“It’s not my son,” the millionaire said coldly, his voice echoing through the marble foyer. “Take your things and leave. Both of you.” He pointed to the door. His wife clutched their baby tighter, tears welling in her eyes. If only he knew
The storm outside mirrored the one inside. Eleanor stood frozen, her fingers white from how tightly she held little Oliver against her chest. Her husband, Gregory Blackwood, a multimillionaire tycoon and head of the Blackwood family, glared at her with a fury she hadnt seen in ten years of marriage.
“Gregory, please,” Eleanor whispered, her voice trembling. “You dont know what youre saying.”
“I know exactly what Im saying,” he snapped. “This boy isnt mine. I took a DNA test last week. The results are clear.”
The accusation stung worse than a slap. Eleanors knees nearly buckled.
“You ran the test without telling me?”
“I had to. He doesnt look like me. Doesnt act like me. And I couldnt ignore the rumours anymore.”
“Rumours? Gregory, hes a baby! And hes yours! I swear on everything!”
But Gregory had already made up his mind.
“Your things will be sent to your fathers house. Dont come back. Ever.”
Eleanor lingered for a moment, hoping it was just another one of his impulsive decisionsones that usually faded by morning. But the ice in his voice left no room for doubt. She turned and walked out, the click of her heels echoing on marble as thunder rumbled above the manor.
Eleanor had grown up in a modest home but stepped into privilege when she married Gregory. She was elegant, poised, and sharpeverything the magazines praised and high society envied. None of it mattered now.
As her old Ford carried her and Oliver back to her fathers cottage in the countryside, her mind raced. Shed been faithful. Shed loved Gregory, stood by him when stocks crashed, when the press tore him apart, even when his mother rejected her. Now, shed been tossed out like a stranger.
Her father, Martin Croft, opened the door, eyes wide with shock.
“Ellie? Whats happened?”
She collapsed into his arms. “He said Oliver isnt his He threw us out.”
Martins jaw tightened. “Come inside, love.”
In the days that followed, Eleanor adjusted to her new reality. The house was small, her old bedroom barely changed. Oliver, oblivious, babbled and played, giving her moments of peace between the pain.
But something gnawed at herthe DNA test. How could it be wrong?
Desperate for answers, she went to the lab where Gregory had tested. She had connectionsand favours to call in. What she discovered turned her blood to ice.
The test had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Gregory sat alone in his London mansion, haunted by silence. He told himself hed done the right thinghe couldnt raise another mans child. But guilt ate at him. He avoided Olivers old room until, one day, curiosity overwhelmed him. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, tiny shoes lined up on the shelfsomething inside him shattered.
Even his mother, Lady Agatha, offered no comfort.
“I warned you, Gregory,” she said, sipping her expensive tea. “That Croft girl was never right for you.”
But even she paused when Gregory didnt reply.
A day passed. Then a week.
Then, a letter arrived.
No return address. Just a sheet of paper and a photograph.
Gregorys hands shook as he read.
“Gregory,
You were wrong. Terribly wrong.
You wanted proofhere it is. I found the original results. The test was rigged. And the photo tucked inside? I found it in your mothers study You know what it means.
Eleanor.”
Gregory slumped into his chair, the paper slipping from his fingers. The photograph landed face-up on the polished floor: Lady Agatha shamelessly plucking hairs from the babys pillow, her smile cold and triumphant.
Everything exploded inside him. There it wasthe proof. His mother had stolen the samples, ruining everything.
He shot to his feet, consumed by rage. How dare she? What kind of monster
Then it hit him. The photo showed his father with the same blue eyes as Oliver, proving how Aunt Agatha had falsified the DNA test in her madness to break them apart. The paper crumpled in his trembling grip. Now, alone in the cold foyer, it didnt matter how many pounds he had in the bankonly the heavy tears staining the letter and the desperate urge to run back to Eleanor and the child hed been so afraid to love.
