A Fake Heiress’s Guide to Love and Power novel Chapter 121

Chapter 121

At the end of the lane, a black sedan sat idling by the curb.

“Miss Morton, it’s been a while.”

“It has,” Alessia replied, surprised to see that it was Butler Dawson who’d come for her.

Dawson studied Alessia closely. He’d expected that returning to this neighborhood would break her spirit, but seeing her now, he realized how wrong he’d been.

Alessia stood tall, her posture impeccable. Even in this rundown area, she seemed out of place–her presence carried a quiet grace that set her apart. The only difference Dawson noticed was a softness in her eyes, something she’d never shown in the Tate household.

“It seems you’ve found a good family,” Dawson said, genuine warmth coloring his voice.

A faint smile tugged at Alessia’s lips, but she chose not to answer.

“I’m returning your charge to you,” she said, ruffling York’s hair.

“Thank you for your trouble.”

With a small bow to Alessia, Dawson opened the back door.

As the car started up, York rolled down his window. Both he and his dog stuck their heads out, wind ruffling their hair and fur.

“Alessia, if you ever want to leave, just tell me.”

“You’re such a smart aleck,” Alessia said, flicking his forehead–not hard, but

enough to leave a small red mark.

“Buckle your seatbelt. And by the way, my number hasn’t changed.” What she meant was: don’t go sneaking out again–but you can always call me.

York sat back in the car, noticing his cell phone had somehow found its way ir his pocket. His gear was all there–nothing had been pawned off. A quick glance at his game showed his team had won the latest match. Exiting the app, he opened his contacts.

Only one name stared back at him: Alessia.

He shut off his phone, a pang of envy twisting in his chest. He thought of Ivan, whose mother baked homemade pastries, spoke to him with gentle words, and

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made their tiny, shabby apartment feel warm. Ivan seemed so happy.

York felt a stab of jealousy. It seemed the only person who’d ever cared for him unconditionally had now been taken away.

Two years ago

“Young master, your tutor is waiting,” Butler Dawson called, knocking softly on York’s bedroom door.

Inside, York was curled up on his bed, absorbed in a tablet game.

“Young master.”

“Not going. Let him go back where he came from,” York grumbled, fed up with being nagged. He hurled a pillow at the door. It bounced off, landing in a heap by the

threshold.

Dawson sighed in resignation and called Mr. Scott for instructions. The reply was blunt: use the key, and if that didn’t work, break the lock. Dutifully, Dawson fetched the key, but by the time he opened the door, the room was empty.

Panic rising, Dawson ordered the driver to circle the area, searching the roads below. He hadn’t counted on York’s knack for mischief–the boy had crouched in a patch of tall grass, watching until the Tate family car disappeared down the hill before stumbling out of hiding.

Humming a tuneless melody, York set off down the winding road. What would’ve been a ten–minute drive, he managed to walk on his own two little legs.

The sidewalks on either side were deserted. York shuffled along, pausing every few steps, enjoying his freedom–unaware that someone had been watching him all along.

“Whose runaway rich kid is this?”

“Took long enough, but finally caught one.”

“Look at his clothes–he’s worth a fortune.”

“Keep your voice down. Don’t scare him off.”

“He can’t get far on those short legs. Farley, bring the car around and wait at the bottom.”

Two men trailed York at a distance, keeping their eyes fixed on him, careful not to lose sight.

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York glanced over his shoulder, noticed the men walking normally, and kept on his way, unconcerned.

Suddenly, the two men rushed forward. One of them scooped York up and broke into a run, while the other stayed close, eyes darting for any sign of trouble.

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