Thats not my son, the millionaire said coldly, his voice echoing through the marble foyer. Take your things and leave. Both of you. He gestured toward the door. His wife clutched their baby tighter, tears brimming in her eyes. If only he knew
Outside, the storm raged as fiercely as the turmoil inside. Eleanor stood frozen, her fingers white from gripping little Oliver to her chest. Her husband, Gregory Harrington, a multimillionaire tycoon and head of the Harrington dynasty, stared 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. That boy isnt mine. I had a DNA test done last week. The results are clear.
The accusation struck harder than any slap. Her knees nearly buckled.
You did the test without telling me?
I had to. He doesnt look like me. Doesnt act like me. And I couldnt ignore the rumours any longer.
Rumours? Gregory, hes a baby! He *is* 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 here. *Ever.*
Eleanor lingered for a moment, hoping this was just one of his impulsive decisionsthe kind that passed by morning. But the coldness in his voice left no room for doubt. She turned and walked out, the click of her heels echoing on marble as thunder crashed over the manor.
Eleanor had grown up in a modest home but stepped into privilege when she married Gregory. She was elegant, poised, intelligenteverything the magazines praised and high society envied. None of that mattered now.
As the car carried her and Oliver back to her fathers countryside cottage in Devon, her mind reeled. She had been faithful. She had loved Gregory, stood by him when the markets crashed, when the press tore him apart, even when his mother shunned her. Now she was cast out like a stranger.
Her father, Martin Croft, opened the door, his 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 the test done. She still had connectionsand favours to call in. What she discovered froze her blood.
The test had been tampered with.
Meanwhile, Gregory sat alone in his London mansion, suffocated by silence. He told himself hed done the right thinghe couldnt raise another mans child. But guilt gnawed at him. He avoided Olivers old nursery, until one day, curiosity overwhelmed him. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, tiny shoes still 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 frowned when Gregory didnt reply.
Days passed. Then a week.
Then a letter arrived.
No sender. Just a sheet of paper and a photograph.
Gregorys hands shook as he read it.
*Gregory,*
*You were wrong. Terribly wrong.*
*You wanted proofhere it is. I found the original results. The test was altered to say what it did. 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 strands of hair from the babys pillow, her smile cold and triumphant. His world exploded. Here was the proof. His mother had stolen the samples, ruining everything.
He shot to his feet, shaking with fury. How *dare* she? What kind of monster
Then it hit himthe truth. The photo showed his father with the same blue eyes as Oliver, proving Aunt Agatha had falsified the DNA test in her madness to break their marriage. The paper crumpled in his trembling grip.
Now, standing alone in that cold foyer, it didnt matter how many *pounds* he had. All that mattered were the heavy tears staining the letterand the desperate urge to run back to Eleanor and the child hed been so afraid to love.
