The Gathering Storm
The Lancaster Estate was an empire carved in gold and shadow. Marble halls whispered of old money, and every corner was laced with secrets. Servants moved like ghosts. Cameras watched every step.
Augustus Lancaster mopped the floor beneath the grand staircase, his sleeves rolled, sweat glistening on his brow. The same staircase his father had built to impress foreign dignitaries… yet the heir to that legacy was cleaning under it.
He wasn't called "Lancaster."
He was simply August. The steward's son. The errand boy. The one they all ignored.
Except… something shifted in the air today.
Augustus paused, sensing it.
A luxury car's engine growled from the driveway, followed by the screech of brakes. He peeked through the grand window and saw a sleek black Maserati pull up. The driver stepped out, opening the back door with military precision.
A man emerged.
Sharp suit. Colder eyes. A smirk like he already owned the estate.
"Pierre Lancaster," August whispered to himself.
He'd heard of him—Malcolm Lancaster's firstborn. The one raised in the underbelly of Milan. Rumored to have blood on his hands and debt around his neck. No one dared speak his name unless it was in fear or fury.
Behind him came another car, this time a matte gray Bentley. Out stepped a younger man—taller, darker, and quieter. His expression was unreadable, but his presence screamed control.
Luciano.
The second illegitimate son.
"They're all coming…" August muttered, gripping the mop tighter.
In the master bedroom, Malcolm Lancaster lay motionless, his frail body entangled in wires. The empire builder was dying. Every cough he fought was a countdown to the moment the vultures would pounce.
At his side stood Malvo, the old steward and his most trusted confidant. Malvo had seen it all—every mistress, every lie, every child born of lust and power. He knew the truth.
And he knew the storm was just beginning.
"They're here," Malvo murmured.
Malcolm's lips twitched, almost into a smile.
"Let them fight," he croaked.
The estate's double doors swung open as Pierre entered like he'd never left.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Still smells like old money and broken promises."
Luciano followed behind, ignoring his half-brother's theatrics. "Where is he?"
"Dying. Slowly," Pierre replied, tossing his sunglasses on the gold-plated console.
Their mothers, Augusta and Nirvana, appeared moments later, stepping into the room as if they were royalty returning to their thrones. The tension between them was thick—hatred cloaked in pearls and designer silk.
Alicia Cullen stood at the edge of the room, unnoticed, holding a silver tray of tea. She wasn't dressed like a Lancaster. Her plain black dress screamed servitude.
But her eyes were on her son.
Augustus.
She watched him silently from across the room, as he stood awkwardly in the corner, staring at Pierre and Luciano like they were characters in a world he didn't belong to.
Yet he belonged more than either of them.
He just didn't know it.
Later that evening, while the rest of the house was consumed by arguments and ego, August snuck down to the basement. He wasn't sure why. Something pulled at him—an invisible thread guiding his steps.
The room was dark and dusty. The air was damp, heavy with forgotten stories.
He flicked on a dim bulb and began cleaning, humming quietly to himself… until his foot hit a metal box under a pile of old sheets.
Curious, he pulled it out, coughing from the dust. The box was locked, but rust had eaten through most of the edges. With some force, he pried it open.
Inside were folders.
One stood out.
A document bearing his mother's name—Alicia Cullen.
His hands trembled as he pulled it out. There were signatures. Confidential seals. Medical records. A birth certificate with a name he recognized.
His own.
But before he could read more, a sharp voice cut through the silence.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
He froze.
Miranda Lancaster.
The matriarch. Malcolm's mother. Ruthless. Cold. And the one woman in the estate Augustus feared more than anyone.
"I… I was just cleaning," he stammered, hiding the file behind his back.
Her eyes narrowed, scanning him like a hawk. "This isn't your place, boy. Get out."
Augustus didn't speak. He nodded quickly and backed away, slipping the file back into the box without her noticing. As he hurried out, he could feel her gaze burning into his back.
That night, as lightning flashed across the sky and thunder cracked above the estate, Augustus lay awake, eyes wide open.
Something wasn't right.
Why was his mother's name in a sealed file hidden in the basement? Why did Miranda react so aggressively? And why… why did Malcolm Lancaster look at him that morning with something that almost resembled guilt?
He had to know.
The truth wasn't just buried in papers.
It was buried in bloodlines, secrets, and silence.
And if no one would give him the answers…
He'd find them himself.
Even if it destroyed everything.
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