BILLIONARE SECRET's SON

SLIPPING THROUGH DADDY FINGERS

Ashford. A name that is never spoken in any tone. He hailed from Kent, rooted in a lineage of Norman nobles who crossed the seas with William the Conqueror. Their blood is the blood of knights who swore allegiance to the crown, blood who were willing to shed their lives for the kingdom of England. History records that name not only as a family, but as a long legacy layered with honor and sacrifice.

Ashford's power extends far beyond the palace walls. With a single whisper, they can influence the monarchy's policies, yet they modestly conceal their power with a graceful silence. To the world, they appear like shadows walking alongside the kingdom, never demanding the spotlight, but instead serving as the foundation that keeps it burning.

Ashford, the name is revered. It stands atop wealth that surpasses not only that of other noble families but also the kingdom itself. But more than wealth, the name is revered for its authority and loyalty. A name that resonates in the grand halls of Whitehall and silences its opponents with its silence. Ashford is a symbol that cannot be touched by time, a name that demands honor without ever being asked.

History records the name Ashford in textbooks, even in British archaeological records. A name that first resonated in English soil in the eleventh century, when Sir Geoffrey Ashford, a Norman knight, took up his sword under the banner of William the Conqueror. His bravery and loyalty earned the crown the title Duke of Kent, an honor that laid the foundation for Ashford's name to be forever inscribed in history. From its castles overlooking the North Sea to the lush greenery of Kent, Ashford's blood is rooted in English soil, entwined with the kingdom's history from its earliest days.

But the family's glory wasn't always based on war and the sword. Centuries later, Geoffrey's courageous spirit was embodied in William Ashford, born in 1700 and died in 1775. He was no longer a knight, but a visionary sailor and merchant. From Asia and the East Indies, he brought back spices, tea, and textiles, building an unimaginable fortune. For his services to supplying the royal fleet, the King of England bestowed upon him the title Earl of Ashford. With him was born Ashford Bank, the forerunner of the financial dynasty that would form the foundation of the family's fortune.

The reign of Charles Ashford I, who lived from 1735 to 1809, was inherited. He developed an international shipping company, acquired vast tracts of land in England, and established plantations in the Caribbean. The export of sugar and cotton led to the family's rapid growth in wealth, paving the way for the title of Duke, which was to be passed down through his family.

The next generation, Edward Ashford, born in 1780 and died in 1855, read the times with remarkable clarity. The Industrial Revolution was his stage. He invested in steel, coal, and railways, making the Ashfords one of the most influential families in Europe. From there, their name became increasingly associated with the royal court, though they remained business-oriented, maintaining an elegant distance from the hustle and bustle of open politics.

In the 19th century, the baton was taken by Henry Ashford, who lived from 1830 to 1890. He brought the family into the world of banking and the oil industry. Ashford Bank became an international force, financing development in America and Europe. The family's wealth, at one time, was comparable to the British crown jewels.

Then came Richard Ashford, born in 1870 and died in 1945, an heir to a wartime empire. As the world descended into World War II, the Ashford family became a key supplier to the Allies: weapons, planes, and warships. Their fortunes only grew stronger in the fires of war. After the war, Richard shifted his investments to energy and real estate, making Ashford an unshakeable pillar of the global economy.

Entering the modern age, Alistair Ashford, born in 1938 and died in 1995, set his sights on new horizons. He not only played in the oil, energy, and banking sectors, but also controlled the arts, entertainment, and media. Film studios, music labels, and even leading art auction houses fell under his control. Behind the scenes of European politics, he served as both patron and hidden hand, extending Ashford's power into the cultural realm. At that time, the family's wealth was estimated to have exceeded one hundred and fifty billion dollars, making them a shadow even of the monarchy itself.

Now, the baton of history rests in the hands of Duke Alexander Ashford, the older brother of Duchess Lilibeth Ashford, who married Andrew, Earl of Montague. Alexander, with his ingenuity, expanded the family's fortune to new frontiers: global banking, energy, Silicon Valley technology, and even international media. His amassed wealth reached a fantastic figure of nine hundred billion dollars, equivalent to six hundred and sixty-six billion pounds sterling. This made the Ashford name not just a British aristocratic family name, but an empire of power and influence capable of shaking the land itself.

February 1996

The wedding felt like a masterpiece, grand and dazzling, filled with unparalleled luxury. Everyone was in attendance, from high-ranking aristocrats to prominent politicians and businessmen. Lines of classic cars and gleaming black limousines rolled down the street to the cathedral, while guests dressed in their finest, every step and look emphasizing the prestige of the day. Alexander Alistair, the firstborn son of the Ashford empire and newly inherited family power, was seen as the architect of the modernization and expansion of the Ashford fortune. At a young age, he had already established his influence in international banking, energy investments, global real estate, and entertainment and arts networks, making him both the head of the family and a new symbol of power for the centuries-old empire.

England's ancient cathedral, a silent witness to the royal family's history, stood majestically among the autumn trees. Paparazzi lenses lined the aisle, waiting and speculating on the woman who would capture the Duke's heart. At the altar, Eveline, Duchess of Montclair, appeared with a simple yet serene aura. The daughter of the Earl of Montclair, a descendant of a noble family renowned for philanthropy and community service, she preferred mentoring orphans to being swept up in the glitz and glamour of the festivities.

Eveline, a young woman who loved the color yellow, wore a beautiful gown studded with white jewels, with a long train that almost touched the floor, moving gently with each step. Her blonde hair fell naturally, flowing gently down her back, adding a touch of elegance without being overdone. A small flower tiara combined with a matching wedding veil, adding a simple yet stunning touch. Her calm blue eyes contrasted with Alexander's light brown ones, which gazed at her with admiration and determination. That day was not simply a royal wedding, but a merging of two worlds: power and grace, wealth and simplicity—the beginning of a new chapter for both families.

Everyone believed their meeting began when Alexander saw Eveline riding gracefully across the cricket field, her blond hair blowing in the afternoon breeze. But in truth, their story began not amidst the boisterous court game, but at an elegant banquet lit by crystal candlelight. There, they spoke without formalities, laughed freely, and found a closeness that felt so natural, as if they had known each other long before that day.

For Alexander, it wasn't Eveline's title or beauty that captivated him, but her serene smile and her lake-like blue eyes, reflecting a depth he'd never seen before. As for Eveline, she found herself drawn not to the Duke's power or prestige, but to a sincerity rare in a young man his age: Alexander patiently folded thousands of origami birds just for her, a simple yet priceless gesture of love, as if each fold of paper were an unspoken promise.

And as soon as the vows were spoken, the audience burst into laughter—not out of disdain, but because their sincerity was so pure. A love that usually seemed stiff among the nobility, that morning in February 1996, was presented with a touching simplicity. The vows were not just promises, but the meeting of two souls who truly chose each other.

Holding Alexander's fingers, Eveline recited her vows. Her thin, pink lips held a smile, her eyes sparkling as she stared at the man before her.

"Alexander, from the very first moment we spoke, I knew my life would never be the same. You are not merely a Duke in the eyes of the world, but the man who listens, who understands, and who holds my heart with gentleness. Today, I vow to walk beside you in grace and in storm, to cherish your soul above all crowns and titles, and to make our love the quiet strength that endures beyond time."

With an equally firm smile, Alexander looked at Eveline, then pronounced his oath in a voice that trembled softly but was full of conviction.

"Eveline, you are my light, the reason I breathe with hope every morning. If I could fold a thousand paper birds just to see you smile, I would do it a thousand times more. I vow to honor you not only as my wife, but as the keeper of my joy, the guardian of my heart. With you, love is no duty—it is my greatest privilege."

And with those words, without hesitation, Alexander grabbed Eveline's slender waist and kissed her in front of everyone. Applause erupted, not just for a royal wedding, but for a sincere and courageous love that had blossomed amidst a world of formality.

Year by Year until destiny tears us appart.....

The beginning of 1997 arrived without warning. Inside the vast, gleaming Ashford Manor, a masterpiece of classical architecture, the birth of an heir was celebrated like a gift. Halls with towering white marble pillars, a grand red-carpeted staircase, and paintings of kings and knights lined the walls, as if welcoming the baby's first cry. Through the large windows adorned with silk curtains, winter light streamed in, reflecting a golden gleam on the sturdy, old wood carvings—luxurious, yet steeped in history.

Alexander was filled with a joy that was hard to hide. His son, the heir to the great Ashford name, had now entered the world. The baby had his mother's deep blue eyes, soft brownish-blond hair, and a small mole on his forehead—a trace of his father. His tiny face held a strange balance: Eveline's gentleness and Alexander's firmness, as if he were the perfect blueprint for both.

One name whispered in the air, a name that would endure for centuries: Lucien Elian Alexander Ashford.

Eveline hugged her son tightly, kissing his forehead with a mother's tenderness. Her lips trembled, but her smile was full of love.

"Oh, my darling Lucien... my strength, my Elian. Be the light and the guard for your father, my precious boy..."he whispered softly, his British accent adding to the solemnity of the prayer.

Alexander then embraced them both, kissed Eveline's forehead lovingly, then moved on to place a warm kiss on his baby's forehead—a sign of the birth of a family that was now complete.

Alexander was so overjoyed at the birth of his son that he personally designed a special room for Lucien. It was on the third floor of Ashford Manor, a space larger than the average town hall—high walls adorned with dark oak paneling, an arched ceiling adorned with gilded carvings, and large stained-glass windows that let in the glorious spring light. For Alexander, it wasn't just a room for his baby; he wanted to create a small kingdom for his only son.

Inside, she built a walk-in closet that was neatly arranged even when the heir was still a baby. Small shelves held tiny lace-covered clothes, soft leather shoes no bigger than a fist, and warm coats handmade by a court designer.

Another corner of the room was transformed into a playroom. A miniature library with low shelves held imported French and German picture books, wooden horse figurines, and classic silver and mahogany toys. On the other side, Alexander had even placed a variety of bicycles—some painted in glossy black, others with silver frames, all too large for the tiny baby. But for his father, having them ready from an early age was a sign of confidence that his son would grow up strong and courageous.

Not only that, in the center of the room stood two beds: a crib with a white canopy adorned with delicate lace, and right next to it, a luxurious king-size bed with carved Ashford lions on its four supporting pillars. It was as if Alexander were telling the world that his son would not just sleep as a baby, but as an heir, a little prince who had been groomed from the beginning to rule the future.

Year after year, Lucien grew so quickly, it seemed as if each day brought a new surprise for Alexander and Eveline. His first words came sooner than they expected, with a typical baby lisp that brought smiles to everyone's faces. His first baby steps took place in the manor garden, accompanied by the laughter and cheers of his parents. But soon followed by a fall that left him in tears, only to be immediately embraced in their warm embrace.

Every moment felt like a celebration. Lucien's first Christmas, when a special Santa was brought to Ashford Manor just for him, was an unforgettable memory. The tiny baby sat on Santa's lap, his eyes sparkling, while Alexander and Eveline looked at each other with loving smiles. His early years were also filled with travels around the world with his parents. Paris, Rome, and Vienna. But they always returned to Lucien's simple laughter as he trotted through the manor's hallways, or his cries that broke out in the middle of the night, accompanied by his sweet lisp:

“Fathel! Mothel!”

Every time Lucien ran towards his father, Alexander would lift him high in the air, as if he were flying like a superhero. And in those moments, Alexander would always whisper in his son's ear, a small vow shared only between the two of them:

"My son, as long as I draw breath, you will never fall alone. I will be the ground beneath your feet, and the wind that lifts your wings."

Meanwhile, Eveline had her own ritual. Every time Lucien ran into her arms, she would grab her little son, hold him close, then kiss his tiny forehead while whispering lovingly:

"My darling boy, you are my brightest dawn. May your heart remain kind, and may love guide you further than crowns or titles ever could."

To little Lucien, those words may have been just the soft murmurs of a father and mother. But to Alexander and Eveline, those little vows were an emotional legacy, seeds of affection that would become their most precious memories, even when time took everything away.

But even happy times have an end. In 2004, when Lucien was just seven years old, unexpected news struck the Ashford family. Eveline, the loving Duchess, began to fall ill. The family doctor's diagnosis ultimately shook their lives: leukemia.

Despite her weakening body, Eveline remained a source of warmth for her son. Nearly every afternoon, she sat in a wheelchair in Alexander's study, reading adventure stories in a soft voice that brought a twinkle to Lucien's eyes. Alexander often joined in, turning the book-filled room into a small arena where he and Lucien clashed with wooden swords, while Eveline watched with a loving smile—though occasionally a tear fell from her eye, unseen by either of them.

One night, after the swordfight was over and Eveline was asleep in her wheelchair, Alexander knelt down beside his son. In a low but firm voice, he took Lucien's small shoulders and looked deeply into his eyes.

"Lucien, my son… one day, all of this—our home, our name, our legacy—will rest upon your shoulders. Promise me you will keep Ashford whole, no matter what storms may come."

Lucien, innocent yet earnest, nodded and raised his wooden sword. In a clear, childlike voice, he answered with a determination that left his father momentarily speechless:

"I promise, Father. I will keep Ashford safe. And I promise… I will look after Mother, always."

Alexander smiled bitterly, then took his son into his arms. He bent down and whispered again, this time more personally, more like a secret between father and son:

"Then we are bound, you and I. Father and son, guardians of Ashford, and keepers of her heart."

The night ended in a meaningful silence. Alexander lifted Eveline's sleeping body and carried her to her bedroom, while Lucien walked beside her, clinging to the hem of his father's shirt, as if the fabric were the safest anchor for his small body.

Just as happiness always finds its match, sadness also comes as an uninvited guest, yet impossible to refuse. As the English proverb says: "All love stories end in tragedy, for they end either in death or in separation." In love, its ultimate end is a heartbreaking separation or death that ultimately separates, just like the wedding vows spoken at the altar.

In 2005, a year after the verdict, Eveline's body was growing increasingly fragile. Long nights passed in the company of her husband and young son. In the luxurious bedroom of Ashford Manor, white silk curtains shimmered like moonlight, covering a magnificent bed with silk sheets as white as lilies—her favorite flowers that always filled the room.

Eveline, at just twenty-seven years old, lay there, her face as beautiful and graceful as on her wedding day. A soft yellow nightgown, her favorite color, enveloped her weakening body. On one side, her fingers held Lucien's tiny hand, as he wept incessantly, his tears soaking the silk blanket. The sobs erupted into screams, a tantrum that no one could calm—not the servants, not Harrington, her loyal butler, not even her own father, Duke Alexander Alistair Ashford, who sat by the bedside, his face frozen in grief and despair.

And in that tiny embrace, Eveline closed her eyes forever. Little Lucien ran, shaking and hitting his father's chest with all his might.

"Father, please! Make her wake up, make Mother come back! You always said you could make everything true—then make this true! Please, Father…please!!!"

But Alexander remained silent, embracing his son's body, which was trembling violently with sobs. Without a single tear falling from his red eyes, he only gently stroked his only son's shoulder. Behind his frozen face, his chest felt like it had been stabbed by a thousand knives—but as a Duke, he chose to keep everything to himself, bearing the burden of his grief alone. Until finally the small storm subsided, the sobs turned into tired sighs, and Lucien fell asleep in his father's arms, still with tear tracks on his wet cheeks.

The gray sky covered Kent as if nature was mourning too. The old cathedral that once reverberated with the sacred vows of their marriage was now filled with the sound of mourning bells and whispered prayers. Amazing Grace music played, every note seemed to press Alexander's chest deeper.

Lucien remained asleep on his shoulder throughout the procession, his little face serene—as if the world was conspiring to protect the boy from the final hurt that was too heavy to bear. He did not see how his mother's coffin, covered in white satin and decorated with her favorite lilies, was slowly lowered into the grave. He didn't hear the sound of the ground hitting the wood of the coffin, the sound that hit Alexander's ears was like the final beat of a love symphony.

And before the bowed heads of the nobles, servants, and family friends, Duke Alexander Alistair Ashford stood tall. Tears free, only tightly clutching his little son's body, as if he were trying to keep the entire crumbling world from swallowing them both up at once.

Before the coffin was completely closed, he placed a final white lily on top, then whispered softly in his English accent broken by grief:

"Sleep now, my Eveline… and let the lilies guard your rest. I shall carry your light within my shadows, until time itself concedes to our love once more,"

From that moment on, out of nowhere, the father-son relationship began to drift apart—slowly but surely. No one was able to bridge the gap between them. Lucien, who had recently lost his mother, often visited his father simply to play, or perhaps share a few childhood memories with Eveline. But Alexander became increasingly immersed in work, meetings with colleagues, and endless business trips.

The Duke's study, once a haven of laughter, wooden swordplay, and Eveline's tales, had now grown cold. The scent of paper, ink, and bourbon replaced the once-perpetual scent of lilies. Lucien often stood in the doorway, his steps small but hopeful—as if searching for a way back to when his mother was still here, when their world was still intact.

“Father, could you please listen to the story I've written about us?”he asked one afternoon, returning home from Wetherby School, where the sons of the English nobility were trained from an early age. His little coat flapped as he ran, his tiny leather shoes clicking on the marble floor, his face beaming with excitement.

However, without looking up from his desk filled with files, Alexander answered flatly,

“Not now, Lucien. Later.”

And at that moment, the light in the boy's eyes dimmed, replaced by a lethargy that even a child his age shouldn't have.

Or as Lucien grew older, he would return bearing trophies from his hard work. From horse riding to fencing to various other sports he pursued with discipline. He would knock eagerly on his father's study door, hoping for a smile or a proud nod. But before he could even tell his story, Alexander's cold voice would always break his heart:

"Father said—later, Lucien. Later! When you can understand, boy."

And once again, those little shoulders slumped. The face that was previously beaming with victory turned sluggish, as if every trophy he held had lost its meaning.

He tried everything to get the Duke's attention. Sometimes he pretended to fall, hoping his father would rise from his chair and reach out to him like he had before. But Alexander remained indifferent, his eyes fixed solely on the important documents and letters.

It wasn't that Lucien wasn't obedient. On the contrary, he always was. He only wanted one priceless thing: his father's gaze, a simple smile, or perhaps a word of praise. But that praise never came. And day by day, that longing slowly turned into an invisible wound.

Lucien grew into a small storm. Stubborn, resourceful, and always looking for a way to make his father notice him. He could play the violin gracefully, conquer the piano with elegance, and even win numerous awards in classical music competitions. But none of this ever caught Alexander's attention. So Lucien chose another path: he grabbed an electric guitar and filled Ashford Manor with its powerful beat, as if to shake the ancient walls that had silenced him.

Alexander was furious. But it was in that anger that Lucien felt successful. For once, his father's gaze was on him.

He often secretly fled the manor, leaving cryptic notes and small traces that only his father could read. With uncanny cunning, he always devised plans to make the Duke worry, even furious. Sometimes he returned covered in dust, sometimes with a triumphant, mischievous smile. And when Alexander finally exploded, hitting the table or even hitting him, Lucien interpreted it as a sign of affection. Bitter, harsh, but real.

But still, he was just a child. Every time he was summoned to his father's study room, the room now cold and unfamiliar, his heart was always gripped by fear. The sight of Alexander standing looming over him, his eyes filled with rage, was enough to make Lucien's knees tremble. Despite his stubbornness, all he wanted was a hug that would never come again.

But even Lucien never knew it, Alexander was always watching him. He knew all about his son's accomplishments, without needing to be there in person. Records of Lucien's successes always arrived at his desk through reports and emails from his loyal bodyguards. From there, in the cold, quiet of his office, Alexander often shed tears of pride that no one ever saw.

The trophies his son had won, the photos filled with happy smiles as Lucien lifted the trophy, and even old portraits of the three of them, Alexander, Eveline, and little Lucien. He had collected them in a small album kept neatly in a locked drawer. Lucien had never known about the album, as if it were a silent secret of unspoken affection. Even the writing assignments Lucien had once shared with such enthusiasm about his family and his father's love, Alexander had kept in a small wooden box on his desk, locked with a key that only he had. Occasionally, in the middle of a lonely night, Alexander would reread them, filled with excitement in his heart. The smiles that broke out, and the tears that fell in his silent study.

Another form of love came in the form of material possessions, which he always placed at his son's feet. Expensive gifts came one after another: sports cars like an Aston Martin DB9, a Ferrari F430, a Lamborghini Gallardo, and a Porsche 911 Carrera. Even though they were clearly impossible for a ten-, twelve-, or even thirteen-year-old to drive. Furthermore, he always bought the latest high-end cell phones, the most sophisticated electronic devices, and even the finest thoroughbred horses without a second thought. Alexander never delayed, never considered. Anything related to Lucien, he would buy it immediately.

But all of that is just stuff. And objects, no matter how bright they shine, are never enough to replace the one thing Lucien misses most: the proud gaze of his own father.

Isn't it true that affection wrapped in silence is rarely seen by a son's eyes? Instead, what sticks in his memory is the affection that comes in the form of yelling, coldness, and even superficial cruelty. The pain grows into a long shadow, without him ever knowing that his father, in the same silence, harbors a wound no less deep.