That boy is not mine, declared the cold-hearted millionaire, his voice echoing through the marble hall. Take your things and leave. Both of you. He pointed to the door. His wife clutched the infant tighter, tears welling in her eyes. If only he knew
The storm outside mirrored the tempest within. Eleanor stood motionless, her fingers white from gripping little Oliver against her chest. Her husband, Gregory Blackwood, a multimillionaire magnate and head of the Blackwood family, glared at her with a fury she had never seen in their ten years of marriage.
Gregory, please she whispered, her voice trembling. You dont know what youre saying.
I know perfectly well, he snapped. This boy isnt mine. I had the DNA test done last week. The results are clear.
The accusation struck her harder than any slap. Her knees nearly gave way.
You took the test without telling me?
I had to. He doesnt look like me. He doesnt act like me. And I couldnt ignore the rumours any longer.
Rumours?! Gregory, hes a baby! And he *is* yours! I swear on everything I hold dear!
But Gregory had already made up his mind.
Your things will be sent to your fathers house. Dont come back here. Ever.
Eleanor lingered for a moment, hoping this was just another of his impulsive decisions, the kind that faded by morning. But the ice in his voice left no room for doubt. She turned and walked out, the click of her heels echoing on marble as thunder roared above the manor.
Eleanor had grown up in modest surroundings but had entered the world of privilege when she married Gregory. She was elegant, composed, and clevereverything the society pages praised and high society envied. None of it mattered now.
As the old Rover carried Eleanor and Oliver back to her fathers cottage in the countryside, her mind raced. She had been faithful. She had loved Gregory, stood by him when the markets crashed, when the press tore him down, even when his mother rejected her. And now, she was cast out like a stranger.
Her father, Martin Thorne, opened the door, eyes wide with shock.
Ellie? Whats happened?
She collapsed into his arms. He said Oliver isnt his He threw us out.
Martins jaw tightened. Come inside, love.
In the days that followed, Eleanor adjusted to her new reality. The house was small, her old bedroom barely changed. Oliver, oblivious, babbled and played, giving her moments of peace amid the pain.
But something gnawed at her: the DNA test. How could it be wrong?
Desperate for answers, she went to the laboratory where Gregory had the test done. She still had connectionsand a few favours to call in. What she discovered froze her blood.
The test had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Gregory sat alone in his London mansion, tormented by the silence. He told himself hed done what was necessarythat he couldnt raise another mans child. But the battle with his conscience wore him down. He avoided Olivers old nursery, until one day, curiosity overcame him. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, the tiny shoes lined up on the shelf, something inside him shattered.
Even his mother, Lady Agatha, offered no comfort.
I warned you, Gregory, she said, sipping her expensive tea. That Thorne girl was never meant for you.
But even she was taken aback when Gregory didnt respond.
A day passed. Then a week.
Then came a letter.
No return address. Just a sheet of paper and a photograph.
Gregorys hands shook as he read.
*Gregory,
You were wrong. Terribly wrong.
You wanted proofhere it is. I found the original results. The test was rigged. And the photo enclosedI found it in your mothers study You know what it means.
Eleanor.*
Gregory collapsed into his chair, the paper slipping from his fingers. The photograph landed face-up on the polished floor: Lady Agatha, brazenly plucking strands of hair from the infants pillow, her cold, triumphant smile unmistakable. Everything exploded inside him. Here was the proof. His mother had stolen the samples, ruining everything.
He leapt to his feet, shaking with fury. What kind of monster
Then the truth struck him. The photograph showed his father with the same blue eyes as Oliver, proving how Aunt Agatha had falsified the DNA test in her madness to break their marriage. The paper crumpled in his trembling grip. And now, alone in the cold hall, it didnt matter how many *pounds* he hadonly the heavy tears staining the letter and the desperate urge to run back to Eleanor and the child he had been too afraid to love.
