No, He Is Not My Son

The boy isnt mine, said the millionaire coldly, his voice echoing through the marble hall. Take your things and leave. Both of you. He pointed to the door. His wife clutched their baby tightly, tears welling in her eyes. If only he knew

Outside, the storm raged, matching the tempest inside. Eleanor stood frozen, her knuckles white as she gripped little Oliver to 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 she whispered, her voice trembling. You dont know what youre saying.

I know perfectly well, he snapped. This boy isnt mine. I had a DNA test done last week. The results are clear.

The accusation struck harder than a slap. Eleanors 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! And hes yours! I swear on everything I have!

But Gregory had already made up his mind.

Your things will be sent to your fathers house. Dont come back here. Ever.

Eleanor lingered a moment longer, hoping this was just another one of his impulsive decisions, the kind that passed in a day. 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 boomed over the manor.

Eleanor had grown up in a modest household but had 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 the car carried her and Oliver back to her fathers cottage in the countryside, her mind raced. She had been faithful. Shed loved Gregory, stood by him when stocks crashed, when the press destroyed him, even when his mother rejected her. And now she was cast out like a stranger.

Her father, Martin Fairchild, 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, blissfully unaware, babbled and played, giving her moments of calm between the pain.

But something nagged 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 chilled her to the bone.

The test had been falsified.

Meanwhile, Gregory sat alone in his London mansion, tormented by silence. He told himself hed done what was necessarythat he couldnt raise another mans child. But the battle with his conscience gnawed at him. He avoided Olivers old room, but one day, curiosity got the better of him. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, the 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 Fairchild girl was never right for you.

But even she was taken aback when Gregory didnt reply.

A day passed. Then a week.

Then came a letter.

No return address. Just a sheet of paper and a photograph.

Gregorys hands shook as he read.

*Gregory,*
*You were wrong. Horribly wrong.*
*You wanted proofhere it is. I found the original results. The test was rigged. And the photo tucked insideI found it in your mothers study You know what that means.*
* Eleanor.*

Gregory collapsed 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.

Everything exploded inside him. 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 him. The photo showed his father with the same blue eyes as Oliver, proving his aunt Agatha had falsified the DNA test in her madness to break their marriage. The paper crumpled in his trembling grip.

Now, alone in the cold hall, it didnt matter how many pounds he had. Only the heavy tears staining the letterand the desperate urge to run back to Eleanor and the child hed been so afraid to love.