THE BILLIONAIRE NOBODY

The rusted bed frame creaked as Nicholas shifted, grimacing at the musty smell that clung to his threadbare sheets like a wet blanket. Another quintessentially glamorous morning at St. Catherine's Home for Foundlings. He sat up, squinting through a crack in the drawn curtains - the dreary gray light as bleak as his prospects.

"Up and at 'em, you mangy lot!" The shrill voice of Sister Mary Hellish pierced the silent dormitory. "Time to greet another glorious birth of opportunity!"

A chorus of groans erupted from the surrounding bunks as the orphans roused themselves for another riveting day of gruel and despair. Nicholas swung his legs over the edge, bare feet smacking the cold floor as he hunted for wherever last week's socks had wandered off to.

As the youngest of the motley crew, the other children ribbed Nicholas constantly for his diminutive stature. "More like St. Gertrude's Home for Really, Really Malnourished Children," Peter Coldheart liked to sneer whenever the warden was out of earshot.

But being the perpetual target of adolescent torment was a luxury compared to the uncertainty that loomed. At nineteen, Nicholas faced an unceremonious ejection onto the unreceptive streets before long. Unless some miracle family felt a craving to adopt in bulk from the bargain bin, his days at the orphanage were numbered.

A sharp rap at the door startled him. "Nicholas Young! You're wanted in Mother Superior's office immediately." Sister Swinish swung open the door, her beady eyes narrowing. "And decrepit better be code for dapper when I see you."

Nicholas's heart pounded an anxious rhythm as he knocked on the offce door, its scuffed wood as imposing as a prison gate. What calamitous scenario awaited him now? Had the nuns discovered his stash of ripened bread chunks he'd been cultivating under his bunk?

He twisted the tarnished knob and slipped inside, grateful for the muted thump as the door swung shut. Wait, who was that foreign-looking fellow in the high-backed chair with the perfectly silly mustache?

"You must be young Nicholas, I presume?" The man's baritone voice seemed to swallow the room whole as he rose, towering over him with an appraising glare.

Nicholas opened his mouth but only a strangled croak escaped. He suddenly wished he'd taken more time picking the crusties from his jumper.

"This..." Mother Superior cleared her throat, her eyes darting nervously. "This is Lord Richard Westinghouse the Fourth. Of the Westinghouse dynasty. He has a rather...unique proposal for you."

Now Nicholas really did feel queasy. He'd heard the tales of rich perverts plucking unlucky waifs for disagreeable intentions. Please don't let it involve anything molesty, he silently prayed to whatever god presided over orphans.

"Splendid, splendid," Lord Westinghouse bellowed, his walrus-like mustache twitching with mirth. For such an imposing figure, he seemed almost elfin with glee. "I'll indulge in no baseless teasing. I have a particular interest in you, you see, and have decided to acquire one through advantageous adoption."

He drew an ornate circular case from his coat pocket, flipping it open to reveal glistening diamonds that unleashed refracting prisms across the dim office.

"This paltry allowance should adequately compensate the orphanage for your wardship. I'm prepared to offer you a life of unfettered opulence as my son." He paused, allowing a devious smile to spread. "On one small condition..."

*******

Nicholas stared out the limousine's tinted window, his jaw unhinged as the gothic spires of Westinghouse Manor's turrets pierced the sky with haughty menace. All this for little old him? And all he had to do was...gulp...marry that lord's daughter to make it legit and binding.

As the glossy black sedan purred along the winding drive, his palms dampened anew. The sprawling estate was like a lavish medieval village encased in modern splendor. Rolling hills of pristine emerald grass as far as the eye could see. Ornate fountains bursting from discreet grottos, their carved mermen and maidens frozen in endless cavorting. Rows of orderly shrubs and topiaries sculpted into whimsical animal shapes that surely required entire teams of supreme botanic artists.

The car slowed before an enclosed courtyard where figures amassed at the base of broad granite steps. Sweet blasphemous Jesus...that rabble must constitute his new household! Nicholas plastered himself against the tinted partition, heart hammering with trepidation.

The chauffeur came around to open his door, gesturing with a curt nod for Nicholas to disembark into this alien world of opulence and privilege. He tripped over the high sill, stumbling out in his unwashed chinos and faded blazer, no doubt looking like some vagabond stomped straight from the boxcar row.

One by one, his new adopted family's eyes calcified upon him in expressions ranging from withering scorn to unbridled derision. All except for the lord himself, Richard Westinghouse, who bestowed a benevolent smile that uncannily softened his hardened edges.

"Come now, everyone!" The patriarch's free laugh enveloped them in rich baritone. "Let's not scowl treacherous pitchforks at the main attraction! Nicholas is the guest of all guests on this most felicitous occasion!"

That did little to quell their pinched, appraising glowers. A lithe, raven-haired vision in a pastel blue frock had to be his intended, Elizabeth. Even through her statuesque poise, her haunting dark eyes telegraphed oceans of discomfort and misery.

Yup...wedded bliss by a billion was surely going to be a cakewalk from the looks of it! At that moment, Nicholas deeply missed the dank familiarity of the orphanage's aroma. Heaven help him if this new world of splendor varnished any less brightly than it appeared.

The grand double doors boomed shut behind Nicholas, sealing off the entrance hall's echoing vastness. For an orphan who'd only known confined spaces shared with dozens of others, this cavernous quiet unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

"This way, Mr. Young." The butler's clipped tone permitted no dallying. With a rigid spin of his heels, he led Nicholas down a curving marble corridor lined with stern-eyed ancestral portraits whose eyes seemed to follow in silent disapproval.

They climbed a labyrinth of staircases, the plush crimson carpeting muffling their footfalls until they reached a door tucked discreetly at the end of an upstairs hallway. The butler spun the brass knob with an efficient twist, standing aside so Nicholas could precede him into his new bedchamber.

The sheer expanse alone nearly unmanned him. This single room could have swallowed his previous living quarters ten times over, with space to quartet for a rousing dance number! An entire alcove by the fireplace appeared devoted to a truly feudal bed draped in gossamer curtains. Lush paisley upholsteries bedecked the surrounding lounge chairs in vibrant jewel tones. Even the writing desk setup looked like it belonged to some master calligrapher.

"Your belongings are unpacked in the armoire, sir. If you require any additional valet services, ring the bell cord. Dinner is at 8 pm sharp."

With a curt bow, the butler retreated back through the door, sealing Nicholas into this alien sanctum of privilege. He shook his head in bewilderment and heaved a hollow laugh. Clearly the Lord had never issued any bulletins about keeping his new ward in appropriately modest conditions!

Wandering to the broad mullioned windows, Nicholas stared out over the emerald grounds with their trimmed hedgerows and ornamental fountains frolicking with cherubic statues. So this is what it felt like to inherit the golden nightmare. With a resigned shrug, he peeled off his outdated blazer and faded button-down, tossing them onto the sumptuous bed.

At least he could rid himself of those relied upon rags until dinnertime. Padding to the armoire, he tugged it open and promptly gave a startled yelp. Fresh livery the color of marigolds lay carefully arranged on the bays, trousers creased so perfectly they could sliced granite. Dear lord, even his undergarments had been pressed and monogrammed with the Westinghouse crest!

Maneuvering into the lavish new vestments felt like squeezing a jigsaw piece meant for somewhere else. Nicholas cinched the sashed robe tight and sauntered to the arched windows, craning his neck to scan the rambling manor home. How many disapproving glares awaited him, he wondered, from the very people meant to embrace him as their own flesh and--

A glint of movement in the distant topiaries caught his eye. Could it be? Nicholas squinted, confirming the furtive figure ducking between the shrubbery. Clutching a mud-spattered set of pruning shears, hunched and scurrying like a poacher upon his fresh domain. A gardener perhaps? But one with a most disgruntled air as he fussed over the ornamental hedges, nearly obscured by their whimsical shapes.

Hellish thoughts blossomed as Nicholas watched the churlish gardener wreaking his havoc. A devilish smirk crept across his lips. Oh, this would be the perfect smidgeon of payback to roast off some nervous energy before his grand debut to the Westinghouses!

He crept away from the windows and glided over to ring the velvet bellcord dangling by the massive bed. Yes, Nicholas had been banking on a hospitable welcome to his new luxurious world.

But a little prank to humble that gardening grouch could only grease the wheels...