**Diary Entry A Fathers Unexpected Return**
*8th June, London*
“He looks like your missing boy,” Emily whispered to me. What happened next left the entire street in shock.
William Ashford wasnt accustomed to walking. He was the sort of man who arrived in a chauffeur-driven Bentley, flanked by assistants, while the city adjusted itself around him as if anticipating his presence. But today was different. His fiancée, Eleanor Whitmore, had insisted they stroll the final stretch to her home in Kensington. “The summer light is too perfect to waste,” shed said.
They were halfway down the street when Eleanor suddenly froze. Her nails dug into Williams arm.
“William,” she murmured, “dont look straight away, but theres a boy sitting across the road.”
William followed her gaze.
The boy was barefoot, perched on the edge of the kerb, knees pressed to his chest. He had a slender face, fair hair, and a dimple on his left cheekan image William had burned into his memory like a scar. His eyes, thoughthat was what made Williams breath catch. A piercing blue, like the North Sea. Just like his late wifes.
It had been twelve years since hed last seen those eyes. Since his five-year-old son had vanished in Hyde Park, swallowed by the crowd.
Eleanors voice was barely above a whisper. “He looks like”
“My son,” William finished. The words tasted bitter.
The police had stopped ringing years ago. The search parties disbanded. Missing posters had long been replaced by new faces. But William had kept his sons room untouchedthe unmade bed, the toy trains still lined up on the shelf, as if Oliver might walk through the door at any moment.
And nowthere he was. Or was it?
Eleanor approached first, crouching before the boy. “Sweetheart, are you all right?”
The boy barely glanced up. “Fine,” he mumbled, though his voice was rough, as if unused for days.
“Whats your name?” William asked, his throat tight.
The boy hesitated. “Oliver.”
Williams heart hammered. His sons name had been Oliver.
Before he could speak again, the boys gaze flicked towards the street. A tall man in a battered leather jacket emerged from an alley, his face twisted in anger.
“You!” the man barked. “Get back to work!”
Oliver leapt up and bolted. The man gave chase. Without thinking, William sprinted after them both.
The boy was quick, darting between pedestrians, slipping down side streets. Williams legs burned, but the ache in his chest was worse. Hed lost his son once. He wouldnt*couldnt*lose him again.
Oliver vanished into the side door of a derelict warehouse. By the time William reached it, the metal door had slammed shut. Muffled voices echoed inside.
“If you talk to strangers again, youll regret it,” the man snarled.
“I” The boys voice cracked. A loud *thud* followed.
Williams blood turned to ice. He hammered on the door. “Open up! *Now!*”
The door inched open just enough for the man to glare out. “Piss off, rich boy. This lads mine.”
“On what legal grounds?” Williams voice was dangerously low.
The man smirked. “He works for me. Earns his keep.”
“Hes a *child*,” William snapped. “And this ends *now*.”
Eleanor was already on the phone to the Met. Distant sirens wailed. The mans smirk faltered.
William shoved the door open. Oliver staggered towards him, clutching his ribs. Without thinking, William pulled him into an embrace.
“Easy now, son,” he whispered, hoping he wasnt imagining things. “Youre safe.”
The boy didnt pull away.
At the station, Oliver sat wrapped in a police blanket, avoiding everyones gaze. When the officer asked his full name, he hesitated, then looked straight at William.
“I think its Ashford,” he said softly. “Oliver Ashford.”
Williams chest constricted. He didnt dare breathe as the detective pulled him aside.
“We found a missing persons report from twelve years ago. Everything matches. Well confirm with DNA, but Mr Ashford I think youve found your son.”
The results came the next day. It was official. Oliver was home.
The boys old room was exactly as hed left itthe pale blue walls, the model aeroplanes, the Lego tower on the desk. Olivers eyes widened.
Williams voice cracked. “I told myself nothing would change until you came home.”
The boy crossed the room and hugged him, hard and desperate and trembling. William closed his eyes, holding him as if to make up for every lost second.
From the doorway, Eleanor watched in silence. This wasnt the tycoon, the magnate. This was his father, finally whole.
But somewhere in London, the man in the leather jacket was still out there. And William knewif anyone tried to take his son again, theyd have to go through him first.
**Diary Entry A Homeless Mothers Second Chance**
*15th September, London*
When Lucy, pregnant and homeless, whispered, “Ive nowhere to go,” outside one of Mayfairs grandest townhouses, she never imagined the millionaire watching her would alter her fate forever.
The afternoon sun bathed the city in gold as Lucy Bennett finally let herself cry. Sitting beneath a chestnut tree, her floral dress wrinkled from hours of aimless walking, she cradled her eight-month bump as tears slipped silently down her cheeks.
Five pounds. That was all she had left. A suitcase of clothes that no longer fit and a baby due in weeks. “Dont cry, love,” she whispered to her belly, feeling a faint kick. “Mum will sort this. She always does.” But this time, Lucy wasnt sure.
It had started that morning when David, her ex, made good on his threat. “If you leave me, youll regret it,” hed snarled when shed finally left after two years of manipulation. Shed thought it an empty threat. It wasnt. David had cancelled their flats leasesolely in his nameand called the police to have her evicted.
“Please,” shed begged the officer as her belongings were hauled out. “Im pregnant. Just give me a few days to find somewhere.”
“Sorry, love,” the officer had replied, uncomfortable. “Orders immediate. Landlord says youve no right to stay.”
So, at 10 a.m. on a Tuesday, 24-year-old Lucy Bennett found herself on the street.
Shed walked for hours, suitcase dragging, stopping at every “Help Wanted” sign. But the answer was always the samea glance at her bump and a polite, “Well call you.” *No one hires a woman about to give birth.*
Mayfair had been her last stop, not by choice, but exhaustion. Her swollen feet couldnt take another step. The tree offered the only shade for blocks.
Shed meant to rest for five minutes. Three hours later, she was still there, paralyzed by reality. No familyher parents had died in a crash when she was 16. No close friendsDavid had isolated her. No job. Shed been sacked from the bookshop when her pregnancy “affected performance.” Now, homeless.
*What am I going to do with you, love?*
A black Rolls-Royce pulled up at the traffic light directly in front of her.
Edward Carlisle drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, irritated by the delay. His meeting with investors had overrun, and now hed be late for his 5 p.m. conference call. At 38, hed built a tech empire from scratch, becoming one of Londons wealthiest men. But success had cost him18-hour days, lonely nights, a mansion that felt more like a museum than a home.
As the light changed, his gaze drifted to the pavementand there she was. A young woman, visibly pregnant, sitting beneath the tree with a suitcase. Homelessness wasnt uncommon, but something about her made him pause. Perhaps it was her straight back despite exhaustion, or the clean but wrinkled dress suggesting recent hardship. Or perhaps it was the way she cradled her bump, whispering comfort to her unborn child.
The light turned green. Edward acceleratedbut her image lingered. There was something in her eyes. Not despair, but resolve. Not defeat, but dignity. She reminded him of Elizabeth, his late wife, whod maintained that same grace even in her final days at the hospice.
*Elizabeth.* Five years since cancer took her. Five years of burying himself in work to avoid the emptiness.
Without realising, Edward circled the block. *What are you doing?* he chided himself. *Not your problem.* But his hands turned the wheel, parking the Rolls a few metres from the tree.
Lucy looked up as his shadow fell over her.
Tall,
