I had spent my entire life perfecting the craft of acting, eventually capturing three Academy Awards for Best Actor. But at the peak of my glory, standing on the podium with the golden statuette in hand, a deranged anti-fan lunged forward and smashed a heavy brick right into my temple. Just like that, my lights went out. When I opened my eyes again, I was no longer on a stage. I had woken up in the body of a long-lost biological son, newly returned to one of the most powerful old-money dynasties in the country—the Blackwoods. But the grand estate wasn't empty. Waiting for me was the fragile, sickly imposter who had lived my life. His name was Oliver. He was a boy who gasped after three steps, coughed after five, and looked as though a stiff autumn breeze would send him straight into a coma. At our very first meeting, in the middle of the sprawling, marble-floored parlor, he clutched his chest and collapsed weakly at my feet. "Brother," he whimpered, "it’s all my fault. I stole your life, your luxury, for sixteen years. If you hate me... I’ll gladly end it all right now." My father’s eyes welled with tears instantly. My older sister, Caroline, stepped protectively in front of him, brandishing her fencing foil, her eyes brimming with cold disgust as she glared at me. "The moment you step foot in this house, you drive Oliver to despair. You really are a backwoods savage, aren't you?" "If anything happens to him, I'll make sure you pay for it." Even Victoria, my childhood fiancée, spoke with icy detachment: "The arrangement was made with the heir of the Blackwood estate. But Oliver is the one who has been by my side all these years. I will never abandon him." I watched this pathetic little melodrama unfold. My eyes welled with tears on cue, and with a sharp, ragged gasp, I spat a mouthful of dark, metallic blood right onto my father's pristine cream-colored rug. "Oliver, what are you saying?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "You only took my parents, my name, my sister, and my fiancée." "How could I ever hate you?" The entire room froze. I let my knees buckle, collapsing weakly into my father's arms, letting my head fall back as I murmured one last, devastating line: "I was just unlucky. I came back too late. I'm nothing but an eyesore to everyone here." Oliver’s face drained of color. Oh, little brother. You want to play the victim? You're trying to out-act a three-time Oscar winner. You are wildly out of your league. … The room went dead silent, paralyzed by the sight of my blood. My father’s hands shook as he held me. Oliver's face went white, his voice trembling. "Elliott, don't scare me like this." "Did I say something wrong? Did I hurt you? If I did, I'll beg for your forgiveness. Just tell me what to do." He made a move to sink back down to his knees. What a beautiful, fragile little orchid. If he knelt now, everyone would assume I was the aggressor, that my sudden hemorrhage was just a theatrical play to bully him. In my past life, I had starred in thirty-seven films. I had won three Academy Awards. My absolute specialty was knowing exactly how to let a single tear spill over my lower lash line at the perfect millisecond to catch the camera's light. So, I reached out and weakly gripped my father's sleeve. I shook my head, letting a tear slip down my temple as my voice trailed off, faint as a dying breath. "Dad, please don't blame Oliver. I'm the one who lived in the dirt for too long. My body is just... weak. I don't deserve to hear such polite words." My father’s posture went rigid. Oliver froze mid-kneel, caught awkwardly between standing and bowing. I lifted my eyes to Caroline. I flinched, looking terrified of the fencing foil in her hand, but forced a small, submissive smile. "Don't be angry, Caroline. I know how much you love Oliver. After all, you've had sixteen years together." "I'm new here. I don't know the rules. I didn't realize my very existence would be such an eyesore in this house." Caroline’s expression shifted instantly. Slowly, the tip of her foil lowered to the floor. "I... I didn't mean it like that," she muttered. I lowered my head, coughing raggedly into my hand. A fresh smear of red stained my palm. The blood wasn't entirely an act. The original owner of this body had been starved and beaten by his abusive foster parents in a rural trailer park for years. His health was a hollowed-out shell. My sudden reincarnation, paired with the emotional whiplash of this toxic family, made spitting blood a perfectly natural physiological reaction. But how to spit it, and who should see it—that was pure art. My father finally panicked. "Get the family doctor! Now!" A flash of pure resentment crossed Oliver’s eyes before he masked it with tearful concern, lunging forward. "Elliott, it’s my fault. I shouldn't be here to ruin your life. I'll pack my bags. I'll move to the guest cottage over the garage. I won't ever show my face to you again." He reached out to support me, but his fingers dug sharply into a dark purple bruise on my wrist. The pain was sharp, but it almost made me laugh. Oh, little brother. Trying to pull a physical stunt off-camera? That's how amateurs get exposed. I didn't pull away. Instead, the moment his fingers made contact, I flinched violently as if struck, recoiling into my father's chest. "Oliver, don't touch me! Please... it hurts." My father looked down, his eyes landing on my exposed wrist. It was covered in deep, mottled bruises. They weren't from today. They were the physical records of years of abuse. A heavy silence fell over the room. Oliver’s hand hung suspended in the air, his face twitching as his mask of concern began to crack. "What is this?" my father asked, his voice shaking. I frantically pulled my sleeve down, my eyes darting around as if terrified of causing trouble. "It's nothing. Just some accidents from working on the farm. I'm clumsy." The more I tried to hide it, the worse it looked. The more I insisted it was nothing, the more it tore at my father's conscience. The family doctor arrived quickly. After checking my pulse, his brow furrowed deeply. "The young master is severely malnourished, and his internal organs are weak from years of hard labor and exposure. If he is subjected to any more emotional shock or stress, it could cause irreversible damage." My father’s eyes turned red with guilt. Caroline’s face drained of color. I knew they didn't suddenly love me. But a long-lost heir dying of a broken heart on his very first day back? The Blackwood family’s reputation in high society would never recover from that scandal. Oliver suddenly let out a soft, delicate cough, his eyes rimming with pink. Usually, one cough from him would bring the entire household running to cater to his every whim. But this time, my father only spared him a brief, strained glance before turning to the house manager. "Move Elliott into the East Wing master suite. Hire two discreet, highly professional nurses to watch over him." "And bring up the premium tonics from the private cellar." Oliver's face warped. As the attendants lifted my wheelchair to carry me out of the grand parlor, I caught his eye. In his gaze, I saw resentment, panic, and an unshielded, ugly hostility. I let the corner of my mouth curve into a tiny, imperceptible smirk. We’ve barely started, little brother. The stage is set. But that? That wasn’t even the dress rehearsal. The East Wing suite was originally meant for the true heir of the family. Oliver had lived there for sixteen years, only packing his things to move out the night before. The rooms still carried the faint, lingering scent of his expensive signature cologne. Felix, the young valet my father had assigned to me, whispered nervously as he smoothed the sheets: "Sir, I heard Master Oliver absolutely adored this wing. He must be heartbroken having to leave it." I looked up at him. Felix immediately lowered his head. He was a servant handpicked by my father, but every word out of his mouth was clearly designed to test the waters on Oliver's behalf. I smiled softly. "Do you feel sorry for him, Felix?" Felix fell to his knees in terror. "I wouldn't dare, sir." "Don't worry, I'm just asking." I pressed a silk handkerchief to my lips, keeping my voice quiet. "He lived like a prince here for sixteen years. Suddenly being moved to the guest house must feel like a punishment." "But then, I slept on a wooden floor in a drafty trailer for sixteen years. Moving into this grand suite makes me feel incredibly anxious, too." Felix’s face turned pale. I continued, "If you'd rather be with him, you should go back to his service. I'm a sickly patient, and I wouldn't want my poor health to hold back your career." At those words, panic took hold of him. My father had just been consumed by guilt. If word got out that the newly returned heir couldn't even get a single servant to obey him, who would look bad? The family patriarch. Felix began to bow frantically. "Please forgive me, sir! From now on, my loyalty belongs only to you." I closed my eyes, satisfied. The first rule of acting isn't learning how to cry or laugh. It's controlling the scene. The next morning, Oliver arrived. His face was pale, and he was followed by two maids carrying a bowl of bird’s nest soup. "Brother, I felt so terrible about yesterday. I couldn't sleep all night. I made this soup myself to apologize." Felix looked at me nervously. I glanced at the soup. Under the sweet, delicate aroma of the broth, there was a very faint, distinct scent of bitter almonds. The original owner of this body had a severe, congenital allergy to raw almonds—even a trace amount would trigger anaphylactic shock. The Blackwoods didn't know this, but Oliver, with his extensive resources, must have dug up my medical history from the rural clinic before I was brought back. He didn't want to kill me. He just wanted me to have an allergic reaction in front of everyone, so he could play the innocent victim who had been "falsely accused," painting me as a paranoid, unstable drama queen who couldn't tolerate his existence. I accepted the bowl, smiling warmly. "You're so thoughtful, Oliver." A flash of smug satisfaction lit up his eyes. I lifted the spoon, but just as it reached my lips, I stopped. My eyes slowly pooled with tears. "Back in the country, I used to stand outside the windows of the wealthy estates, smelling the rich food they cooked." "I used to wonder if my real parents ate like that too." Oliver's smile froze. I set the spoon down. "Something this precious... I can't bear to eat it alone." "Felix, go bring my father and sister. Tell them Oliver made this soup with his own hands, and I want to share this beautiful family moment with them." Oliver's face drained of color. He tried to stop Felix, but it was too late. My father and Caroline arrived shortly. Oliver forced a weak laugh. "It’s just a bowl of soup, Elliott. There was no need to disturb Father and Caroline." Acting oblivious, I pushed the bowl toward my father. "Oliver worked so hard on this. Father, you should have the first bite." Oliver began to cough violently. His maid stepped in quickly. "Sir, Master Oliver made this specifically for Master Elliott. Surely a gentleman of your stature shouldn't eat leftovers?" Caroline frowned. I lowered my eyes, murmuring softly: "Oh. So this is meant only for me." The words were quiet, but they stung. My father immediately picked up the spoon. "Nonsense. Why shouldn't I try it?" Oliver panicked. "Father, no!" In his moment of sheer panic, I suddenly clutched my chest, gasping for air as if startled by his shout. "Oliver... why are you so afraid of Father tasting it? Did I do something wrong again?" My father paused, his expression darkening. The family doctor was summoned to examine the soup. A few minutes later, he knelt before my father. "Sir, this broth contains traces of bitter almond extract." "It is harmless to most, but for Master Elliott, whose respiratory system is already compromised, it would cause severe breathing difficulties—perhaps even lung failure." The room went dead silent. Oliver burst into tears. "I didn't know! I swear I didn't know! How could I possibly know about his allergies from before he came here?" I didn't accuse him. I only stared at him, my eyes wide with hurt and a deep, terrified silence. I had shot this exact scene in an indie drama years ago. It was called The Silence of the Victim. Predictably, my father's anger flared. He ordered the kitchen staff to be investigated. Oliver wept so hard he could barely stand. Caroline watched him, wanting to offer comfort, but her eyes kept drifting back to my pale, fragile face. In the end, she remained silent. I took a sip of plain water, hiding the faint smile on my lips. Scene One: Redirect the blow, and let the fire burn the instigator. The head of the kitchen staff ultimately took the blame, claiming he had mixed up the recipe for the medicinal broth. Oliver escaped unscathed, though he had to come to my room three times to apologize, eyes red and tearful. I knew this wouldn't destroy him. Sixteen years of shared history couldn't be severed by a single bowl of soup. My father felt guilty and suspicious, but he wasn't ready to cast him out. Neither was Caroline. The lingering tenderness in her eyes when she looked at him was unmistakable. And then there was my fiancée, Victoria. She was even more interesting. On the third day, she arrived at the estate with a box of rare imported herbs. But she didn't come to see me. She went straight to the guest house to see Oliver. Felix's face was flushed with anger. "Sir, Miss Victoria is crossing the line. You are her fiancé!" I was looking in the mirror, practicing my smiles. The fragile one. The enduring one. The resigned one. The one that was completely heartbroken but still trying to maintain dignity. Hearing his words, I chose the last one. "How long has she been there?" "Almost an hour." "That's long enough." I stood up and draped a cashmere coat over my shoulders. "Take me there." The door to the guest house was slightly ajar. As I approached, I heard Oliver's soft whimpering from inside. "Victoria, please don't blame Elliott. He’s the rightful heir of this family. I took everything from him—it’s only natural that he resents me." "My health is failing anyway. If I'm gone tomorrow, please... don't be sad." Victoria’s voice was firm. "Don't talk like that. As long as I'm here, no one will push you around." I stood at the threshold and let out a soft, delicate cough. Both of them spun around to look at me. Victoria’s brow furrowed immediately. "What are you doing here?" I looked at her, then at Oliver, letting all the color drain from my face as if a terrible truth had finally dawned on me. "So... this is what you look like when you're together." A flicker of discomfort flashed across Victoria’s face. Oliver quickly stood up. "Elliott, you've misunderstood. Victoria only came to check on my health." I nodded softly, my expression gentle. "I understand. You grew up together. Your bond is deep. It’s only natural that she cares for you." I was being too reasonable, too accommodating—the kind of grace that makes people feel deeply uncomfortable. Victoria’s expression softened slightly. "I'm glad you understand. I’ll speak to the families about the engagement. Oliver is fragile; he can't handle this kind of stress." I let out a soft, bitter laugh. "So, Miss Whitmore, you want me to call off the engagement myself to make way for the two of you?" She remained silent. Tears clung to Oliver's eyelashes. "Elliott, I never wanted to take your fiancée." I looked at him and took a step forward. He flinched back instinctively, as if expecting me to strike him. Instead, I simply pulled the antique jade betrothal ring from my pocket and set it gently on the table. "Since we're being honest, let's settle this today." Victoria froze. I didn't yell. I didn't make a scene. I just looked at her calmly. "If you wish to break the engagement, please have your parents come to the estate. We will settle the contract, the family crests, and the gifts formally before both families and the attorneys." "Don't cling to him in secret while letting me carry the empty title of your fiancé just to keep up appearances." Victoria’s face burned with embarrassment. Oliver panicked. He didn't actually want Victoria to break the engagement immediately. He wanted me to become so thoroughly detested by high society that I would be forced to step down, leaving him with both the girl and his spotless reputation intact. But I wasn't going to let him play that game. I pressed my hand to my chest, letting out a self-deprecating sigh. "I may have been raised in a trailer park, but I still know the value of honor. If your heart is not with me, I won't force you. But I will not allow you to drag my dignity through the mud." Victoria was left utterly speechless. Just then, a voice echoed from the hallway. "Elliott is absolutely right." I turned to see my father and Caroline standing in the doorway. I kept my expression perfectly serene. I had purposely sent Felix to fetch them. If the stage is set, you must have an audience. My father glared at Victoria, his voice colder than I had ever heard it. "If you wish to call off this wedding, Miss Whitmore, have your mother call me herself." "Elliott is the sole heir of the Blackwood family. He is not a piece of clearance merchandise to be picked over." Victoria’s face went from pale to flushed. She curtseyed stiffly and took her leave. Oliver made a move to follow her, but stopped himself, turning back with tears streaming down his face. "Father, I swear I didn't..." My father closed his eyes, looking incredibly weary. "Oliver, you are unwell. From now on, limit your visitors." The words weren't loud. But to Oliver, they were more devastating than a physical blow. I coughed twice, leaning heavily on Felix. Though my eyes shone with tears, a tiny, satisfying smirk played at the corner of my mouth. Scene Two: Retreat to advance. Let them destroy themselves. Three days later, an invitation arrived from the Harrington Estate. The Governor's annual charity gala was approaching. Having heard that the Blackwood family had recovered their long-lost biological son, the Governor requested that my father bring both Oliver and me to the exclusive event. My father was thrilled. He immediately ordered the best tailors in the city to design custom suits for us overnight. Oliver sat quietly beside us, his demeanor meek and obedient. "This is Elliott's first time attending such a high-profile gala. He must be nervous. The Governor is a renowned collector of fine art. If you're preparing a gift, Elliott, perhaps you should paint a classical piece." I glanced at him. Ah, here it comes. In my past life, I had starred in enough high-society political thrillers to know that these grand galas were the perfect breeding ground for sabotage. One wrong move, and you'd be humiliated—or worse, blacklisted from elite circles forever. I smiled faintly. "I was raised in the country, Oliver. My brushwork is crude. I'm afraid it wouldn't be fit for the Governor's eyes." Oliver replied gently, "You shouldn't undervalue yourself, brother. It's the thought that counts." The more he pushed, the more certain I was that he had planned something. I chose to paint a winter landscape. But instead of the usual scenery, I painted a single, bleeding winter rose blooming in the snow. The branches were sharp and twisted, the petals a striking, vivid red—a representation of a life stubbornly fighting its way out of the freezing cold. On the evening of the gala, Oliver brought a silk-wrapped box, which his valet carried with extreme care. When he saw my box, a subtle gleam flashed in his eyes. I pretended not to notice. The gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Harrington Estate. The room was filled with senators, old-money families, and prominent figures of high society. The Governor sat near the head of the room, exuding the quiet, formidable authority of a man who held the keys to the state's power. My father led us forward to pay our respects. The Governor studied me for a long moment before speaking in a low, resonant voice. "So, this is the boy who was lost?" I kept my head bowed respectfully. "It is an honor to meet you, Governor Harrington." The Governor sighed softly. "You've had a difficult path, son." At those words, Oliver's eyes turned red on cue. "The Governor is incredibly kind. Having Elliott back is a blessing for our family." "Though I will miss being the only son, I am truly happy for him." It was a beautiful performance. Even Mrs. Harrington spared him an appreciative glance. I didn't try to interrupt. I just stood there quietly, my eyelashes fluttering slightly, looking both touched and deeply embarrassed. Sometimes, silence speaks louder than any defense. When it came time to present our gifts, the Governor smiled. "Since both of you represent the Blackwood family, let us see what you have brought." Oliver shot me a quick look and stepped forward first, holding his box. I followed with mine. The event coordinators took our boxes. As they moved toward the display table, one of the coordinators—cleverly using the wide sleeve of her silk gown—swapped the two boxes with practiced, invisible ease. I saw it clearly. She was the one Oliver had bribed. The coordinator opened the left box first—the one now bearing my name. The moment she unveiled it, the Governor’s smile froze. It was a traditional calligraphy scroll wishing him long life. But the strokes were incredibly crude, and the central character for "Longevity" was painted completely upside down. A collective gasp rippled through the room. An upside-down longevity symbol. In old-money circles, it was considered a vulgar, deliberate curse—wishing an early grave upon the host. My father’s knees went weak; he looked ready to faint. Terrified by the sudden tension, the coordinator quickly opened the second box to salvage the atmosphere. The box, now bearing Oliver's name, was opened to reveal my painting: the bleeding winter rose in the snow. The crimson flower bloomed starkly against the white snow, its thorny stem wrapping around a frozen stone. It was a masterpiece of resilient beauty. Oliver's expression flickered with triumph before he threw himself to his knees, tears streaming down his face as he gestured to the offensive scroll. "Governor, please forgive my brother! I swear he didn't do this on purpose! He only recently returned to high society and doesn't understand our customs. He can barely write, let alone paint. Please, spare him!" Then, looking at the winter rose painting, he added softly, "That rose painting... that is the piece I spent three sleepless months working on to honor you, Governor. I wanted to show my deepest respect." The room went deathly quiet. What a brilliant, calculated move. Every word he spoke sounded like a plea for my mercy, yet every word nailed me further into a coffin, all while claiming my masterpiece as his own. The Governor's face was unreadable. "Elliott Blackwood. Is this offensive scroll your gift?" I slowly stood straight, my eyes red, but I didn't rush to defend myself. A true actor never reveals his hand too early. I looked at Oliver, my voice trembling. "Oliver... you're saying that winter rose painting is yours?" Oliver wept openly. "Elliott, does it matter right now? Just apologize to the Governor. He is merciful; he will forgive your ignorance." I let out a soft, low chuckle. "But the crimson pigment on those petals... it wasn't made with ordinary red paint." The Governor paused, his sharp eyes narrowing. I slowly unwrapped the white linen bandage from my index finger. Three of my fingers bore fresh, neat needle pricks. They weren't deep, but they were undeniably clear. "The red on those petals... is my own—"
? Continue the story here ?? ? Download the "MotoNovel" app ? search for "536343", and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel