From Ghost to King: The Montgomery's Vengeance

I'm Ethan Montgomery, son of tech moguls.

In a life I barely lived, I extended naive kindness to Kyle Johnson, our housekeeper's son, by giving him a supplementary Amex card. A small help, I thought.

He used it like a magic wand. Kyle became the campus philanthropist, "donating" labs and AC with my money. He'd smirk, making me feel indebted for letting him build his empire using my funds.

It climaxed when he claimed my cherry-red graduation muscle car. When I tried to tell the truth, his "fans" turned, screaming, "Liar! Thief!" They shoved me, fists flew. My reputation shattered. I became a pariah.

I gathered proof to expose him. But Kyle couldn't let his world crumble.

His aunt, a construction manager, violently swerved her truck into my car.

Metal screamed. Glass shattered.

Pain, then darkness.

Kyle, my "grieving best friend," then stole my entire inheritance, my life.

A gasp tore from my throat. My eyes snapped open.

I was in the university conference room.

Dean Thompson beamed, Kyle Johnson, triumphant, signed the "Innovation Lab" agreement.

The exact moment.

This time? My fingers, steady, fumbled for my phone. "Supplementary cards. Kyle Johnson. Deactivate. Confirm."

I, Ethan Montgomery, was a ghost in my own life, a secret even to myself most days.

My parents were the Montgomerys, tech billionaires. You' ve seen them on magazine covers.

At university, I was just Ethan, quiet, unassuming.

Kyle Johnson knew.

His mother was our housekeeper, had been for years. He grew up in the shadow of our estate, a shadow I tried to lighten.

Out of pity, a naive kind of kindness, I gave him a supplementary credit card linked to my account.

A small thing, I thought, to help him out.

He told me, "Ethan, you're too good. People will walk all over you."

He was the first one in line.

Kyle used that card like it was a magic wand.

Suddenly, he was the campus philanthropist.

He "donated" a new Innovation Lab to the university.

Then, new air conditioning for all the dorms.

Students cheered him, faculty praised him. Kyle Johnson, the generous hero.

My money, his glory.

He' d look at me, a sly smile on his face.

"We're a team, Ethan," he' d say. "Couldn't do it without your quiet support."

He made me feel like I owed him for letting me be part of his magnificent charade.

He was good at that, twisting words, making me feel small, indebted.

I was a fool.

Graduation neared.

My parents, busy with some international deal, sent their gift early: a rare classic muscle car, a deep cherry red, engine roaring like a beast.

It was delivered to the campus, a surprise.

I saw it, my heart thumping with a rare, pure joy.

Then Kyle stepped in front of it, a proprietary hand on its hood.

He announced to the gathered crowd, "My graduation present. She's a beauty, isn't she?"

Someone asked, "What about Ethan? Isn't he your roommate?"

Kyle laughed. "Oh, Ethan? He's probably jealous. He even tried to say it was his earlier. Poor guy's a bit delusional."

The crowd murmured, looking at me with pity, then suspicion.

I tried to speak, to show the registration papers I hadn' t even fully processed myself.

"He's lying! It's mine!"

Kyle' s fans, the ones who' d benefited from "his" generosity, turned on me.

"Thief!"

"Liar!"

"Trying to steal from our Kyle!"

They shoved me, then fists flew. Kyle watched, a mask of concern barely hiding his triumph.

My reputation shattered. I was an outcast, a pariah.

I gathered my evidence: bank statements, card usage, everything. I had to expose him.

I planned to show it to Dean Thompson, to my parents when they arrived.

Kyle found out.

He couldn't let his empire crumble.

Brenda Jackson, Kyle's aunt, worked for a campus construction firm. The same firm that built the "Innovation Lab."

She drove a heavy-duty company truck.

On a quiet campus road, as I drove to meet a friend I hoped would listen, her truck swerved.

Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Pain, then darkness.

The news reported a tragic accident.

Kyle, the grieving best friend, was a pillar of sorrow at my funeral.

My parents, devastated and returning from overseas, were met by Kyle.

He spun a tale of brotherhood, of my supposed wish for him to be taken care of.

He, the housekeeper's son, became the "adopted" Montgomery heir.

He took my inheritance, my life, everything.

He lived lavishly, the beloved son my parents never knew I wasn't.

That was my first life. A short, bitter lesson.

A gasp tore from my throat.

My eyes snapped open.

Sunlight streamed through the window of the university conference room.

Dean Thompson was beaming, a pen in his hand, a document on the table.

Kyle Johnson stood beside him, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips.

Students were packed into the room, cheering, some holding signs: "Kyle for President!"

"Thank you, Kyle! You' re our hero!"

The banner behind them read: "Montgomery Innovation Lab – A Gift from Kyle Johnson."

The donation agreement. He was signing it. Right now.

This was the moment. The exact moment it all solidified for Kyle in my first life.

My heart hammered against my ribs, not with fear, but with a cold, surging power.

I fumbled for my phone, fingers surprisingly steady.

Banking app. My account. Supplementary cards.

Kyle Johnson.

Deactivate.

Confirm.

A small, almost silent click in the digital world. A thunderclap in mine.

Done.

Kyle finished his signature with a flourish, holding the pen aloft to renewed cheers.

Dean Thompson shook his hand vigorously. "Mr. Johnson, the university is eternally grateful for your unparalleled generosity!"

Kyle preened. "Please, Dean, it's the least I can do for my fellow students. In fact..."

He turned to the crowd, arms spread wide.

"To celebrate this momentous occasion, and the upcoming installation of new AC in every dorm, I'm treating everyone here – students, faculty, even the construction crew working on the lab – to a lavish meal at the university dining hall! Everything's on me!"

The room erupted. Chants of "Kyle! Kyle! Kyle!" filled the air.

He basked in it, the benevolent king.

I watched him, a ghost no more, but a hunter.

The show was about to begin.

And this time, I knew the script.