“He isn’t my son,” the millionaire stated 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 filling her eyes. If only he had known…
The storm outside mirrored the tempest raging within the stately home. Sophie stood frozen, knuckles white as she pressed little Oliver against her chest. Her husband, William Pendleton, billionaire magnate and head of the Pendleton family, glared down at her with a fury she hadn’t witnessed in ten years of marriage.
“William, please,” Sophie whispered, her voice trembling. “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 struck harder than a slap. Her knees nearly buckled.
“You had a test… without telling me?”
“I had no choice. He doesn’t look like me. Doesn’t even act like me. And I couldn’t ignore the gossip any longer.”
“Gossip? William, he’s a baby! And he *is* your son! I swear on everything I hold dear!”
But William’s mind was made up.
“Your things will be sent to your father’s place. Don’t come back here. Ever.”
Sophie lingered a moment longer, hoping this was just another of his impulsive decisions, forgotten by morning. But the ice in his voice killed that hope. She turned and walked out, her heels clicking on the marble as thunder crashed over the mansion.
Sophie had grown up modestly, entering a world of privilege upon marrying William. She was elegant, poised, clever—everything the society pages lauded and high society secretly resented. None of that mattered now.
As the Bentley drove Sophie clutching Oliver back to her father’s cottage in Lancashire, her thoughts churned. She’d been faithful. She’d loved William, stood by him through market crashes, press scandals, even when even his mother had shunned her. And now, she was cast out like a trespasser.
Her father, Edward Hartley, opened the door, eyes wide with shock.
“Sophie? What on earth happened?”
She collapsed into his arms. “He said Oliver isn’t his… He threw us out.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “Come inside, love.”
In the following days, Sophie adjusted to her stark reality. The cottage was small, her old bedroom scarcely changed. Oliver, oblivious, babbled and played, offering fleeting moments of calm amidst the pain.
But something kept niggling: the DNA test. How could it be wrong?
Desperate for answers, she went to the Cambridge lab where William had the test done. She still had connections—and some favours owed. What she uncovered chilled her to the bone.
The test had been altered.
Meanwhile, William haunted his empty mansion, tormented by the silence. He told himself he’d done right—he couldn’t raise another man’s child. But guilt gnawed at him. He avoided Oliver’s nursery, until one day, curiosity won. Seeing the empty cot, the stuffed fox on the shelf, the tiny shoes neatly placed, something inside him shattered.
His mother, Lady Agatha, offered no comfort.
“I warned you, William,” she said, sipping her tea. “That Hartley girl was never right for you.”
Even she was taken aback when William didn’t retort.
Days passed. Then a week.
And then a letter arrived.
No return address. Just a single sheet and a photograph.
William’s hands shook as he read.
“William,
You were wrong. Utterly wrong.
You wanted proof—here it is. I found the original results. The test was altered. And this photograph I found in your mother’s study… You know what it means.
—Sophie.”
He’s Not My Child
