So here I fucking was.
Swallowing my shame, going by a new name, and doing my best to keep the truth locked deep down tight and lie to everyone. I lied to the station producer. I lied to the news anchor. I lied to every useless person watching this program.
It was a goddamn shit-show. And I was angry. So damn angry.
These ingrates wanted to know me. They pretended to like me so they might stand a chance at stealing what was now mine. But they would never know me. I would never let them get close to knowing me. My value of the human race had been low before this had started. Now it was in the fucking gutter.
“Mr. Prest.”
I pulled at the collar of my shirt, hating the tight confines of expensive blazers and ties. Before, I’d lived in hoodies and jeans—things I could move fast in, run quick in, and vanish into crowds without being caught.
Now, I was adorned in appropriate rich-man’s wardrobe, and it suffocated me.
These people wanted to know me? Well, tough shit. I’d never tell them about my days on the streets, the worry of not being able to afford healthcare for myself or my mother, and the god-awful truth that I was the reason we were homeless.
Not that those circumstances had mattered when I’d stolen the one thing that’d changed my life faster than a fairy fucking godmother and ensured I’d never be alone again if I didn’t want to be. I could buy affection, bribe friends, and pay for anything I wanted.
I had money, and people loved money even if you were a liar, a cheater, and a con-artist.
Turned out, the only thing it couldn’t buy was family.
And I knew…I’d tried.
After I grew used to the idea of borrowing the money instead of outright stealing it, I decided to give most of it to my mother. I envisioned her welcoming me back, letting me resume my place, and forgiving me.
She’d merely spat on me and told me never to call her Mother again.
“Uh, Mr. Prest?”
I jerked as some idiot tapped me on the shoulder.
“Are you ready?” she asked with beady, jealous eyes. Jealous that I’d won and not her. Jealous that I got to live the life everyone dreamed.
Having money meant my entire world had changed. Including who I was, my name, and every other identifying piece of me. I needed to learn my new address before I got caught and the sham came tumbling down.
Clearing my throat, I nodded. “Yes…fine.”
“Right this way, please.”
Swiping a hand through my hair, I tried to tame the thick black strands courtesy of my heritage and reluctantly followed the organiser hugging her clipboard.
She moved briskly but with a sexy sway. No doubt for my benefit. Not because she wanted me but because she wanted the pennies and dollars that’d magically appeared in my life.
“Right through there. You’re on in three minutes.”
Not replying, I marched onto the set, fighting the urge to tuck my hands into my pockets. My hands were my prized possessions. Every thief knew that if his fingers were hurt, there went his livelihood and any chance at surviving. I had another reason…my fingers were priceless because they gave me music to calm my chaotic thoughts and somehow connected me to my dead father, keeping his kindness alive.
I missed him.
I missed Kade.
I missed a simpler life where lies weren’t the only things keeping me from going to prison for a very long time.
Christ, why am I doing this again?
Because it was the rule.
Win this big, and you were subjected to a televised interview. Mostly for the public’s benefit, so they could see the system wasn’t a scam, and everyone would keep playing, keep spending, keep stupidly dreaming.
One day, if they were lucky, they could be here…in my shoes.
Not my torn and dirty Adidas from my days on the streets, but the expensive, pretentious loafers by some prick called Givenchy.
“Take a seat, Mr. Prest.” The interviewer smiled, pointing at a red velvet chair next to him. It would just be us on that stark white space with the backdrop of the lotto logo bearing its celebratory colours and floating dollar bills.
I sat, fighting every instinct to run. A pickpocket never showed their face. That was why we never hit the same place on consecutive days. We followed the tourists, careful never to be pegged by an overzealous local or donut-loving cop.
A cameraman stepped into the harsh lights with a snap board showing my name and the episode number.
How many idiots had done this before me? How many of them still had the money? No matter that I already had grand plans for my stolen winnings, I refused to be a dick with it. I would use it to make more. I would formulate everything I needed to have my revenge.