He’s Not My Child

“He is not my son,” the millionaire declared coldly, his voice echoing through the marble hall. “Pack your things and leave. Both of you.” He pointed towards the door. His wife clutched their baby tightly, tears welling in her eyes. If only he had known…
The storm raging outside mirrored the turmoil within the manor. Eleanor stood frozen, knuckles white as she pressed little Oliver to her chest. Her husband, Gregory Whitmore, shipping magnate and head of the Whitmore dynasty, regarded her with a fury she’d never witnessed in their ten years of marriage.
“Gregory, please,” Eleanor whispered, her voice trembling. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I say,” he snapped. “That child… is not mine, not my blood. I had a test done last week. The results speak plainly.”
The accusation struck deeper than any blow. Eleanor’s knees nearly buckled.
“You had a test… without telling me?”
“I had to. He doesn’t resemble me. He doesn’t share my nature. And I couldn’t ignore the talk any longer.”
“Talk? Gregory, he’s a babe! He is your son! I swear on all I hold dear.”
But Gregory’s mind was set.
“Your belongings will be sent to your father’s cottage. Do not return here. Ever.”
Eleanor lingered a moment longer, hoping this was merely one of his tempers, forgotten by morning. But the chilling finality in his voice left no doubt. She turned and left, her heels clicking sharply on the marble as thunder boomed overhead.
Eleanor had grown up modestly, entering a world of privilege upon marrying Gregory. She was elegant, poised, intelligent—everything society pages celebrated and high society envied. Yet none of it mattered now.
As the motor car carried Oliver and her towards her father’s cottage in the Yorkshire Dales, her mind raced. She had been faithful. She had loved Gregory: stood by him when markets crashed, when the press tore him down, even when his mother scorned her. And now, cast out like a stranger.
Her father, Martin Claremont, swung the door open, eyes wide. “Ellie? Good heavens, what’s happened?”
She fell into his arms. “He… he said Oliver isn’t his… He turned us out.”
Martin’s jaw was tight. “Come in, girl.”
In the days that followed, Eleanor adjusted to her stark new life. The cottage was small, her old room scarcely changed. Oliver, oblivious, played and babbled, offering fleeting peace within her sorrow.
But something gnawed at her: the test. How could it have been wrong?
Driven by desperation, she sought the Harley Street laboratory where Gregory had gone. She still had contacts—favours owed. What she discovered chilled her blood. The results had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Gregory wandered the empty mansion, tormented by the quiet. He told himself he’d done right—that he couldn’t raise another man’s son. But guilt ate at him. He avoided Oliver’s vacant nursery, yet one day, curiosity overcame him. Seeing the empty cradle, the stuffed giraffe, the tiny shoes on the shelf, something broke inside.
His mother, Lady Agatha, offered no solace.
“I warned you, Gregory,” she said, sipping her tea. “That Claremont girl was never quite our sort.”
Even she was taken aback when Gregory merely stared into the distance.
Days crawled by. Then a week.
Finally, a letter arrived.
No sender. Only a single page and a photograph.
Gregory’s hands shook as he read.
“Gregory,
You were dreadfully mistaken.
You demanded proof—well, here it is. I found the original findings. The test was falsified. And this snap I uncovered in your mother’s study… You know its meaning.
—Eleanor.”