Entrails of the Duke; Duke Leonard and I.

“He has to answer your name! "He’s your son!” Bianca’s voice thundered through the room. “Don’t say that, Bianca, can you try to be sensible about this? We both know that he’s not my son. "It’ll be atrocious to answer my name,” Lord Edward replied in the most contrasting tone, his face uninterested. As he glanced through the pages of the newsletter he was reading, he continued with his shrewd remarks, “I may care about you, Bianca, but all I feel towards your son is an obligation. He’s not my son. He’ll never be. I don’t love him, he’s just my responsibility because I’m married to his mother. So, don’t come here telling me how to govern my affairs. My only son is Leonard Carrington, and he alone will be acknowledged as my heir.” “You’re lucky I took you in, because I read my late wife’s letter. Don’t force my wrath, Lady Bianca.” “You…” she was about to retaliate, when he cut her off. “This topic is over, you may leave.” Bianca’s eyes widened as Edward’s words pierced her like sharp icicles. With tears blurring her vision, she reached for the door handle and pulled the oak door creaking open to reveal the castle’s imposing corridor. She stepped out, the door softly clicking shut behind her, and slid to the pine floor, her back pressing against the unforgiving wood. Minutes passed, the stinging of her cheeks and the harshness of her sobs enveloping her in a haze of sorrow. Her gaze flitted towards the shadowy corner of the corridor, where a small figure seemed to materialize from the darkness. Darren, her seven-year-old son, stood there, his face creased with worry. She rushed towards him, her arms outstretched, but he recoiled from her touch, slipping from her grasp and disappearing around the corner. “Darren, wait!” Bianca heaved herself off the floor, her movements slowed by her pregnant belly. She took a few laborious steps towards Darren, tears still streaming down her cheeks, but he seemed to melt into the shadows, his form dissolving in the darkness of the corridor. “Darren, please,” she called after him, her voice strained as she struggled to maintain her balance. “Let me explain...” But he was gone. Darren fled through the castle’s hallway, the tears streaking down his face, blurring his vision as he raced towards the drawing room. He pushed open the door, slamming it shut behind him, and sprinted to the corner. “Mother lied. She said Father was my father. She said I was his son.” His words echoed around the dark room, his sobs reverberating off the walls. The only light came from the flickering flames in the fireplace, casting a warm glow on the tear-stained face of the young boy. Darren huddled by himself, clutching his clothes, trying to make sense of the words he had heard. “Not his son. Inherit nothing. Only Leonard…” Each word felt like a dagger, slicing through his heart, and he felt a new emotion seep through his veins: hatred. A burning, all-consuming hatred for the man who had rejected him. Darren felt the duke's rejection in his very bones, felt a peculiar kind of pain enter his body and creep around his heart. And, as hatred flooded his body and poured from his eyes, he made a solemn vow. If he couldn't be his father’s son, then by God, he'd be his karma. He’d claim the Duke’s legacy as his own.