I’m a real heiress.
I just have no damn clue which billionaire family I belong to.
So every time a rich family starts searching for their long-lost daughter, guess who applies?
Me.
I even made myself a resume.
Boom. Sent it out to eight different dynasties.
And today? All eight got back to me. Passed the first round. All invited me to interviews.
This whole mess started when my foster mom—may she rot in peace—had a sudden burst of conscience on her deathbed.
She whispered that I was actually born into one of those ultra-rich American empires.
That she used to be a housemaid for one of them.
And the day I was born, she swapped me with her own baby at the hospital.
Then—classic drama—she died before telling me which damn family.
Not even a clue. Not even a last name.
Just went out ugly and vague.
I tried shaking her awake.
Even peeled her eyes open again.
Nothing.
Now her eyelids won’t even stay shut.
And so began my wild-ass “Who’s Your Daddy?” journey.
I built a resume. Like, a real-ass one.
Name: Jenna Chase (tentative)
Gender: Female (confirmed)
Date of Birth: March 28, 2002 (unless my dead fake mom was a lying piece of trash)
Education: High school (because honesty is a virtue, okay?)
Work Experience: Entry-level management at a multinational food & beverage brand
(translation: I made smoothies at a Dairy Queen knockoff)
Open to relocation? Hell yeah.
Awards:
3rd Place, Spring Creek Preschool Robot Sprint (Yates Tech edition)
2nd Place, Crayon Art Contest at Jefferson Elementary (Sinclair Arts version)
…other six tailored to the family biz
About Me:
23-year expert in observing human chaos. Master of basic social survival. No criminal record.
Special Talent:
I can tell in one sip if that latte’s made with non-dairy creamer or real milk.
Honestly, I thought my resume would land straight in eight trash cans.
But nope. That same afternoon, I got eight identical emails:
“Ms. Chase, congratulations on passing the initial review. Please contact our HR department and prepare for a direct-line bloodline verification interview this week.”
I stared at my phone like I’d just been cursed.
Eight freaking interviews. All from:
Yates Tech, Sinclair Arts, Lane Securities, Walker Realty, Zeller Law, Summers Medical, Sawyer Entertainment, and Grayson Financial.
At this point, I don’t even recognize the word “family” anymore. It’s giving me identity crisis hives.
First stop: Yates Tech, 68th floor.
“Ms. Chase, why do you believe you’re the long-lost daughter of the Yates family?”
I gave them a polite little smile and launched into my well-rehearsed monologue:
“By age three, I’d mastered the TV remote. By five, I was telling time and had already wrecked three watches—analog, digital, smart—equal opportunity destruction.”
Second stop: Sinclair Arts, at the MoMo Gallery downtown.
“What do you think you could bring to the Sinclair legacy if we welcomed you into the family?”
“My stick figure art is revolutionary. I could totally fill the gaping hole in your minimalist abstract department.”
“…It’s… nice that you appreciate art. And that you have your own, uh, perspective.”
Final stop: Grayson Financial, 88th floor, Grayson Tower.
“That’s all the questions I have, Ms. Chase. Do you have any for me?”
The interviewer adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses.
“Actually, yeah. I’ve been meaning to ask this since like, the second interview.”
“Oh? So you’ve already met with the other families?”
“Yeah, no point lying about it. I’ve done seven interviews already.”
“So what’s your question?”
“Why not just run a damn DNA test?”
“Ms. Chase,” he said, voice full of corporate calm, “in today’s world, bloodlines aren’t the most important metric. What matters more is compatibility with the family’s… culture.”
“Any other questions?”
“Nope. That was the main one.”
“Very well. Thank you for your time. HR will be in touch.”
I stumbled out of the elevator like a zombie on espresso withdrawal, staring blankly at the city below.
“Compatibility,” he said. Jesus Christ.
What does compatibility even mean?
Besides being freakishly fast at making boba tea, I didn’t exactly have “heiress skills.”
High school education. Zero Ivy League anything. My hobbies included… well, not dying.
What were they gonna do? Bring out the family matriarchs and have us battle it out in a speed-shake match?
Or maybe host a live talent show where I rap against the fake heiresses?
Every single family had their own “perfect” daughter already.
They went to private prep schools, played the goddamn piano, did ballet, won math Olympiads and crap.
Me?
I could scoop tapioca pearls with my bare hands. Blind taste test between fake milk and real? Nailed it.
They were all Ivy League Barbie™ with investment portfolios.
I was a high school dropout with a blender and PTSD from long shifts.
Then suddenly—a long black Lincoln pulled up beside me like I’d summoned it with my existential breakdown.
The back window slid down.
Eight women inside, each one ridiculously gorgeous and stylish in a completely different way.
The one closest to me leaned forward.
“Get in.”
We weren’t in a mafia limo.
We were in a KTV private suite, decked out in neon and velvet like someone had let a rockstar design a karaoke room while high.
The alpha of the group, a tall woman with red lipstick and corporate murder vibes, stood by the screen with a mic in hand.
The projector behind her flashed a PowerPoint title like it was a TED Talk for deranged rich girls:
Joint Intelligence Report on Heiress Crossover Candidates
A strategic investigation of multi-family heir selection conflicts and compatibility threats.
“Ms. Chase,” she said, with the kind of tone a lawyer uses before ripping your life to shreds, “you must be confused.”
“I mean, confused, no. Curious if I’m picking up the bill for this karaoke? A little.”
I looked around the room. Seven glamazons sitting in a semi-circle like the Spice Girls of Wall Street.
One standing like she was about to deliver a quarterly earnings bloodbath.
From the outside, it looked like I was winning.
From the inside, I was sweating through my bra.
“You’re not curious who you really are? Who we are? Where you came from? Where you’re going?”
I scratched my head.
“Sounds like something Plato should care about. Not really in my job description.”
“You’re not curious why eight billionaire families launched missing daughter searches at the exact same time and all invited you to interviews?”
“Oh. That. Yeah, okay, that one’s weird. Hit me.”
She hit the remote. The room went dark except for the cold white light of the projector.
Next slide:
Key Suspicion #1: Why the Simultaneous Searches?
“I assume, Ms. Chase, you’ve figured out who we are by now?”
“The eight fake heiresses?”
She gave a smirk sharp enough to slice a throat.
“We’re not fake. We’re the real ones.”
“Then why the hell are you looking for lost daughters?”
Another click. Next slide:
MARRIAGE ALLIANCE.
“…Foster Group? Is that like… arthritis medication?”
“…” ×8
“Foster Group is the top of the top. When their CEO sneezes, the Dow Jones catches a cold.”
“So this ‘search’ is just so one of you can marry into that dynasty? And you want me to do it?”
Another slide: my birthday, in giant Helvetica.
MARCH 28, 2002.
“…My birthday?”
“Exactly. Turns out your birth chart is the only one that aligns with Foster’s grandson.”
Oh good. We’re doing astrology now. Next stop: goat sacrifice.
The Fosters’ aging chairman was apparently a superstitious lunatic.
He had every candidate’s birth chart analyzed by some spiritual consultant.
All eight of these rich girls? Total mismatch.
Me?
Perfect match. Apparently, I’m a walking, talking zodiac jackpot.
“So… you want me to marry into the Fosters for you?”
“Yes. Any questions?”
“…Yeah. Is this a full-time position or more like an outsourced contractor? You know, no benefits, no PTO?”
“…” ×8
“That’s your question?”
“Hell yes. I didn’t come all this way to get roped into a death cult marriage without knowing the compensation package.”
“Wow. And here we were thinking we were helping you.”
“Helping me? Don’t you just want to keep me from marrying in so you can take the spot yourselves?”
Ms. Red Lipstick actually looked offended.
“Jenna, we don’t want you to marry into the Foster family because we want to save you from falling into the fire pit.”
“Wait, what fire pit?”
So turns out the Foster heir isn’t some tall, dark, brooding billionaire heartthrob.
Nope. He’s short, paralyzed, and honestly kinda tragic.
Ms. Sawyer—the one running the PowerPoint like a pitch deck to Satan—clicked to the next slide.
Boom. A photo of a hospital bed.
A guy all twisted up in tubes, heart monitor flashing red like he was about to flatline mid-slide.
“All the press photos of Miles Foster are AI-generated,” she said, deadpan.
Click—next slide. Side-by-side comparison.
Reality check: the guy in those glossy business mags wasn’t real. The real Miles? Wrecked in a car crash three years ago. Can’t move. At all.
I stared at the photo—those clear, freakishly alert eyes gave me chills.
“Wait… are you saying this is some kind of—what—voodoo marriage-to-revive-the-rich-boy type of shit?”
Ms. Summers—yes, the med heiress—chimed in from the corner, sipping her overpriced cold brew:
“Worse. Foster Sr. went to some woo-woo metaphysical guru. Said the only way to save Miles is to marry someone whose astrological chart aligns with his… and leeches off her life energy.”
So yeah.
Not a fairytale marriage.
A sacrifice.
And just like that, the dream of finding my real family turned into a horror movie.
I wasn’t being adopted—I was being drafted.
The next day, I got pinged again.
All eight families wanted me back for second-round interviews.
This time?
Housekeeper round. AKA the “skills test.” AKA the “how dumb is she really?” test.
The girls—Ms. Yates, Ms. Sinclair, the whole glam squad—decided to sabotage my interviews so hard the families would run screaming.
Zeller Law
Mr. Zeller, stiff as a corpse: “If you were a trial attorney, how would you convince the judge to side with you?”
I took three seconds, then fired off:
“Maybe… bribe him with boba?”
He looked like I’d just kicked the Constitution in the balls.
“That’s illegal.”
I waved my hands frantically. “No no, I mean like, just a bubble tea. Not cash!”
“Please leave, Ms. Chase.”
Outside, Ms. Zeller was doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly dislocated her jaw.
“Congrats, you just set a record for youngest bribery charge in legal history.”
Summers Medical
Mr. Summers: “What would you do in a hospital crisis to calm the patients?”
Me: “Offer them free milk tea?”
His expression could’ve frozen hell. “Are you being paid by a tea company?”
“No! I just… really love boba.”
“Next.”
Summers girl snorted, “That’s a wrap on the medical career. She just malpractice’d her way out the door.”
Sawyer Entertainment
Mr. Sawyer was excited. “Any talent you can show us?”
I gritted my teeth. “Okay… I’ll now demonstrate the Five-Second Milk Tea Chug!”
I grabbed the straw, inhaled like a madwoman…
Choked on a tapioca pearl, hacked so hard I saw Jesus, and almost passed out.
Mr. Sawyer screamed, “SOMEONE GET THE EMT!”
Outside, Ms. Sawyer was cackling so loud security showed up.
“Shortest entertainment career in history. She debuted and flopped in the same breath!”
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