The grand hall of the Milton estate shimmered with golden chandeliers, reflecting the opulence of old money. Guests in elegant gowns and sharp suits clinked their glasses, laughter echoing through the air. Carlos stood near the bar, a glass of whiskey in his hand, his sharp gaze scanning the crowd. He had always hated these gatherings—fake smiles, shallow conversations, and the weight of expectations pressing down on him.
Laura, dressed in an emerald-green gown that clung to her curves, approached him with a smirk. "Aren't you going to ask me for a dance?"
Carlos scoffed, taking a sip of his drink. "Not in the mood."
She pouted, reaching out to trace a finger over his sleeve. "You were in the mood earlier when we arrived together."
Carlos shot her a look. "That was a favor. Don't read too much into it."
Carlos had always hated these parties. They were nothing but a staged performance, where his father, Alexander Milton, paraded his legacy before the world. Jonathan Milton, the golden son, stood beside him, basking in their father's approval. And then there was Vivian Milton, the perfect wife, the devoted mother—just not to him.
She had never hidden her disdain. The way her eyes would slide past him as if he didn't exist, the cold, dismissive nods when he greeted her, the way she smiled so easily at Jonathan but never at him. He had spent his whole life wondering what he had done to make her hate him so much.
And tonight was no different.
He had barely stepped into the ballroom before Vivian's sharp gaze met his. For a fleeting second, something flickered in her eyes—contempt? Displeasure? Annoyance at the very sight of him? She turned away without a word, gliding towards Jonathan and their father.
Carlos clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look unaffected. It's always been this way, hasn't it?
He needed air.
Carlos walked down the dimly lit corridor, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet. The further he got from the ballroom, the quieter the noise of the party became—until all that remained was the faint murmur of voices. As he passed his father's study, he caught the sound of Vivian's sharp, icy tone cutting through the stillness.
"I don't care what Alexander thinks," she was saying, her voice laced with quiet fury. "Carlos should never inherit a single dime from this family."
Carlos frowned, his steps faltering.
Jonathan let out a low, amused chuckle. "Relax, Mother."
A chill ran down Carlos's spine. Know what?
Vivian scoffed. "That boy is nothing more than a mistake. A stain on this family's name. He was never supposed to exist, and once the will is finalized, he'll be left with nothing."
Carlos felt his breath hitch. A mistake?
Jonathan leaned closer, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. "Are you sure he's completely clueless?"
"If he knew the truth," Vivian said coldly, "he would have left a long time ago. But the reality is—he's an illegitimate child. A bastard. And no matter what Alexander says, I will never allow him to stand beside you as an equal."
The world tilted.
Carlos felt like the air had been sucked out of his lungs, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might break his ribs. Illegitimate? A bastard?
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms as the weight of her words crashed over him. His whole life—every moment, every struggle to prove himself, every time Vivian ignored him, every time his father dismissed his questions—all of it suddenly made sense.
He had never belonged here. Not truly.
The realization hit him like a blade to the chest. He stumbled back, his body numb, his mind reeling.
They had lied to him. All of them. His entire life had been built on a lie.
Everything—the distance, the cold looks, the way he had always felt like an outsider in his own home—it all made sense now.
His hands clenched into fists. He needed answers.
Carlos stormed into his father's private lounge, where Alexander Milton sat nursing a glass of whiskey.
The older man barely looked up. "Carlos."
Carlos didn't bother with pleasantries. "Tell me the truth."
Alexander sighed, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "And what truth is that?"
"I'm not your bastard son, am I?"
Silence.
Carlos let out a sharp breath. "I heard Vivian. I heard everything." His voice cracked despite himself. "I'm a bastard."
Alexander's expression darkened, but he remained frustratingly calm. "That does not change anything."
Carlos let out a bitter laugh. "It changes everything."
A muscle in his father's jaw ticked, but he said nothing.
"Who is she?, where is she." Carlos demanded. "My real mother?"
Alexander's fingers tightened around his glass. "She abandoned you."
The words struck like a physical blow.
Carlos felt something inside him crack. He had spent his whole life wondering why Vivian hated him—why she looked at him like he was filth. And now he knew. He wasn't her son. He never had been.
Alexander stood, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't matter, Carlos. You are still my blood."
Carlos jerked away. Was he, though? Because tonight, it felt like he had no blood left at all.
But he wouldn't let this be the end of it.
If his father wouldn't tell him the truth, he would find it himself.
Carlos stepped outside, the crisp night air hitting his skin. The weight in his chest felt suffocating, and the estate—**the place he had once called home—**felt foreign now.
He needed to clear his mind. No, he needed answers.
Slipping into his car, he gripped the wheel tightly. He wasn't staying here, not tonight. He needed to go somewhere he could think—somewhere he wouldn't feel like he was drowning in the lies of the Milton family.
He drove away, the estate disappearing in his rearview mirror. Back to his apartment. Back to where he could start putting the pieces together.
Because one thing was certain—he wouldn't rest until he knew the truth.