BILLIONARE SECRET's SON

EXILE

EXILE

I never read your mind, Father. You were always my crown, the pride I carried in every step. But who am I defending now, when your silence pushes me away? I am lost, trying to hold on to a love I can no longer touch.

I never read your mind, Son. You were always my crown, the pride that kept me standing tall. But who am I protecting now, when my words have become the wound you carry? I am lost, watching your tears as if they were my own.

Between us lies no kingdom, only exile. Father and Son, each other's crown, yet both broken. What once was pride has become distance, and in that distance, we lose each other.

January, 2014

The memories came crashing down like a winter storm against the old windows of Ashford Manor. Alexander stood rigid, his body looming proudly behind the heavy black wooden desk that had witnessed generations. His gaze couldn't leave the fragile figure of the teenager standing before him—his only son, his own flesh and blood, now shaking, holding a tiny baby not yet two years old.

Lucien, in his cream coat that still smelled of luxurious soap, a soft sweater wrapped around his youthful frame, beige pants and sneakers that always looked immaculate, stood trembling but firm. The subtle tremors of his body were evident with every breath, while his blue eyes—the same eyes as the late Eveline's—brimmed with tears. The dim light of the crystal chandelier caught the sparkle, like shards of glass piercing back into Alexander's heart.

For Alexander, every tear from Lucien's eyes was like a dagger forcing him back to an old wound—Eveline's face, his irreplaceable love, seemed to come back to life in his son. And now, before him, the seventeen-year-old had become a young father with a determination that even grown men rarely possess.

The decision had been made. Alexander, Duke of Ashford, ruler of a long lineage rooted in English nobility, would recognize his grandson as his legitimate son—though born of a marriage that was never recorded, never acknowledged, never even existed. He did all this solely to protect Lucien, little Elias, and the great name of Ashford. But Alexander also knew: this sacrifice would not be without pain. A pain that was now displayed before him, in his son's tears.

In a deep voice, full of authority and an aristocratic coldness that colored every inch of his British accent, Alexander finally spoke:

"Alright, Lucien... if you are determined to leave this manor, then leave everything behind. Even your wealth. Go forth, and take not the Ashford name with your son!"

The words fell like a judge's gavel, echoing in the cavernous room of marble and carved wood, though they were actually delivered as a bitter test—a test by a father who wanted to know whether his son's courage was mere bluster, or true determination.

Lucien was silent. His face was wet, but his chin was raised, his trembling hands hugging Elias even tighter. Through sobs that still sounded childish, he answered in a trembling voice filled with the determination of a young father:

“Yes, Father… I would leave all of this behind this manor!”

Their surroundings instantly froze. A thick silence swallowed all sound. Even the antique clock on the wall seemed to stop ticking, as if the entire world was holding its breath, awaiting the Duke's explosion.

A heavy thud slammed against the mahogany table. Lucien jumped, but remained standing before his father. Alexander's hand slammed against the heavy surface, sending antique pens crashing and crystal vibrating. His face flushed, blazing with anger.

"How dare you defy your father, Lucien! Begone from my sight, you ungrateful child!"he exclaimed, pointing his finger sharply at his son.

Alexander continued, his voice rising with pauses that hung despair in the air: “Leave this manor and never show your face before me again!”

Silence descended once more, this time with the weight of his wounds pressing even more heavily. Lucien bowed his head deeply. Tears fell, staining the pale marble floor. But from the depths of his despair, he took a deep breath—and with a final stomp, a soft yet reverent aristocratic voice emerged from his lips:

“Yes, Father… thank you for raising me with love and kindness all these years.”

So the atmosphere broke into a great aristocratic tragedy: a mixture of affection and anger, love and hatred, united in one winter night that will forever be remembered by the old walls of Ashford Manor.

Harrington saw it all. From the corner of the room, he stood stiffly in his neat butler's jacket, his hands folded in front of him, watching the tragedy unfold before him. His face was calm, but his eyes held tension; he knew no words could soothe Alexander's resolve. The Duke's words had fallen, not merely angry, but unwavering judgment.

Alexander's voice broke the morning silence, loud, sharp, and full of hereditary authority:

"Let no one dare stop that insolent boy and his son! Let him taste how it feels to live without the Ashford name!"

The words echoed through the large, marble-and-carved-wood room. Everyone who heard them bowed their heads, holding their breath, while Harrington could only clench his fists in front of his taut frame, knowing that this morning would be a dark stain on the Ashford family's history.

Lucien walked slowly out of his father's study. Each step felt heavy, but his resolve remained firm, bearing the weight of what he had just been given. The servants followed behind him, some gazing at him with suppressed pity, and others carefully cradling little Elias in their arms.

Aunt Emilia, with a caring and gentle face, handed something to Lucien.

“This is for you, Master Luc,” he said softly, his voice trembling slightly with grief, his hand outstretched to offer a simple but warm travel provision.

Lucien accepted with a curt nod, suppressing the trembling in his hands and chest. He knew this was an expression of love from the servant who had cared for him since childhood—a final gift from the life he was about to leave behind.

Once outside the manor, he paused for a moment. His eyes gazed upon the familiar garden, the gate that had always greeted him since childhood. The morning breeze carried the scent of wet earth and leaves, reminding him of all the memories that now seemed so distant. He stroked Elias's hair, a soother in his mouth, and tears fell unconsciously. Memories of childhood, laughter, the warm embraces of the servants—all spread before him, flooding the teenager's heart with sorrow.

He lowered his head, and finally the sobs broke free, unstoppable. His cries echoed down the path, tears falling onto the hands that held Elias. But even though his body trembled, his decision was firm—he had to go. Elias sleeping in his arms was a stronger reason than any doubt. With heavy but determined steps, Lucien walked away from Ashford Manor, leaving his childhood behind, but carrying with him an even greater determination to protect the small future he held in his arms.

Then Harrington ran after her, his steps quick but steady on the cold stone of the path. His voice cut through the silent morning air:

“Master Luc!”

Lucien stopped in his tracks and turned around. There was a faint hope in his eyes—perhaps there would be a message from his father, a word that would hold him back. But Harrington simply held out his hand, opened it, and revealed a sum of money and an ATM card, inside which was between thirty and forty thousand US dollars.

“What is this, Harrington?” Lucien asked, his voice full of astonishment, almost disbelief.

Harrington smiled faintly, his face still serious but warm. He gently put his arm around Lucien's shoulder, as if to emphasize that he remained by his side, even though he couldn't oppose the Duke's decision.

“Just provisions, Master Luc… from the old butler who always loved you,” he replied, his voice low but firm.

He led Lucien, persuading him not to walk alone in the cold morning. Together with Harrington, Lucien was led to the car, and the old butler remained beside him, escorting Lucien and Elias to the airport, ensuring their safe passage into the world that awaited them outside Ashford Manor.

In the silence of the car, Elias opened his eyes and hugged Lucien tightly. His voice, playful and slurred, cut through the morning air:

“Daaaadadadaaaa!” she exclaimed when the soother was removed.

Lucien smiled faintly, his gentle hand stroking his son's hair, cradling Elias with a barely audible heartbeat. Elias's tiny breath returned to a steady, peaceful state, and for a moment the world outside seemed far away—only the warmth of his embrace and the subtle vibrations of that tiny pulse of life remained. Silence filled the car, broken slowly by the whirring of the wheels on the paved road, as if carrying them through time and unfinished memories.

Harrington, after holding back for a long time, finally mustered up the courage to ask. His voice was low, respectful yet full of curiosity: “Where are you going, Master Luc?”

Lucien lowered his gaze, staring at Elias, who was still sleeping soundly in his arms. His answer was soft, as if every word had to be chosen carefully:

“Seattle, perhaps… Harrington. I heard about that city from the band kids, when I ran away from the Manor…”

A moment of silence stretched, the car cabin a silent witness to the inner struggles of a young father who had just left his old world. Lucien stared out the window, his eyes tracing the slowly reddening morning horizon, his face calm yet thoughtful, like a painting capturing the first rays of sunlight in Ashford Park.

“Will Father change his mind, Harrington?” he asked then, his tone holding back a bitterness he couldn’t hide.

Harrington took a slow breath, his eyes fixed on Master Luc with a firm tenderness, his voice carrying the weight of loyalty: “I don’t know, Master Luc… But believe me, your father would never hate you. His decision was made for your own good… and for now, for the best of both of you.”

The car remained quiet, with only the sound of the engine and footsteps audible, but every second felt meaningful. Lucien stared at the horizon, which was beginning to brighten with morning light, carrying both fragile hope and a burning determination in the small embrace that had now become his entire world.

That morning, they arrived at London's Heathrow Airport. Harrington carefully dropped Lucien and Elias off at the international terminal drop-off point. The teenager glanced back briefly, waving at his loyal butler, who had been his witness and supporter of life. Harrington returned the gesture with a faint smile, his eyes sparkling with emotion.

With light but hurried steps, Lucien grabbed Elias tightly and jogged to the ticket counter, his heart pounding. He handed over the money and the card he'd brought from Harrington, and within a few minutes, the flight ticket to Seattle was in his hand. There was a hint of a smile on the teenager's face—his usually worried eyes were now slightly sparkling, but there was a lingering tension around them that couldn't be easily erased.

In the waiting room, Lucien cradled Elias, sound asleep in his arms, his eyes staring through the large glass window at the runway. A plane slowly moved away, leaving the dirt track and touching the London sky. His heart fluttered, imagining the journey ahead, the new life that awaited him far across the ocean.

The boarding call came over the loudspeaker: “Flight to Seattle is now boarding at Gate 32.” Lucien took a deep breath, adjusted Elias in his arms, and then walked toward the gate with optimistic steps, unhurried but quick and measured. His face lit up slightly with new hope, the rest tense, harboring fear and uncertainty, but deep in his heart was an unwavering determination: a new life awaited them both, far from everything old, far from the shadows of Ashford Manor.

Each step echoed through the terminal corridor, as if expressing the courage of a young father beginning a new chapter for himself and his son. Beyond the glass, morning London was bustling yet tranquil, and Lucien knew that, from here, a wider world awaited. Full of possibility, full of hope, and also of responsibility he would now have to shoulder alone.

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Meanwhile, at Ashford Manor, Alexander was lost in thought in his study. He walked slowly, his feet lightly on the old, creaking wooden floor, past the shelves of thick books and neatly stacked documents, and then stopped in his son's room. His hands touched Lucien's study table, the bicycle wheel that once roamed the manor's halls, and Elias's toys. A baby walker, a doll, and several small objects that now bore silent witness to the two generations he had to let go.

Alexander's heart clenched, longing and loss gripping him, but the tears that should have fallen remained held back by the Duke's restraint. His lips tensed, his jaw clenched, as if asserting the authority he must always maintain.

Harrington entered the room with a calm but respectful step, his body straight, his hands clasped in front of him. Alexander turned slowly, his gaze heavy, his voice firm, laced with an aristocratic British accent:

"Yes, Harrington? Have you given him the money and the cards?"

Harrington nodded, his voice low and polite, but his eyes conveyed the deep concern typical of a butler who had served the family for decades:

“Yes, Your Grace… everything has been handed to the young Master.”

Harrington's hand rose slightly, a respectful yet gentle gesture, as if to convey that everything was safe.

Alexander took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the neatly arranged objects around him, his fingers briefly touching one of Elias's toys before looking back at Harrington. His voice remained heavy, but with a hint of worry that he rarely showed:

“And… where has he gone, Harrington?”

Harrington bowed slightly, bowing his head, his arms crossed in front of him politely, then looked at Alexander with serious but gentle eyes:

“Master Luc is on his way to Seattle, Your Grace.”

Alexander simply nodded slowly. A silence fell, awkward yet meaningful. Beneath the Duke's authority lay a love he never showed openly. He turned back to the window, watching the morning light fall on the manor's courtyard. From afar, he would continue to watch over Lucien—sternly, firmly, but always from the shadows that only the head of the Ashford family could guard. A lasting reminder of the responsibility, strength, and love he must uphold, for the sake of his son and his grandson, who were now walking a new path.