Hes not my son, said the millionaire coldly, his voice echoing through the marble hall. Take your things and leave. Both of you. He pointed to the door. His wife clutched the baby tighter, tears welling in her eyes. If only he knew
The storm outside matched the one within. Eleanor stood frozen, her fingers white from gripping little Oliver so tightly. Her husband, Gregory Harrington, multimillionaire tycoon and head of the Harrington family, glared at her with a fury she hadnt seen in ten years of marriage.
Gregory, please Eleanor whispered, her voice trembling. You dont know what youre saying.
I know exactly what Im saying, he snapped. That boy isnt mine. I had a DNA test done last week. The results are clear.
The accusation stung worse than a slap. Her knees nearly buckled.
You had a test done without telling me?
I had to. He doesnt look like me. 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 have!
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 it was just another one of his impulsive decisions, the kind that faded by morning. But the ice in his voice left no room for doubt. She turned and left, the click of her heels echoing on marble as thunder roared over the manor.
Eleanor had grown up in a modest home but entered the world of privilege when she married Gregory. She was elegant, poised, and clevereverything the magazines praised and high society envied. None of it mattered now.
As her old Ford carried her and Oliver back to her fathers cottage in the countryside, her mind raced. She had been faithful. Shed loved Gregory, stood by him when stocks crashed, when the press tore him apart, even when his mother rejected her. And now she was cast out like a stranger.
Her father, Martin Croft, 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 between the pain.
But something nagged at herthe DNA test. How could it be wrong?
Desperate for answers, she went to the lab where Gregory had the test done. She still had connectionsand a few favours to call in. What she discovered turned her blood to ice.
The test had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Gregory sat alone in his London mansion, tormented by silence. He told himself hed done the right thinghe couldnt raise another mans child. But guilt gnawed at him. He avoided Olivers old room, until one day, curiosity overwhelmed him. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, the tiny shoes on the shelf, something inside him shattered.
Even his mother, Lady Agatha, was no comfort.
I warned you, Gregory, she said, sipping her expensive tea. That Croft girl was never right for you.
But even she stiffened when Gregory said nothing.
A day passed. Then a week.
Then a letter arrived.
No return address. Just a single page and a photograph.
Gregorys hands shook as he read it.
*Gregory,*
*You were wrong. Dead wrong.*
*You wanted proofhere it is. I found the original results. The test was rigged. And the photo tucked inside? I found it in your mothers desk You know what it means.*
*Eleanor.*
Gregory sank into his chair, the letter slipping from his fingers. The photograph landed face-up on the polished floor: Lady Agatha shamelessly plucking strands of hair from the babys pillow, her cold, triumphant smile in place.
Everything exploded inside him. There it wasthe proof. His own mother had stolen the samples, ruining everything.
He shot to his feet, shaking with fury. How *dare* she? What kind of monster
Then it hit him. The photograph showed his father with the same blue eyes as Oliver, proving Aunt Agatha had falsified the DNA test in her madness to break their marriage. The paper crumpled in his trembling hands.
Now, standing alone in the cold hall, it didnt matter how many *pounds* were in his accounts. All that mattered were the heavy tears staining the letterand the desperate urge to run back to Eleanor and the child hed been too afraid to love.
