The air outside the Ragnar house felt different. Cooler, cleaner, even tinged with the distant scent of exhaust fumes and damp earth. Taurus moved swiftly, staying close to the shadows of the hedges and fences until he was far enough down the street not to be easily seen from the house. A nervous energy, a volatile mix of fear and exhilarating freedom, pulsed through him. He hadn't walked these streets alone, truly alone, in years. Every public outing had been under the Ragnars' watchful, critical eyes, usually for errands, never for himself.
He was a ghost in his own neighborhood, a figure rarely seen outside the property line. His clothes were old, faded, ill-fitting hand-me-downs from Tony. His shoes were scuffed and worn. As he walked towards the main road to catch a bus – a mode of transport he'd only used a handful of times, always accompanied – he felt acutely aware of how he must look, a stark contrast to the few well-dressed pedestrians he passed. The city, even his small corner of it, was a vibrant, moving entity, full of sounds and sights he usually only glimpsed from windows or heard from a distance. People walked with purpose, cars flowed in steady streams, and the sheer scale of the buildings felt immense compared to the Ragnar house, which had always felt like his entire, suffocating world.
Finding the bus stop, navigating the fare – small things, but they required focus, a tiny victory of independence. He watched the streets blur past, absorbing the unfamiliar details: shop names, advertisements, the faces of strangers. It was overwhelming, a sensory overload after years of muted existence.
He arrived at the Atlas Building fifteen minutes early, his palms sweating. The lobby was sleek, modern, and intimidating. Polished marble floors, glass walls, and people in sharp suits moving with an air of consequence. He felt like an alien. He found a discreet corner and waited, trying to look like he belonged, failing miserably.
At precisely 2:00 PM, a man approached him. He was tall, neatly dressed, with kind, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He carried a slim briefcase.
"Mr. MacArthur?" the man asked, his voice calm, formal, familiar from the phone call.
Taurus nodded, finding his voice. "Yes. Arthur Hayes?"
"That's right." Hayes offered a small, professional smile. "Thank you for coming. I understand this must be... disorienting. Can we find a quiet corner?"
They moved to a small, sparsely populated seating area away from the main flow of traffic. Hayes sat opposite him, placing the briefcase on the table.
"Let's start with confirming your identity," Hayes said gently. "This might seem strange, but it's necessary. You mentioned your mother's name was Mary. Do you remember anything about your father? Or... something from when you were very small? A toy? A pet? Anything at all?"
Taurus hesitated, digging back into the fuzziest corners of memory. A dog? A small, fluffy white dog? "There... there was a dog," he said slowly. "A little white one. Named... Snowball? Maybe?"
Hayes's eyes lit up slightly. "Snowball. Yes, that was their dog. And... forgive me for asking this, it's a detail from your medical records... do you have a small, irregularly shaped birthmark on your... lower back?"
Taurus's jaw dropped slightly. He did. He'd only seen it himself a few times, when he was small, in a mirror. The Ragnars certainly didn't know about it. "Yes," he breathed out, the single word heavy with the weight of sudden, irrefutable truth. "How...?"
"These details are not public knowledge, Mr. MacArthur," Hayes said, a more confident tone entering his voice. He opened the briefcase. "The MacArthur family searched extensively for you. These are copies of the official documents. Your adoption papers, records from the orphanage where you were placed after the accident." He slid a file across the table. "Your parents, Jonathan and Mary MacArthur, were involved in a severe car accident twenty years ago. They were in critical condition, in comas for a significant time. In the chaos and their inability to communicate, you, a young child, were misplaced. You were taken to a local orphanage, and from there, placed into foster care, and eventually adopted by the Ragnar family."
Taurus numbly picked up the papers, his hands trembling. He saw the names, the dates, the official stamps. It was real. All of it. His parents hadn't abandoned him. They were injured, incapacitated. Lost. And they had looked for him. For twenty years. A tidal wave of emotions – grief, relief, anger, confusion – threatened to drown him.
"My father... he passed away recently," Hayes continued softly. "He never stopped searching. He hired private investigators, ran advertisements... but finding a child adopted into a private family is incredibly difficult. Your mother... Mary... she is still alive, Mr. MacArthur. She's been in a long recovery, physically and emotionally. She doesn't know about this meeting yet. We wanted to inform you first."
Alive. His mother was alive. The words landed like a physical blow, stealing his breath.
Just as he was struggling to process the enormity of this, Hayes cleared his throat, his expression becoming slightly more formal again. "Now, the matter of the inheritance. Mr. Jonathan MacArthur amassed a considerable fortune through MacArthur Industries. As his only son, you are the primary heir. The estate is valued at approximately five billion dollars."
Five billion dollars. The number was so large, so far beyond anything he could conceive, it felt abstract. Like monopoly money. He, Taurus, the Ragnars' slave, the boy who counted pennies, was worth billions?
"However," Hayes continued, and Taurus braced himself, knowing there had to be a catch. "There is a clause in the will. A significant condition tied to the bulk of the inheritance and the transfer of control of MacArthur Industries." He paused, looking at Taurus expectantly. "To fully access the inheritance and step into your role at the company, you must fulfill a long-standing agreement. You must marry Miss Diana Mark within six months of the will being read."
Taurus stared at him blankly. "Marry? Who?"
"Miss Diana Mark," Hayes repeated. "The daughter of Mr. Henry Mark. The Mark family are long-time allies and business partners of the MacArthurs. There was an arrangement made years ago, a betrothal between the two families when you were both children, intended to solidify the alliance. Your father included it in the will as a condition."
Marry? A complete stranger? An heiress? His head spun. It was too much. His parents alive. Billions of dollars. And now... an arranged marriage he didn't know existed? His life had gone from a stagnant, grey existence to a whirlwind of impossible information in the space of a single phone call and a short meeting.
"I... I don't understand," Taurus stammered, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "Diana Mark? I've never met her."
"The arrangement was made when you were children, Mr. MacArthur," Hayes explained patiently, though his eyes showed a hint of sympathy. "It is a formal clause in the will. It is a requirement." He reached back into his briefcase. "This is a preliminary check from the estate for immediate expenses." He slid a check across the table. Taurus's eyes widened at the number printed on it. It was a seven-figure sum. "And a credit card linked to the estate," he added, placing a sleek black card next to the check. "For whatever you need."
Then, he pulled out a small piece of paper. "And this," Hayes said, his voice softer, "is your mother's current phone number. Mary MacArthur. She is stable, but fragile. She's been through a great deal. Contact her when you feel ready, Mr. MacArthur. She has waited a long time to hear from you."
Hayes gathered his papers, leaving the check, the credit card, and the precious slip of paper on the table. He stood. "My card is in the file. Call my office when you decide how you wish to proceed. The six-month clock on the marriage clause starts now."
Taurus remained seated, the world tilting around him. He looked down at the objects on the table – symbols of a life he never knew existed, a future he couldn't possibly have imagined, and a connection to the past he thought was lost forever. Billions. A mother. And a marriage to a stranger. It was overwhelming, terrifying, and undeniably, undeniably real. He picked up the slip of paper with his mother's number, holding it like it was the most fragile thing in the world.