I Invoiced My Billionaire Family

It was my second month back with the ultra-wealthy family that had given me away at birth. To clear a smooth path into the limelight for their golden-child adopted son, my biological parents forced me onto a rural homesteading reality show. My role? The designated underdog. The embarrassing contrast. Before the cameras rolled, my biological mother, Evelyn Kerwin, cornered me with an ice-cold glare. "You keep your mouth shut and chop your wood. Do your farm work like a good boy, and don't you dare try to outshine your brother." "Sure thing," I replied instantly. I grew up in a tiny mountain town in North Carolina. I was straightforward, raised on hard labor, and had zero interest in putting on a show. On the first day of the live stream, the adopted son, Landon Kerwin, was hiking up a steep trail, gasping dramatically for the cameras. "There might be copperheads out here, guys, but to show you all the most authentic wild mushrooms, I’m willing to take the risk!" The chat immediately flooded with praise, declaring him a brave, wholesome angel, before turning their pitchforks on me: [Look at the real son in the back. Grew up in the countryside and didn't even warn Landon about snakes. How cold-hearted can you get?] The show's director smelled drama. He swung the camera directly into my face, waiting for me to make a fool of myself. "Cody, the viewers are asking—aren't you scared of snakes?" I was swinging an axe, splitting logs. I didn't even look up. "Nope. Didn't buy any." Dead silence fell across the set. The director blinked, completely off-script. "...Wait, what?" I wiped the sweat off my brow and looked straight into the lens with utter sincerity. "I went to the local farmer's market this morning. Bought two dressed chickens and three pounds of fresh Gulf shrimp. Didn't buy any snakes." 1 The chat exploded into a sea of "HAHAHAHA", and Landon shot me a lethal, sharp glare from behind his designer sunglasses. Desperate to save the narrative, the director redirected the camera to Landon’s wicker basket—a custom basket lined with a subtle Louis Vuitton logo. "Look at these beautiful mushrooms Landon hand-picked! You can’t buy quality like this in city markets." I glanced at the basket, then nodded calmly. "That’s true. You definitely didn't buy those." The director let out a visible sigh of relief, thinking I was agreeing. Capitalizing on the moment, Landon pulled out a vibrant red mushroom with stark white spots and held it out to me, flashing a bright, innocent smile. "Cody, since you grew up in the woods, you must have eaten wild stuff like this all the time, right? Take a look—is this fresh?" The live chat locked back onto him, swooning: [Landon is so sweet, always trying to include the country bumpkin.] The mushroom was practically pressed against my lips. I set my axe down and took three deliberate steps back. "I don't eat those. That’s an "Amanita muscaria"—a fly agaric. It's toxic." I looked him dead in the eye. "And since you just rubbed your mouth with the hand you used to pick it, I suggest you start gagging yourself right now. Otherwise, the director’s going to need to book a funeral home by nightfall." Before my words even settled, Landon shrieked and dropped the basket like it was on fire. To look aesthetic for the camera, he’d spent the last twenty minutes bare-handing those bright red caps and chalky white stems. "Ah! I’m poisoned?! Am I going to die?! Sis! Somebody save me!" Landon’s face drained of all color. He clutched his stomach, doubled over, and started dry-heaving violently. The crew collapsed into complete chaos. The director scrambled across the mud on his hands and knees, screaming for an ambulance. But because the dirt roads leading into the hollow were too narrow for emergency vehicles, three production assistants had to haul Landon to the town clinic five miles away on a squeaky, gas-powered utility cart. Finally, the courtyard went quiet. I picked up my firewood, carried it to the outdoor kitchen, tossed the fresh shrimp into a cast-iron skillet with garlic and butter, and seared them up. After a hard day's work, I was starving. Meanwhile, the live stream blew up. Three new topics surged straight to the top of the trending charts: #RealSonDidntBuySnakes #MarketPriceShrimp #LandonStomachPump The same viewers who had been calling me a cold-blooded redneck hours ago suddenly pivoted: [Wait, is this guy actually hilarious? I’m dying.] [So Landon’s 'wholesome wilderness foraging' was literally just a trip to the local produce stand?] [LMAO, I just called a vendor in town, fresh shrimp really is $6 a pound today. Cody wasn't lying. Man is just honest.] By ten o'clock that night, I was sitting on a wooden bench, peeling a buttery shrimp, when the heavy timber gate creaked open. A woman stepped into the yard. She was draped in a tailored designer suit, her pristine Italian leather heels treading gingerly over the red clay dirt. It was my elder sister, the ruthless CEO of Kerwin Enterprises—Elaine Kerwin. She pulled her coat tight, stepping around a mud-caked hoe with deep disgust. Her sharp eyes scanned me, filled with seventy percent contempt and thirty percent cold fury. "Cody, have you had your fun yet?" Elaine’s voice cut through the damp night air like a blade. "Landon has been sobbing in his hospital bed for hours. I explicitly warned you not to steal his spotlight." I swallowed my food, pulled off a paper towel, and wiped the butter from my fingers. "I didn't steal anything. He picked poison mushrooms. I stated a biological fact." "Fact?" Elaine let out a cold, sharp laugh, looking down at me as if she’d seen right through my pathetic game. "You think pulling these cheap stunts will get Mom and Dad’s attention? You think this makes you a Kerwin?" She leaned in, her gaze merciless. "Let me tell you something—one word from me, and you disappear from this show by tomorrow morning." She droned on and on with her corporate threats, but my mind locked onto the only word that actually mattered. "Wait, you’re breaking the contract?" I stood up, my eyes instantly lighting up. "Clause 4, Section 2: If the production terminates the contract without cause from Party B, Party A owes a liquidated damages fee of three million dollars." I looked at her, entirely serious. "Ms. Kerwin, how will you be transferring the funds?" Elaine froze. She hadn't expected this reaction, and for a split second, her icy composure shattered. She drew in a sharp breath, her jaw tightening. "Stop playing stupid with me." "For the rest of this week, you keep your mouth shut and play the quiet, obedient shadow to Landon’s lead. Otherwise, I’m freezing every card attached to your name." "Wait, but—" "No buts. If you ever expect to set foot back in the Kerwin mansion, you’d better learn your place." Without another glance, she turned on her heel and strode back toward her waiting luxury sedan. I scratched the back of my neck, utterly bewildered. "They took back the sub-card they gave me three weeks ago. How is she gonna freeze a card with a zero balance?" I shrugged. Oh well. You can't reason with the super-rich. 2 Early the next morning, the production team announced a new theme for the day: "Experiencing Ancient Crafts." While I was up at dawn mixing slop for the pigs, a sleek Black Edition SUV dropped Landon off at the edge of the village. He snuck into a nearby farmhouse so he could film himself "waking up" in a modest country setting. Today, he was draped in understated cashmere, his hair styled to effortless perfection, and the Patek Philippe on his wrist caught the golden morning light with every movement. Before the cameras went live, I was crouching in the corner of the yard, mixing cement. The local mayor had mentioned the communal pigpen was drafty and offered two hundred bucks to anyone who could patch the concrete wall. I had nothing better to do, so I took the job. Landon sauntered over, holding a silk handkerchief over his nose. His limited-edition sneakers carefully dodged the muddy puddles. "Ah, Cody. Up so early? Still playing in the dirt like a peasant?" I glanced at him, then returned to scraping cement. In the two months since I’d been dragged back to the Kerwin household, Landon had pulled endless tricks—faking illnesses, throwing tearful tantrums, staging dramatic exits. I saw clearly enough that our parents adored him, and I had no interest in competing for their favor. Seeing me ignore him, Landon deliberately tapped the tip of his pristine shoe against my trowel. "Elaine put you in your place last night, didn't she?" he whispered, his tone dripping with malice. "Accept reality, Cody. You’re here to be my background noise." "Mom, Dad, and Elaine only care about me. No matter how hard you kick and scream, to them, you’re just an uncultured trash born in the dirt." I stopped what I was doing, looked up at him, and gave a dull, deadpan nod. "Oh. Well, that’s great news." Landon blinked, taken aback. "What?" "If they only love you," I explained calmly, "then when the Kerwin family eventually goes bankrupt, you’ll be the one taking on the hundreds of millions in debt, right? You better stay healthy." Landon’s face flushed red. He kicked a clump of dirt at me. "How dare you curse me, you redneck!" When I turned around to grab a bucket of water, a dark glint flashed in his eyes. He kicked my trowel straight into a muddy ditch. By the time I fished my tool out of the muck, the bottle of industrial Gorilla Glue I’d left on the window sill was missing. "Wait. Why did he steal my glue?" That was five bucks on sale. Can people stop picking on an honest worker? Before I could demand it back, the director called out that the live stream was going live. Landon sat gracefully in the middle of the courtyard behind a massive, vintage wooden trough. He held a heavy wooden pestle, lazily tapping at a pile of soaked bark inside the tub. His hands were spotless; he wasn't putting an ounce of real force into it. The camera operator filmed him with cinematic flair as the director narrated enthusiastically into the microphone: "Dear viewers! Today, Landon is taking on an incredible challenge—reviving an ancient, protected cultural heritage: handmade bark papermaking!" "This traditional craft requires immense patience, raw physical strength, and a deep reverence for history..." In the chat, Landon’s fan club flooded the stream with tears of admiration: [WOW! Landon looks so handsome! This is what true royalty looks like—cultured, elegant, and refined!] [Handmade papermaking is impossibly hard! I can't believe Landon knows how to do this. He’s amazing!] [Compare him to that country bumpkin in the back who probably only knows how to burn wood and slop pigs.] To create a sharp visual contrast, the camera panned across the yard and locked onto me. I was covered in gray dust, dripping sweat, furiously slapping bricks onto the pigpen wall with my trowel. The director’s eyes lit up. This was gold. He trotted over with the camera crew, shoving the mic into my face. "Cody! Growing up in the countryside, you must be familiar with traditional homesteading crafts like this, right? Why don't you head over and give Landon a little guidance?" I slapped another brick into the wet mortar and scraped off the excess with my trowel. "Nope. Don't know how." I added flatly, "And his paper isn't going to work." The director practically grinned. He pressed closer. "You say you don't know the craft, yet you’re claiming Landon can't do it? He’s following an ancient manual step-by-step, putting his heart into it. Are you just jealous of his education—" I stopped working and cut off his speech. "First of all, the prop team bought synthetic plastic tree bark. That stuff bleeds chemical dyes. The water in his tub is currently turned neon pink." 3 The entire set fell silent for a heartbeat. The cameraman instinctively zoomed in on Landon’s wooden tub. Sure enough, the water had turned a horrific, unnatural shade of hot pink. The director swallowed hard, still trying to bluff. "That... that could just be natural plant pigments..." "Second," I continued, ignoring him entirely, "he clearly realized the plastic bark wouldn't break down into pulp. So when no one was looking, he poured a bottle of industrial Gorilla Glue into the water." "You're lying!" Landon shrieked, jumping to his feet. Desperate to prove his hands were clean, he tried to dramatically fling his arms into the air. "Look!" Landon yelled, pulling hard. He didn't move an inch. He blinked, confused, and yanked again with all his might. Nothing. In front of three million live viewers, Landon’s hands were solidly fused to the wooden pestle, and the pestle was fused to the plastic bark at the bottom of the wooden tub. The terrifying power of industrial quick-dry glue was a sight to behold. "My hands! I can't get them off! Sis! HELP ME!" Landon completely broke down, dragging the heavy wooden trough across the dirt yard, sobbing hysterically. The director’s face turned absolute ghost-white. He screamed at the crew, "Cut the feed! Turn off the stream! Find rubbing alcohol! Get the village doctor! Cut the camera!" I watched the utter chaos unfold in the yard, blew a speck of dust off my sleeve, and quietly went back to laying my bricks. After Elaine’s warning last night, I hadn't planned on speaking up today. But Landon just had to get cute and steal my glue. And the director just had to corner an honest guy trying to do his job. What choice did I have? By that afternoon, Landon didn't trend on the entertainment news. He trended on local crime and viral news. The headline read: [Bizarre Incident: Reality Star Attempts 'Ancient Crafting' with Industrial Glue, Fuses Hands to Wooden Tub; Fire Department Rescues Him with Electric Saw.] ... After the fire truck drove off, hauling away Landon along with his attached wooden trough, the village welcomed its second wave of drama for the day. Elaine arrived late that night, once again riding in the back of a black Maybach. The ultra-luxury sedan sat parked along the rutted dirt road, looking aggressively out of place. She summoned me to the back seat, away from the cameras. The heavy doors closed, shutting out the sound of crickets and farm animals. Elaine glanced at my dust-covered t-shirt, pulled a scented sanitizing wipe from the armrest console, and began wiping her hands with slow, deliberate movements. "Landon was traumatized today. His hands are swollen, and he’s currently on an IV drip in the city hospital. Do you have any idea how delicate his hands are? He plays Chopin, Cody. He’s not like you, meant for manual labor." I looked at the gray dust under my fingernails and didn't touch her offered wipe. She let out an annoyed tut and continued, "Cody, do you realize that because of what you said on camera today, Kerwin Enterprises' stock plummeted by two percent this afternoon? Three hundred million dollars in market value, gone." I rested my hands on my knees and shook my head. "I don't follow the stock market. And the cell service out here is terrible, so I can't check market caps." Elaine choked on her own breath, rolling her eyes. Taking a deep breath to compose herself, she reached into her coat, pulled out a blank check, and slid it across the leather seat toward me. "There’s one hundred thousand dollars here." "Tomorrow morning, when the stream starts, you’ll go in front of the camera and apologize to Landon. You will tell everyone that "you" secretly put the glue into his tub out of jealousy." I stared at the check for a moment, then shook my head with absolute sincerity. "Not enough." 4 Elaine paused, a sneer twisting her lips. She leaned back against the headrest, her gaze dripping with condescension. "Greedy? Cody, you need to learn your place. You think the Kerwin family—" "Under Federal and State statutes regarding commercial defamation," I said, calmly calculating the math for her, "intentionally fabricating and spreading false information that damages a corporation's commercial reputation, resulting in major financial losses, carries up to two years in prison." I met her gaze, my eyes clear and calm. "You just said Kerwin Enterprises lost three hundred million dollars today. That easily qualifies as a major loss. If you want me to take the fall for a felony, you need to pay for my settlement fund, lost wages, and high-end legal retainers upfront." "I happen to know that corporate litigators of your caliber charge upward of a thousand dollars an hour. To ensure your legal team doesn't steamroll me, I’ll need a defense lawyer of equal standing." "To take a federal defamation suit all the way through trial, between retainers, expert witnesses, and court fees, it’s going to cost roughly two point six million dollars." "You..." Elaine’s eyebrows knit tight, completely lost for words. I pulled a crumpled, greasy receipt from my pocket. "Also, that bottle of Gorilla Glue was meant for fixing the drafty window in my room." "It was five bucks on sale at Walmart. He took it without asking, used the whole bottle, and wasted it. Factoring in depreciation, that’s four dollars and ninety-nine cents." I opened my phone and displayed a payment QR code, holding it out to her face. "So, added to the two point six million, your total comes out to two million, six hundred thousand and four dollars and ninety-nine cents." A suffocating silence descended upon the Maybach. Elaine’s chest rose and fell rapidly. After a long moment, she ground her teeth together. "You're going to regret this." She slammed the car door shut, throwing me out into the night air, and sped away into the darkness. The next day, I experienced the legendary corporate blacklisting. The production team awkwardly informed me that I had no solo tasks assigned for the day. Furthermore, the show's kitchen and food supplies were completely off-limits to me. It wasn't just Elaine. My biological parents posted an audio message in the family group chat, explicitly tagging me: [Cody, your sister is furious. Cutting off your food is a lesson. You better behave yourself and stop bullying Landon, or you will never step foot into the Kerwin home again!] I listened to the voice note and promptly set the family group chat to "Mute Notifications." Go hungry? Trying to starve a guy who grew up roaming the Blue Ridge Mountains? It was an absolute joke. At lunch time, Landon sat comfortably under a giant sun umbrella, eating a luxury five-star meal Elaine had specially delivered by private courier. To rebuild his saintly image, he picked up a slice of prime ribeye steak with his fork and fed it to a stray dog wandering near the set. "Poor little guy, are you hungry? Here, have some steak." Landon smiled with saintly innocence, the golden sunlight washing over him as if he were an angel descended to earth. The live chat immediately fell into line: [Landon is so incredibly sweet! Even while injured, he’s taking care of stray animals!] [Meanwhile, look at Cody. His own sister came by yesterday and he didn't even say hello. Now he's lurking in the corner like a cold, bitter statue.] [Right? Shouldn't a country boy care more about animals? He hasn't even looked at the dog. He's just selfish to his core.] I didn't have time to feed the dog because I was busy foraging for wild ramps and sweet potatoes in the ridge behind the village. After last night’s spring rain, the soil was soft and full of mountain treasures. In less than an hour, I used my knife to harvest a couple pounds of wild ramps and dug up a dozen sweet potatoes. Down by the creek, I wrapped the sweet potatoes in thick clay mud, built a small hardwood campfire, and buried them right in the glowing embers. Before long, the mud shells dried and cracked, releasing a rich, caramelized sweetness that drifted across the set. The sound of crew members swallowing their spit echoed through the yard. Because production had blown its entire budget on Landon’s daily accommodations and crisis PR, the crew was stuck eating cold, greasy processed deli sandwiches. The director followed his nose, creeping over as I cracked open a hardened mud shell with my pocket knife, revealing the steaming, amber-sweet potato inside. His eyes practically bulged out of his head. Still, he remembered his job. He shoved the microphone toward me: "Cody, viewers are saying you lack empathy. Look at Landon over there feeding the stray dog—he has so much love in his heart. Why don't you go over and help out?" I took a bite of the scalding-hot sweet potato. The rich, smoky sweetness burst across my tongue. I chewed, swallowed, and said flatly, "That's not a stray dog. That’s the town mayor's pitbull mix that snapped its heavy iron chain two days ago. It’s extremely aggressive." The director froze. "...What?" I pointed toward the edge of the village. "I’m not going over there because I don't feel like getting a rabies shot. Also, that dog hates strong synthetic scents." Landon was practically bathing in high-end cologne; you could smell him from a mile away. Before the director could process my words, a blood-curdling scream shrieked from across the yard.