My Billionaire Parents Raised Me Poor Chapter 2

After hanging up, Dad came back into the living room and pulled a crisp $50 bill from his wallet. “Dec, I have a last-minute emergency at work. I have to go in.”

Mom stepped up. “It’s okay, honey. I’ll take you to the Pierces’.”

I nodded, took the $50, and stuffed it directly into the pocket of my jeans. Then I got ready to leave with Mom.

When we arrived at the Pierces' old, run-down apartment in the industrial section of the city, my grandfather immediately pulled me into a hug. “Dec! Come in, you look frozen!”

His hands, when they gripped my arm, were soft and smooth. Not the calloused hands of a retired steel factory worker, which is what they claimed he was. He looked well-fed, well-rested, and entirely too pampered.

Grandma, seeing me, quickly handed me a red envelope. “Happy New Year, sweetheart.”

I took it, thanked her, and put it straight into my pocket. My mother froze. In the past, I would immediately hand the money over to her. She’d always coo, "Dec is such a good, responsible boy."

This time, I defied the ritual. Grandma paused, then chuckled. “Oh, our Dec knows how to squirrel away his cash now!”

I raised an eyebrow and smiled. “It’s not squirming, Grandma. Mom said a new year means a new start. I figured I'd keep some of my own spending money.”

“That’s right,” Mom jumped in quickly. “Dec is so responsible. He even pays his own tuition and living expenses from his part-time jobs.”

I knew the red envelope probably contained fifty bucks, max. Compared to my massive student loan debt and the money I earned tutoring to survive, it was a joke.

They were so obscenely wealthy, yet they maintained this Performance of Poverty only for me. I couldn’t understand why I was the only one subjected to this cruel education.

Grandma didn’t press it. She retreated to the kitchen. The food she brought out—the roast, the perfectly formed sides—looked exactly like the dishes I had glimpsed on the buffet line at The Grand Metropolitan the night before. I took two bites and lost my appetite completely.

I was certain now. The entire family, from my parents to my grandparents, were rich, and they were all performing an elaborate lie.

After lunch, Mom got a hushed phone call and then announced she had to go to work. The grandparents suddenly started yawning, claiming they were exhausted. I took my cue, politely excused myself, and left.

But I didn't go far. I circled back and hid behind a large oak tree around the corner.

Sure enough, less than twenty minutes later, a stretched Lincoln Town Car pulled up. Grandpa and Grandma, looking energized and impeccably dressed, were ushered into the luxury vehicle by an entourage, without a backward glance.

I took a deep breath, pulled up my hood, and walked towards the apartment. A few cleaning ladies were already starting the tear-down.

One of them sighed to the other. “I don’t get these people. They come here one day a year, cook one meal, and leave.”

“And they pay a fortune for the cleanup,” the second one replied.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. They’ve been doing this for twenty years. They own a mansion up in Blackwood Heights. This is just rich people role-playing.”

My heart turned to granite. Role-playing.

Blackwood Heights. I knew the name—it was where the city’s elite lived. I rode my beat-up cruiser bike until I reached the guarded gates.

The mansion sat on the highest ridge, a fortress of glass and white marble. Security guards patrolled the perimeter. I must have looked like a stray dog; one guard immediately barked, “Hey! Beat it, kid! You’re not allowed here!”

I was about to turn away when a blur of sound and chrome roared past me. I recognized the model—a limited edition Ducati, nearly two hundred thousand dollars. Riding it was Scarlett Holloway.