**The Prodigal Son Returns: How Betrayal Led to Total Defeat**
Oliver lounged lazily on the sofa, engrossed in yet another TV binge, when his father walked in. There wasn’t a shred of hesitation in his tone.
“Son, we need to talk.”
“Talk away,” Oliver muttered, eyes glued to the screen.
“Your wife came to me. Says you’ve been acting odd lately. Is something wrong?”
“Everything’s fine,” Oliver brushed him off.
“Fine?” William Sterling silently picked up the tablet from the table, pulled up a photo, and turned the screen toward his son. Oliver looked—and froze.
Once, William and Margaret had been the picture of love—building a business together, walking through life side by side. Yet it wasn’t until they were thirty-eight that their long-awaited son arrived. Oliver was adored, spoiled, raised without discipline. Naturally, he grew up entitled, selfish, and bone-idle.
After barely scraping through university—thanks to his parents’ money—Oliver announced he was “exhausted.” Work? Out of the question. “We’ve got enough cash,” he reasoned.
William insisted on independence, but Margaret shielded him.
“Let him rest. Plenty of time for stress later.”
Her husband just sighed. The boy was hopeless.
Oliver lived indulgently—parties, holidays abroad, a revolving door of girlfriends. He wrecked his expensive gifted car, walked away unscathed, but his mother, struck by shock, ended up in hospital and died a year later. With her went any remaining discipline in Oliver’s life. He drained her savings without shame.
Then he brought home his new fling—Scarlett. Young, flashy, brash. His father smelled trouble immediately.
“Emily—*that’s* your match. Clever, steady, the one who’s loved you since you were kids.”
“Emily’s dull,” Oliver scoffed. “Scarlett’s a party.”
Except the party quickly became a disaster. A raucous gathering left the house trashed, the housekeeper in tears, and William fuming.
“Either you straighten up, or you leave.”
Oliver smirked. “What, I can’t have guests in my own home?”
“It’s *my* home,” William replied calmly. “You’ve got a flat. Go there—party all you like.”
Oliver left, but he kept draining his mother’s accounts. Scarlett, it turned out, wasn’t in it for love. Within two years, they were broke—even sold the flat to settle debts. Then Scarlett vanished with another man, leaving Oliver holding their baby.
And so he returned—pale, haggard, humiliated, six-month-old Henry in his arms.
“I’ve nowhere else to go,” he whispered.
His father let him in—on three conditions: clean up his act, get a job, and marry… Emily.
And Emily agreed. All these years, she’d stayed true. She loved Henry as her own. A DNA test confirmed it—he *was* William’s grandson.
For three years, peace reigned. Oliver seemed reformed—working, not carousing, attentive. Then he grew distant. Late nights, mood swings. William hired private security. The photos arrived: Oliver meeting Scarlett.
“Why?” William demanded, tossing the tablet at him.
“She’s Henry’s mother,” Oliver said.
“She’s your ruin. Stay away. And make sure she forgets this address. I’ll see her stripped of every right.”
A week later, Oliver vanished—last seen climbing into a car with Scarlett.
William didn’t survive the betrayal. Emily and Henry stayed by his side in his final days. As for Oliver? He only reappeared months later—tanned, well-kept, Scarlett on his arm.
“Hi,” he grinned at Emily. “You haven’t changed. We’re here about the inheritance.”
“Waste of time. It’s settled,” Emily replied. “Henry, love, head upstairs. Your father and I need to talk.”
The boy obeyed. Then Emily, perfectly composed, said:
“Everything belongs to me and Henry. Legally, I’m his mother.”
“*What?*” Oliver and Scarlett gasped.
“Paperwork’s airtight. Your rights were revoked. You get nothing.”
“We’re his parents!” Scarlett shrieked.
“No,” came Henry’s quiet voice from the stairs. “Parents are the ones who stay. Emily’s my mum. You’re… nobody.”
Security ushered the unwelcome guests out silently. Oliver realised—he’d lost. Again.
