The sun was barely up, and the marble floors of the Kensington estate shimmered in the morning light. Ethan Blake had already finished his morning workout, downed a glass of cold-pressed juice made by his personal chef, and was sitting in front of the hundred-inch screen in his private library, reading quarterly reports from the family's chain of luxury hotels. At just eighteen, Ethan handled more money in a week than most saw in a lifetime.
Yet, something felt hollow.
He stared blankly at the line chart showing a ten percent profit increase, but it didn't excite him. It never did. His "parents," Diana and Russell Blake, praised him relentlessly, proud of how "perfectly" he turned out. But inside, Ethan felt like a well-dressed mannequin—polished, admired, but lifeless.
His questions about the past were always answered the same way: You were born into greatness, darling. But he remembered the nightmares—the same one recurring since he was six. A woman's voice crying his name, a man's angry scream, and then silence. His therapist called it trauma from childhood—nothing unusual, nothing serious. But Ethan knew it was more.
One afternoon, while attending a benefit gala for orphans of war in Montenegro, he overheard something that would change everything.
He was shaking hands with guests when an older woman—Mrs. Aldridge, a retired pediatrician and close family friend—looked at him, then at his mother.
"You know, Diana," she said with a sly smile and a glass of champagne in hand, "he still looks nothing like you or Russell. Funny how genes work. Or don't."
Ethan caught the flicker of panic on his mother's face.
"Some kids get their features from distant ancestors," she replied with a laugh too sharp to be casual.
The moment passed quickly, but the damage was done. Ethan couldn't forget the way his mother's grip tightened on her wine glass. Something about that comment had shaken her.
Later that night, Ethan went into the wine cellar—not for wine, but privacy. With his phone in hand, he opened a browser and searched: "How accurate are home DNA kits?" After reading for an hour, he made a decision. He ordered a test kit and sent it to the address of his best friend, Leo—one of the few people he trusted.
But to confirm anything, he needed samples from his parents. And that meant being clever.
The next morning, he entered his father's bathroom, pretending to ask about cologne. While his father stepped out to take a call, Ethan swiped his used toothbrush into a ziplock bag. His mother's hairbrush? Easy. He tucked a few strands into a separate bag and slid them into his jacket pocket.
That night, Leo helped him ship the samples under a false name. They agreed to keep it secret until the results came in.
Days turned into a week. Ethan buried himself in school, business meetings, charity events. But inside, he was waiting—anxious, restless.
Then the email came.
"Your DNA results are ready."
His palms were sweaty as he opened the file. Line after line of genetic data, but then the bold line stood out: "Biological relationship not detected between submitted parental samples and subject."
Ethan stared. It didn't make sense. Or maybe it did—and that was the terrifying part.
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End of Chapter 1