I turned eighteen on a Tuesday. No cake. No card. Not even a half-hearted “happy birthday.” Just my father sitting at the kitchen table, his wife stirring sugar into her mug, and my stepbrother leaning back in his chair with that look people get when they already know how the story ends.

I stood there silently.

Richard looked back at me.

“Your father doesn’t know we’ve found you.”

A cold feeling spread through my chest.

“Then who does?”

Richard gave me a thin smile.

“Everyone who matters.”

He walked away.

I remained beside my broken-down car, holding a flash drive worth more than anything I’d ever owned.

For the first time in nine days, I wasn’t thinking about food.

I wasn’t thinking about where I would sleep.

I wasn’t even thinking about my father.

I was thinking about thirty days.

Thirty days to survive.

Thirty days to uncover the truth.

And thirty days before my family discovered that the son they had thrown away was the heir they had been trying to hide from the world.