Hes Not My Son
That boy isnt mine, declared the millionaire coldly, his voice echoing through the marble foyer. Pack your things and leave. Both of you. He gestured to the door. His wife clutched the baby to her chest, eyes brimming with tears. If only he knew
Outside, the storm raged as fiercely as the one inside the house. Eleanor stood frozen, knuckles white as she clung to little Thomas. Her husband, Benedict Waverlybillionaire tycoon and head of the Waverly dynastyglared at her with a fury shed never seen in their ten years of marriage.
Benedict, please, whispered Eleanor, her voice trembling. You dont understand what youre saying.
I understand perfectly, he shot back. That child isnt mine. I had a DNA test done last week. The results dont lie.
The accusation stung worse than a slap. Eleanors knees nearly buckled.
You did the test without telling me?
I had to. He doesnt look like me, doesnt act like me. And I couldnt keep ignoring the rumours.
Rumours? Benedict, hes a baby! And he *is* your son! I swear on everything I hold dear.
But Benedict had already made up his mind.
Your things will be sent to your fathers house. Dont come back. Ever.
For a moment, Eleanor hesitated, hoping this was just another one of his impulsive outburststhe kind that blew over by morning. But the ice in his voice left no room for doubt. She turned on her heel and left, her heels clicking sharply on the marble as thunder crashed over the manor.
Eleanor had grown up modestly but married into privilege, becoming everything the tabloids adored and high society enviedelegant, discreet, sharp as a tack. None of that mattered now.
As the limousine carried her and Thomas back to her fathers cottage in the Cotswolds, her mind raced. Shed been faithful. Shed stood by Benedict when the markets crashed, when the press tore him apart, even when his mother sneered at her. And now, hed tossed her out like a stranger.
Her father, Thomas Pembroke, gaped as he opened the door.
Eleanor? Whats happened?
She collapsed into his arms. He said Thomas isnt his He threw us out.
Thomass jaw tightened. Come inside, love.
In the days that followed, Eleanor adjusted to her new life. The cottage was small, her old bedroom unchanged. The baby, oblivious, babbled and giggled, giving her moments of peace.
But one thing gnawed at her: the DNA test. How could it be wrong?
Desperate for answers, she went to the lab where Benedict had tested. She had contactsand favours to call in. What she discovered turned her blood to ice.
The test had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Benedict haunted the empty manor, tormented by silence. He told himself hed done the right thinghe couldnt raise another mans child. But guilt gnawed at him. He avoided the nursery until curiosity got the better of him. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, the tiny shoes in the wardrobesomething inside him shattered.
His mother, Lady Beatrice, wasnt helping.
I warned you, Benedict, she said, sipping her Earl Grey. That Pembroke girl was never good enough for you.
Even she blinked when Benedict didnt reply.
Days passed. A week.
Then, a letter arrived.
No return address. Just a single page and a photograph.
Benedicts hands shook as he read.
*Benedict,*
*You were wrong. Completely.*
*You wanted proofhere it is. I found the original results. The test was altered. And this photo, hidden in your mothers desk You know exactly what it means.*
*Eleanor.*
The truth crashed down like a tombstone. Hed seen the photo beforehis mother and the familys financial advisor, tangled in a damning embrace. The motive was clear: protect the inheritance from the rightful heir. His pride, his rageall just tools to steal his son from him.
The letter from the only woman whod ever truly loved him laid bare the cost of doubt and silence. The greatest wealth, he realised too late, isnt measured in bank accounts, but in those who love you whollyand the truths you choose to share.
The echo of Eleanors words rang louder than the silence of the empty manora deafening reminder of the family hed destroyed by letting pride cloud judgement. Some doubts, when left unchecked, become storms that sweep everything away.
