No, He Is Not My Son

**Diary Entry**

“Hes not my son,” the millionaire said 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 tighter, tears welling in her eyes. If only he knew

The storm outside mirrored the one inside. Eleanor stood frozen, her fingers white from gripping little Oliver so tightly. Her husband, Gregory Harrington, a multimillionaire tycoon and head of the Harrington family, glared at her with a fury she hadnt seen in ten years of marriage.

“Gregory, please,” Eleanor whispered, her voice shaking. “You dont know what youre saying.”

“Oh, I do,” he snapped. “That boy isnt mine. I took a DNA test last week. The results are clear.”

The accusation stung worse than a slap. Her knees nearly buckled.

“You had the test done without telling me?”

“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 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. Ever.”

Eleanor lingered a moment, hoping this was just another one of his impulsive moods, something hed forget by morning. But the ice in his voice left no room for doubt. She turned and walked out, the click of her heels fading on the marble as thunder rolled over the manor.

Eleanor had grown up modestly but married into privilege. Elegant, poised, and sharpeverything the society pages praised. None of it mattered now.

As her old Mini 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, Lady Agatha, shunned her. And now she was cast out like a stranger.

Her father, Martin Cresswell, opened the door, eyes wide.

“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 life. The cottage was small, her old room 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 Gregory had used. She still had connectionsand favours to call in. What she discovered turned her blood cold.

The test had been tampered with.

Meanwhile, Gregory sat alone in his London mansion, haunted by the silence. He told himself hed done the right thinghe couldnt raise another mans child. But guilt ate at him. He avoided Olivers old nursery, until one day, curiosity won. Seeing the empty crib, the stuffed giraffe, tiny shoes still on the shelfsomething inside him broke.

Even his mother, Lady Agatha, didnt help.

“I warned you, Gregory,” she said, sipping her expensive tea. “That Cresswell girl was never right for you.”

But even she frowned when Gregory didnt reply.

Days passed. Then a week.

Then came the letter.

No return address. Just a single pageand a photograph.

Gregorys hands trembled as he read.

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

Gregory sank into his chair, the paper slipping from his fingers. The photograph landed face-up on the polished floorLady Agatha, shamelessly plucking strands of hair from the babys pillow, her smile cold and triumphant.

Everything exploded inside him. There it wasproof. His own mother had stolen the samples, ruined everything.

He shot to his feet, shaking with rage. How *dare* she? What kind *of monster*

Then it hit him. The photo showed his fatherthe same blue eyes as Oliver. Aunt Agatha had falsified the DNA test in her madness to break their marriage. The paper crumpled in his trembling hands.

Now, alone in that cold hall, no amount of *pounds* in the bank mattered. Only the heavy tears staining the letterand the desperate urge to run back to Eleanor and the child hed been too afraid to love.

**Lesson learned: Pride blinds, but the truth cuts deeper.**