth was simpler: after years of drifting through the margins of other people's lives, I had developed an ironclad instinct for the moment I was being discarded. My radical optimism wasn't naivety; it was armor. A bright, unyielding lens that turned their hollow cruelties into farce.

"Understood," I said, breaking the silence and meeting Richard Bradford’s autocratic gaze with radiant calm.

"Mr. Bradford, Mrs. Bradford, you've planned this out meticulously. Playing the distant poor cousin sounds fantastic. Zero expectations, no debutante balls to attend, and ten thousand dollars dropping into my account every thirty days."

I tapped a single finger against the mahogany wood.

"Just make sure that wire clears on the first of every month. I charge exorbitant late fees."

Richard’s mouth tightened into an austere line, visibly repulsed by my casual transactionalism. Marian shook her head with a weary sigh, as if staring at a defective piece of pottery that could never be salvaged.

Theodore let out a dry, nasal scoff.

"You can take the girl out of the gutter," he murmured, handing the carved jade pendant to Genevieve with reverent care. "Genevieve, take this inside. Wash it thoroughly with distilled water before you wear it. It smells of cheap copper."

Genevieve took the stone with a demure, blushing nod.

I leaned back, retrieved the last succulent morsel of lobster from my plate, and chewed with unhurried delight.

They thought they had outmaneuvered me.

What they didn't know was that I was quietly running a mental clock.

If my calculations were correct, my foster father, Alistair Fontaine, who was currently wrapping up a multi-billion-dollar transatlantic acquisition, and my foster mother, Helena, who was concluding her European cello tour...

Were scheduled to touch down in the city next week.