He Is Not My Child

“He isn’t my son,” states the millionaire coldly, his voice echoing through the marble foyer. “Pack your bags and leave. Both of you.” He points at the door. His wife clutches her baby tightly, tears welling in her eyes. If only he knew…
The storm outside matches the tempest inside the house. Amabel stands frozen, knuckles white as she presses little Edward close to her chest. Her husband, Oliver Harrington, multi-millionaire magnate and head of the Harrington family, stares at her with a fury she’s never seen in their ten years of marriage.
“Oliver, please,” Amabel whispers, her voice trembling. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know precisely what I’m saying,” he snaps. “That boy… isn’t mine. I took a DNA test last week. The results are clear.”
The accusation stings worse than a slap. Amabel’s knees nearly buckle.
“You did a test… without telling me?”
“I had to. He doesn’t resemble me. He doesn’t act like me. And I couldn’t ignore the whispers any longer.”
“Whispers? Oliver, he’s a baby! And he is your son! I swear on everything I hold dear.”
But Oliver’s decision stands final.
“Your things will be sent to your father’s place. Don’t come back. Ever.”
Amabel lingers a moment, hoping this is just another one of his impulsive moods, the kind that vanishes by morning. But the ice in his voice leaves no room for doubt. She turns and strides out, her heels clicking on the marble as thunder crashes over the manor.
Amabel grew up modestly but entered a world of privilege marrying Oliver. She was elegant, poised, intelligent—everything magazines lauded and high society envied. None of that matters now.
As the Rolls-Royce carries her and Edward back to her father’s cottage in the Cotswolds, her mind races. She’d been faithful. She loved Oliver, stood by him during the financial downturn, through the press mauling, even when his mother shunned her. Now, she’s cast out like a stranger.
Her father, William Whitmore, opens the door, eyes wide upon seeing her.
“Amabel? What’s happened?”
She collapses into his arms. “He claimed Edward isn’t his… He threw us out.”
William’s jaw tenses. “Come inside, love.”
Over the next days, Amabel adjusts to her new reality. The cottage is small, her old room barely changed. Edward, oblivious, plays and babbles, offering moments of calm through the pain.
But something troubles her relentlessly: the DNA test. How could it be wrong?
Desperate for truth, she goes to the lab where Oliver had the test done. She has contacts too—and a few owed favours. What she discovers chills her to the bone.
The test was tampered with.
Meanwhile, Oliver is alone in his manor, tormented by the silence. He tells himself he did right—he won’t raise another man’s child. But guilt gnaws at him. He avoids Edward’s old room, yet one day, curiosity wins. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, the tiny shoes on the shelf, something inside him breaks.
His mother, Lady Margot, offers no comfort.
“I warned you, Oliver,” she says, sipping her Earl Grey. “That Whitmore girl was never your equal.”
Even she seems surprised when Oliver doesn’t reply.
Days pass. Then a week.
Then a letter arrives.
No sender. Just a single sheet and a photograph.
Oliver’s hands shake as he reads.
“Oliver,
You made a mistake. A big one.
You demanded proof—here it is. I found the original results. The test was altered. And here’s the photo I uncovered in your mother’s office… You know what it means.
Amabel.”