A Woman Worth Billions Dated the Wrong Brother novel Chapter 187

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Old wounds

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Jason did not sit this time. He remained standing, arms crossed, eyes fixed somewhere past the walls. He wasn’t looking at us–he was looking through the years.

“My father remarried when I was three,” he said flatly. No emotion. Just a log entry. “When my brother Oscar was born…”

A pause. Not hesitation. Calibration.

“I was sent away.”

John Stait frowned slightly. “Sent where?”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “To live with extended family,” he said. “I was five.”

The way he spat the words made it clear that “family” was just the legal cover.

“I was never called by my name,” he continued. My chest tightened; the room felt suddenly smaller. “No letters. No phone calls. No contact.”

Silence spread through the room like a cold front.

“If I tried to ask…” His voice hardened, the first crack in the ice. “I was beaten.

No one moved. No one interrupted. We weren’t just listening to a story; we were hearing the internal workings of

the ring.

“I was made to clean. To work. Small jobs, they said. To earn my keep.”

A child. Processing labor. Earning his keep.

Jason’s hands flexed once at his sides before stilling again. “I stayed there for two years.

Seven years old. Two years of being a ghost.

“Until my grandparents found me.”

Not visited. Not retrieved. Found.

The word landed heavier than the admission of the beatings. It meant he had been hidden. Scrubbed from the map.

Emory’s expression had gone completely serious now. The rivalry was dead. He looked at Jason with a new, grim understanding.

Because this was no longer a theory. It was a pattern. They didn’t just take kids; they erased them. And Jason was the one who had come back from the dark.

John Stait did not let the silence sit for long. He stepped closer, his voice quieter now, more careful.

“Were they really extended family?” he asked.

The question hung in the air. It mattered now-not as history, but as evidence.

Jason did not answer immediately. His gaze dropped briefly, not in hesitation, but in recollection. “By the time I was old enough to ask my grandparents…” he said slowly, “it was already over.”

His tone remained controlled, but I felt the vibrating tension beneath it, like a wire pulled to the breaking point.

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“The only thing they could tell me,” he said, looking John straight in the eye, “was that I have been taken, hidden Rom them, my father would not tell them were i was.”

Not sent. Not placed. Taken.

John’s expression hardened into something jagged. “They took you by force?”

“They think someone took me by force,” Jason confirmed.

The room seemed to shrink around that truth.

“It took them two years to find me,” Jason added.

Two years.

A child lost.

Moved.

Hidden.

Used.

No one spoke. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound small and hollow against a debt like that.

Emory exchanged a look with John-a sharp, silent communication. This was no longer speculation. No longer a pattern forming in the margins of their notes.

It was confirmation. Whatever the Beckers had been doing, it had roots far deeper than anyone had realized. It wasn’t just a ring. It was a harvest.

Jason’s voice cut through the silence again, quieter this time, but heavier.

“I asked my father once,” he said. No one interrupted. We were all just witnesses now. “He told me he had sent me to live with a second cousin.”

The explanation sounded almost normal. Almost reasonable. The kind of mundane truth a child accepts because the alternative is too terrifying to imagine.

“At the time,” Jason continued, his gaze distant, fixed on a memory that was starting to rot, “I believed him. I thought he had simply paid some distant relative to keep me away.”

A pause.

“Away from my grandparents and their influence.”

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