He Isn’t My Son

“He’s not my son,” the millionaire said coldly, his voice echoing through the marble foyer. “Pack your things and leave. Both of you.” He pointed to the door. His wife clutched her baby tightly, tears welling in her eyes. But if only he had known…
The storm outside mirrored the one raging inside the house. Eleanor stood frozen, knuckles white as she pressed little Oliver against her chest. Her husband, Hugo Whitman, shipping magnate and head of the Whitman family, glared at her with a fury she’d never seen in their ten years of marriage.
“Hugo, please,” Eleanor whispered, her voice shaking. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he snapped. “That boy… isn’t mine. I had the DNA test last week. The results are clear.”
The accusation hurt worse than a slap. Eleanor’s knees nearly buckled.
“You tested… without telling me?”
“I had to. He doesn’t look like me. He doesn’t act like me. And I couldn’t keep ignoring the rumours.”
“Rumours? Hugo, he’s a baby! And he *is* your son! I swear on everything I hold dear.”
But Hugo’s mind was made up.
“Your things will be sent to your father’s cottage. Don’t come back here. Ever.”
Eleanor stood there a moment longer, hoping it was just another of his impulsive moods, the kind that usually blew over by morning. But the ice in his voice left no room for doubt. She turned and walked out, her heels clicking on the marble as thunder rumbled over the manor house.
Eleanor had grown up modestly but stepped into a world of privilege marrying Hugo. She was elegant, poised, clever—everything the glossies lauded and high society envied. None of that mattered now.
As the Bentley drove her and Oliver back to her father’s cottage in the Cotswolds, her mind raced. She’d been faithful. She’d loved Hugo, stood by him when the markets crashed, when the press tore into him, even when his mother shunned her. And now, she was thrown out like a stranger.
Her dad, Arthur Clarkson, opened the door, eyes wide seeing her.
“Ellie? What’s happened?”
She fell into his arms. “He said Oliver isn’t his… He threw us out.”
Arthur’s jaw tightened. “Get inside, love.”
Over the following days, Eleanor settled into her new reality. The cottage was small, her old bedroom barely changed. Oliver, unaware, played and babbled, giving her moments of peace amid the heartache.
But something niggled at her: that DNA test. How could it be wrong?
Desperate for answers, she went to the central London lab where Hugo had the test done. She still had contacts—and a few favours owed. What she discovered chilled her to the bone.
The test had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Hugo paced his cavernous manor, tormented by the quiet. He told himself he’d done the right thing—couldn’t raise another man’s child. But guilt gnawed at him. He avoided Oliver’s old nursery, yet one day, curiosity got the better of him. Seeing the empty cot, a battered stuffed giraffe, tiny baby booties on the shelf—something inside him cracked.
His mother, Lady Agatha, didn’t help.
“I warned you, Hugo,” she said, sipping her Earl Grey. “That Clarkson girl was never really our sort.”
Even she was taken aback when Hugo didn’t snap back.
Days slipped by. Then a week.
And then, a letter arrived.
No return address. Just a single sheet and a photograph.
Hugo’s hands shook as he read it.
“Hugo,
You were wrong. Dead wrong.
You wanted proof—here it is. I found the original results. The test was altered. And this photo I found in your mother’s study… You know what it means.
Yours,
Eleanor.”