Thomas Wycliffe was a man of steel—ruthless, revered, untouchable. Raised by cold aristocrats, he was taught that love was weakness, and control was survival. His fortune was vast, his heart a vault.

Eighteen years ago, he lost his only son, Aiden, in a crash. No body. Just an empty seat and a storm-drenched memory.

He buried his grief in business. Emotion had no use. Until Eli arrived.

Eighteen. Fragile. Hired as a house servant. Nervous, quiet, always apologizing. Thomas loathed him on sight. One mistake and the fury would follow—spilled tea, crooked frames, dust on glass.

“You’re useless,” he snapped once. “Even your silence is irritating.”

Then, one night, Eli found a photo in Thomas’s study. A toddler’s smile—familiar, haunting. He stared too long.

“What are you doing?” Thomas growled, storming in. He grabbed the photo—and froze.

Eli looked up. And Thomas saw it.

A DNA test confirmed the impossible. Eli was Aiden. His son.

Thomas fell to his knees, shattered. All those years lost. And all this time, he had been breaking the boy he loved most.