BILLIONARE SECRET's SON

London, 2010 If you want to know what life is like for the sole heir of the Ashford family—one of England's richest noble dynasties. Look no further than the county of Kent, where a massive manor stands whose name has long been a symbol of power. This family holds the title of Duke of Ashford, with a global network of companies so vast it's hard to imagine. An international bank that dominates a transcontinental market. An energy and oil company that supplies nearly half of Europe's needs. Significant investments in technology, from Silicon Valley to artificial intelligence research. In the arts and entertainment world, the Ashford name is associated with film studios, music labels, and even prestigious auction houses. Their property portfolio spans Manhattan, Paris, and Dubai. The family's total wealth is estimated at nine hundred billion US dollars, or the equivalent of six hundred and sixty-six billion pounds sterling. The head of this family is Duke Alexander Ashford, a cold, thirty-three-year-old man. In his hands, the family's glory is maintained, its reputation untouched. However, the attention of the London public is often focused on his only son: Lucien Alexander Ashford, the heir who will one day hold the title of Duke. In 2010, he was only thirteen years old. His hair was pale brown, almost blond, his skin porcelain-white, his lips thin, pink. His face was both handsome and gentle—an aristocratic look that seemed deliberately painted. But London knew him for more than just that. Lucien was a math genius, a childhood Olympic champion. He was a skilled horseman, trained in fencing, and even practiced modern martial arts. His name often graced the pages of newspapers, compared to other children of nobles, though Lucien was always one step ahead. In a manor that spanned more than five manors combined, Lucien not only cycled through the seemingly endless gardens, but also frequently cycled through the manor's long, winding hallways, more like a private art gallery than a home's corridors. The walls are lined with paintings by masters: portraits of 17th-century English aristocrats from the Christie's collection, French pastoral landscapes once displayed at Sotheby's, and modernist canvases purchased directly from the Tate Modern exhibition. There are also classic works that were once part of the British Museum's collection and then came to the Ashford family through an exclusive auction. But it's not just paintings. The corridors are also filled with historical art objects. An Edo-era samurai sword, complete with gold carvings on its hilt. Medieval European armor that once stood in the halls of a German castle now sits beneath the manor's crystal chandelier. A Venetian shield, a Roman spear, and even a knight's helmet from the Crusades. Everything was kept in a polished state, as if fresh from a blacksmith's workshop. For a guest, every step inside the manor felt like a quick trip through the British Museum, the Louvre, and the V&A Museum all at once. But for Lucien, these were merely childhood decorations. He was accustomed to passing by Van Dyck paintings or Toledo swords as if he were passing ordinary wallpaper. A world that to others would seem a priceless treasure was, to him, merely the backdrop to everyday life. But those who knew him better knew that behind that calm facade, Lucien deeply understood his father's weaknesses. He knew Duke Alexander's deepest traumas: the loss of his wife, the premature death of his mother. He also knew that the family fortune was too vast for time to erode. This knowledge made Lucien grow in confidence—sometimes arrogant, sometimes charming, often spoiled and annoying. To Harrington, the butler who raised him since childhood, Lucien was a special child. He would always find a reason to defend his young master, even when facing the Duke. And to London's nobility, Lucien was the prototype of the ideal prince. It was no wonder that the daughters of noble families whispered about their desire for a marriage with him. But Harrington knew better. He knew the boy nicknamed the young Duke of Ashford was far more complicated than his handsome looks and numerous accomplishments. Lucien was a growing storm. A small earthquake that sometimes appeared as an argument with his father, sometimes turned into chaos that shook the entire manor. Yet, somehow, every time the storm came, he was always forgiven, by Harrington, by the staff, and even by the Duke himself. And it was precisely this defense that often softened Alexander Ashford's heart. Turning Lucien into a spoiled brat who understood that no matter how strong the reason, he wouldn't be scolded for long. — That morning, Duke Alexander's patience had completely run out. His frustration exploded, no longer able to disguise himself behind aristocratic dignity. His son, that damn teenager. The word damn might be too harsh for a nobleman, but this morning there was no other more appropriate term. Lucien, the Ashford heir, has gone too far. He hacked the manor's security system, escaped in the middle of the night, and was caught on camera playing in a London youth club. He even disguised himself as a fifteen-year-old, knowing that thirteen-year-olds were not allowed. And instead of the violin, he chose the electric guitar. His distortion was so deafening that it made the Duke's blood boil. “LUCIENNNN!” Duke Alexander shouted. His voice boomed through the grand study, making the crystal chandeliers tremble as if gripped by fear. The study itself was a small palace. Walls paneled in old mahogany, bookshelves filled with classic literature and the laws of the English nobility, gold-framed portraits of Ashford's ancestors staring down in judgment, and a black marble desk topped with a towering golden lion. The scent of the old leather Chesterfield chairs mingled with the lingering scent of cigar smoke. The air was oppressive, heavy with authority, and a hint of rage on the verge of extinction. The door creaked. Lucien entered with a casual air. He pedaled his bicycle halfway through the room, as if the manor's corridors were his own private path. He stopped right in front of his father's desk, dismounted on slightly shaky legs, and parked his bicycle without a trace of guilt. An innocent smile spread across his face, either a plea for forgiveness or a taunt. His father towered nearly two meters tall. In Lucien's eyes, Duke Alexander would forever seem like the most terrifying dictator he had ever known. "Good morning, my beloved father..." he said in a thick British accent. His words were half respectful and half teasing. Duke Alexander stared at him coldly. “No more excuses, Lucien. Today you will depart for Eton and return to this house as a young gentleman.” Lucien stomped his feet on the marble floor. His hands tangled in his blond-brown hair. “No! Father, this isn’t fair!” he shouted. His breath was ragged, his face red, and his eyes glinting with anger and despair. He kicked the air as if to fight the decision that had already been made. CRASH! Duke Alexander's hand slammed into the marble table. The crystal case shook violently, and the antique pen fell, leaving a wide black ink stain across the official document. The crash echoed throughout the room, as if every object had bowed to the Duke's wrath. Lucien fell silent. His previously tousled hair fell in a mess, covering his forehead. His lips trembled. All his tantrums were instantly extinguished. "Please, Father…" he said softly, almost a whisper. But the Duke's decision remained unchanged. His eyes remained cold, as hard as steel. That day marked the end of Lucien's little freedom. Harrington, the loyal butler, entered the room. This time he did not defend his young master. Absolutely not. He just cleared his throat, his eyes were a mixture of sympathy, empathy and annoyance that was hard to hide. "Please, Harrington. Please help me..." Lucien turned his head hopefully. Harrington just shook his head slowly. His tone was firm, but layered with patience. “I’m sorry, Master Luc. I can’t help you today. You were truly too extraordinary this time.” Three large suitcases were placed before Lucien. From behind them, a servant brought out the formal Eton uniform. A jet-black suit with the school crest: a blue shield with a white cross and a tower in the center, adorned with gold lilies on the sides. Long, neatly pleated gray trousers, a high-collared white shirt, and a dark blue silk tie. A classic cut, a symbol of discipline and centuries-old tradition. Lucien shuddered. His eyes widened, his lips curled into a grimace as if witnessing a death sentence. To Lucien, the uniform wasn't clothing but invisible handcuffs. Today, he was officially a prisoner of Eton. But Lucien wouldn't give up so easily. His body might be imprisoned, but his passion for freedom could never be killed by anyone, not even Eton. Lucien looked at the uniform once more. The black suit with the proud Eton crest stared back at him like an ancient, hungry monster. He let out a long sigh, then glanced at Harrington. “If I die a boring death there, Harrington, let my epitaph read: Here lies Lucien Alexander Ashford, slain not by sword, but by boredom.” Harrington raised an eyebrow. “That is, if Eton allows you to create your own epitaph, Master Luc.” Lucien pursed his lips, then kicked his suitcase lightly. “Well… then, I’ll write it in chalk on the school wall.” Duke Alexander's gaze remained sharp, though the corners of his lips twitched slightly, almost as if in a smile. But then he returned his gaze to his only son. For a split second, Lucien immediately lowered his head. How could his father be so frightening, even in silence? “You Kent-dictator…” he cursed in annoyance, this time loud enough to be heard. That day, Lucien officially left for Eton. Not as a spoiled heir, nor as a rebellious child. Cars were already waiting in the manor grounds: a gleaming black Rolls-Royce, complete with two escort cars behind it. But before disembarking, Lucien was led back to his room by a servant—a room larger than most middle-class London homes. The room was full of the luxuries typical of a thirteen-year-old aristocrat: a four-poster bed with white satin sheets, a bookshelf full of classic leather editions mixed with Japanese comics, a mahogany study table crammed with the latest computers and game consoles, a collection of miniature sports cars in glass cases, a marble bathtub with gold faucets in the corner of the private bathroom, and a walk-in closet the size of a two-bedroom studio apartment that looked more like a small boutique. On one side, his two-wheeled bicycle was parked sweetly near his study table—a small reminder that behind all the luxury, he was still a kid who didn't want to grow up yet. Soon, the suitcases were loaded, the Rolls-Royce door opened, and the Duke sat in the back seat right beside him. For Lucien, that morning had officially become the most terrifying nightmare of his life. Lucien took a deep breath. As soon as the car door closed, he looked up, then suddenly closed his eyes tightly and dropped his head onto the shoulder of the seat. His body slumped dramatically, his hands hanging limp like a corpse. “I… can’t, Father… I’m… dying…” she murmured softly in a theatrical tone. “Eton… is… too… cruel…” Harrington, sitting in the front seat, glanced in the rearview mirror, holding back laughter. “Your acting skills are truly remarkable, Master Luc. It’s a shame drama isn’t part of the Eton curriculum.” Duke Alexander simply let out a long sigh, staring straight ahead. His gaze remained cold, but the veins in his temples seemed to tense. Lucien opened one eye slightly, peeking out. Seeing his father's complete lack of reaction, he sighed in disappointment and then muttered softly, "You big rock in a suit... there's no audience colder than Father." --- The gleaming black Rolls-Royce rolled slowly down the neatly paved driveway, leading to the towering gates, like those of a palace. The Academia of Eton. The name alone was enough to make anyone swallow hard or gasp in awe. The gates were tall and imposing, adorned with a blue shield with a white cross and a central tower, framed by golden lilies that glistened in the sunlight. The school stands in the small town of Eton, Berkshire, right on the banks of the tranquil River Thames. Only a bridge separates it from Windsor, the royal city with its castle dominating the skyline. From London, the journey to Eton takes only an hour, but the atmosphere feels completely different, older, more graceful, as if every corner still whispers with the sounds of centuries of history. Tudor-style towers stand proud, vast grounds stretch with meadows used for cricket and horse riding, while in the distance small boats bob on the Thames, reflecting the soft glow of the English afternoon. This school isn't just a boarding school; it's a palace of learning, the size of several small city districts, and the price tag is staggering: the entrance fee and annual fees for a single child total nearly £250,000 per year. That's the equivalent of buying a classic townhouse in Mayfair, plus a vintage sports car as a bonus. The children at Eton Academia are divided into strict categories, like a royal code. At the top are the nobility and royalty: sons born with political and economic influence rivaling that of some European monarchies. Among them are princes from England, Spain, Monaco, Saudi Arabia, and even Japan—children whose presence commands respect before they even open their mouths. Next are the upper-class aristocrats who may not rule kingdoms, but who can make small towns fall in love with their family fortune. Then there are the young tycoons whose fathers can afford a museum or three, a masterwork at Sotheby's, or a luxury property without looking at their bank balance. Finally, there are the geniuses, not aristocrats, but whose intelligence makes teachers blush in admiration and school commissioners nod in respect. Some of them come from the United States, the sons of ambassadors or state governors, bringing a distinct diplomatic air to the European aristocracy. The school is spread across four boys' dormitories, each with its own distinct identity and style. Windsor, home to princes and royal heirs, boasts apartment-sized private rooms, four-poster beds, and balconies overlooking the horse park. Lancaster, for aristocrats and wealthy families who want to stand out without being overly extravagant, is elegant but more relaxed than Windsor. York, the home of young conglomerates, boasts technology, private practice rooms, and a mini-library filled with rare books and comics. Tudor, dedicated to young geniuses and academics, is simple yet comfortable, complete with mini-laboratories and art studios to unleash their creativity. The school's academic curriculum was a complex symphony: history and politics, classical literature, pure science, advanced mathematics, foreign languages, philosophy, and rhetoric—all taught as if the children would take over the world tomorrow. But the activities of the "true nobility" were more than entertainment: cricket in the morning, golf in the calm afternoons, fencing on the lawn, shooting in the arena, and horse riding in the vast park that stretched to a small lake, where wooden boats glided slowly as the sun washed over the golden leaves. Lucien would occupy the Windsor suite, a spacious single room with large windows overlooking the equestrian park, classic furnishings, and a four-poster bed that made him feel like a little king in his own private kingdom. This was where he would study, argue, misbehave, and charm his friends with his irresistible charisma. Because even though rules and traditions stood like thick brick walls, Lucien Alexander Ashford had a knack for finding a way to break free, stand out, and, of course, cause a little chaos. The boy was a prodigy, an unstoppable little rebel. When his father stepped out of the Rolls-Royce with elegant strides, Lucien was still floating in his own world. A blue headset looped around his blond hair like a headband, an iPod in his hand, he looked down briefly before his head began to sway, bouncing, tapping his feet to the rhythm of Bryan Adams's Summer of '69. His hands dramatically mimicked guitar movements, each imaginary chord struck with intoxicating confidence. His father, Duke Alexander, patted Lucien's head reassuringly, and the boy paused, staring at him with a raised eyebrow, before returning to his dancing and frenzied pace to the song that was playing on repeat, the volume of which was nearly deafening to a normal person's ears. Anyone watching would have been annoyed, and indeed, Eton's headmaster, Sir Reginald Thorne, a middle-aged man with a thin moustache and piercing gray eyes, stared from the gates with a tone that was half sarcastic, half exasperated, unable to quite get angry. This boy was different. Wilder, more self-assured, and clearly more brilliant than anyone he had ever met in Eton's genius classes. Sir Reginald sighed, stifled a murmur, then whispered softly to himself in a harsh British tone: "What a spoiled billionaire brats! Come to my school, Lord..." She stared at Lucien with thoughtful gray eyes, trying to determine whether she should intervene or let the chaos unfold. But in her gaze, something immediately became clear: there was a wild intelligence behind all this dramatic action, a force that could change the rules of the school. Lucien, oblivious to his observation, kept moving, head bowed, feet tapping, hands working the air as if a real guitar were in his hands. His music, energy, and confidence were both a warning and a promise: this boy would be a legend at Eton, for better or worse, and anyone who tried to restrain or control him would learn one thing: Lucien Alexander Ashford was unstoppable. As his father walked stoically toward the gate, accompanied by Lucien, who bowed slightly, Duke Alexander carried himself with an undeniable dignity. Sir Reginald Thorne, the headmaster of Eton, greeted them on the steps of the gate, his eyes sweeping over each of the incoming figures. “Ah… Duke Alexander,” Sir Reginald greeted him formally, but his eyes couldn’t hide the slight amusement and amazement he felt for Lucien’s father. “It’s a pleasure to meet you… and of course, your… unique son.” Duke Alexander nodded slowly, still exuding an aristocratic grace that made several of the young teachers near the gates bow involuntarily. With a faint smile, he bowed slightly and shook hands with Sir Reginald—classic Duke style: a firm handshake, eyes fixed, a slight bend at the wrist to show respect, but still asserting his dominance and authority. Sir Reginald nearly lost his composure. Half shocked, half exasperated, he swallowed hard and tried to compose himself. “Duke Alexander, I… uh, of course—would be honored to welcome you and your son to the Academy of Eton,” he said finally, his voice trembling slightly, his gray eyes never leaving Duke Alexander’s subtle movements. Lucien, standing beside his father, bowed lightly as usual. With characteristic dramatic flair, he raised one hand, looked at Sir Reginald with sparkling blue eyes, and said with a faint but confident smile, “Lucien Alexander Ashford, at your service, sir. I hope I haven’t made a scene… too soon.” Sir Reginald fell silent. Not because Lucien was polite. Far from it—but because of the mix of charm, assertiveness, and a hint of arrogance that radiated from the thirteen-year-old. His heart beat a little faster. The headmaster had dealt with geniuses, delinquents, even stubborn noble children. But Lucien's combination—recalcitrant, genius, charismatic—left him almost speechless. Duke Alexander patted his son on the shoulder, a faint smile on his lips, then added in a casual yet authoritative tone, giving Lucien a small eye signal: “Study hard, my little boy. And don’t forget… always make your life a little more interesting, my dear boy.” Lucien just nodded, a small smile still on his lips, while Sir Reginald stared at them both, a little shocked, a little amazed, and clearly aware of one thing: this boy was going to be a legend at Eton, whether he was ready or not. ----- The days at the boarding school were trying times for Sir Reginald and the teachers there. The influence of this brash, mischievous, brilliant, and charismatic boy spread quickly, not only among the nobility but also among the talented students. Every day, he always got into something. Teachers were furious, and the principal sometimes wanted to nail his head to the blackboard. But Lucien was always one step ahead. He mastered fencing with aristocratic artistry, every move graceful yet deadly. His piano and violin playing was on par with classical music maestros, capable of mesmerizing anyone who heard him. In cricket, every team he played for, even as captain, played to Lucien's own rhythm and strategy, leaving both opponents and teammates in awe and frustration. Mathematics was another area where he excelled. Lucien was always presenting new theories and formulas that made the students in his class, even upperclassmen, prefer to gather around him to study together rather than follow the teacher's formulas. His grades were certainly always positive, but there was another side to them. His ability to hack the dormitory's security and escape with his friends was simply to experience the freedom of adolescence. They played games, discoed a bit, or danced with the girls who took turns accompanying them. Lucien was no ordinary nobleman. He was simply a madman who happened to be born into the royal line. That was Sir Reginald's nickname for him, a boy who combined extraordinary intelligence, courage, and chaos in one package that could never be ignored. Nights, especially Saturday nights, were Lucien's domain. As the London sky darkened, the streetlights of Mayfair and Soho twinkled mesmerizingly, reflecting off the cobblestone pavements like jewels. This was Lucien's freedom, away from the watchful eyes of teachers and the restrictive rules of school. With nimble fingers, he hacked into the hostel's security system, clearing the way for his gang to go out and enjoy the night. He splashed money in spectacular fashion, feeding the security guards delicious meals, or slipping hundreds of thousands to millions of pounds into a single night of fun. The gang followed without question. There was Edmund Fairfax, with his dark brown hair always neatly combed and his gaze filled with arrogance; Peregrine Holt, blond and always staring with a sneer that made him look older than his years; Sebastian Carroway, his black hair shining, his cold smile hinting at a sense of superiority; Alistair Vance, his golden blond and his gray eyes always observing; Lorenzo Di Luca, his light brown hair always falling in his eyes, his face elegant but demanding attention; Theo Kingsley, dark brown, always with a book in his hand, staring at the world with a curiosity that hinted at intelligence but also ambition; and Miles Abernathy, his tousled blond, his smile innocent but full of hidden tactics. They followed Lucien because of his influence, because of his charm and charisma. But Lucien was completely oblivious to it. Friendship at Eton was a game of subtle tactics and politics, and no one was truly sincere. If Lucien were to fall one day, who would help him? No one. But tonight, on the glittering streets of Mayfair and Bond Street, they still followed him, running, laughing, chatting, and pausing at the Café Royal or The Arts Club, enjoying the music and the city lights. It was all Lucien's stage. It was a world he controlled, while his friends were mere shadows around him, loyal to his image, not to him.