Adopted to Biological? Keep Your Golden Child Scapegoat Out novel Chapter 63

Chapter 2

I was sixteen when a rival crew kidnapped me.

Escaped that night and ended up in the worst part of the city trash everywhere, rats in the alleys, streetlights barely working.

A drunk stumbled into my path. Grabbed my arm.

That’s when someone stepped between us. Pulled me back.

Zachary Hart. Eighteen years old.

Wearing a black t–shirt so faded it was nearly gray. Arms lean and strong.

When the guy smashed a bottle across his back, Zachary didn’t make a sound.

I didn’t know it was all planned.

I thought I was living some kind of movie. Damsel in distress knight in shining armor.

So when Dad showed up, I said:

“You wanted to hire me a bodyguard? I want him.”

Bodyguard was just the cover story.

Zachary had nothing back then. No money, no future. Just desperation and a strong back.

I needed an excuse to keep him around.

Dad saw something in him too. Said the kid had fire. That he make something of himself.

He wasn’t wrong.

Zachary studied like his life depended on it. Two years later he got into the same college as me.

The day his acceptance letter came, his eyes went red:

“Wren, I owe you everything. You and your dad. My whole life.”

“If I could… I’d never leave your side.”

Every morning, Zachary woke up at six.

Took an hour long bus ride just to stand in line at this little bakery-

so I could have a warm croissant waiting on my desk before ny eight a.m. class.

He’d blow his entire paycheck on a brooch I’d mentioned liking once.

Meanwhile, he wore the same ratty sweater for three years.

His backpack was a survival kit: Advil, band–aids, an umbrella, tampons–everything I’d forget.

He was so good to me that even Dad couldn’t find anything to criticize.

The year we graduated, Zachary asked to join the family business.

Dad hesitated. Told him he didn’t owe us anything.

Zachary got down on his knees:

Whatever guilt kept him up at night, whatever hesitation made him pause–it didn’t stop him from finishing the job.

When I was twenty–six, Zachary proposed.

We got married at city hall first. Low–key, just the two of us.

Then we planned the real wedding. The big one.

It was huge. White dress, two hundred guests, string quartet, the works.

And I stood there in front of everyone and watched him pull out his badge.

Watched him cuff my father right there at the altar.

Denny looked sick:

“At your wedding? Are you serious? You must’ve–I mean, did you go after him?”

I shook my head again.

“Never got the chance.

“He left with my maid of honor.”

Denny blinked.

“Your–wait, who was she?”

“The woman wearing his ring now.”