"Damon…please call me Damon, Mr. Martin."
The old man nodded, a faint smile appearing on his weathered face, but deep down, he felt the gravity of the words the boy had just spoken. The second son of the Allard family—this young boy—had, in that moment, quietly but profoundly, denounced his family name.
It wasn't just a matter of shifting his identity, it was a painful and silent acknowledgment that his connection to the Allard legacy had been shattered, that the weight of his lineage was a burden he no longer wished to carry.
Mr. Martin's gaze softened, knowing this wasn't just an act of defiance, but a boy's desperate attempt to escape the shadows of a past that now haunted him. He cleared his throat, his voice quieter this time, as though choosing his words more carefully.
"Very well, Damon," he said, his tone respectful, acknowledging the boy's choice, even if it wasn't easy for him to fully understand.
Damon nodded silently, his heart heavy, but perhaps just a little lighter than before.
After five long years, the time had finally come to return home.
1 Week Later
A sleek, luxurious car glided smoothly along a meticulously paved road, making its way toward an imposing mansion , The Allard Family Mansion.
As the car approached the grand estate, the mansion loomed ahead, its towering silhouette framed by the sprawling grounds that stretched endlessly in every direction. The ornate iron gates slowly creaked open, revealing the perfectly manicured lawns and the stately stone facade of the house. Ivy clung to the walls, and tall windows gleamed in the weak afternoon sun, casting reflections of the somber sky above.
Damon sat silently in the backseat, his gaze fixed on the familiar sight, though everything felt distant and foreign now. The house, which once had been a place of comfort and belonging, now seemed to embody the weight of loss he could never escape. Each turn of the wheels brought him closer to the life he had left behind, and yet, it felt as though he was being pulled further from the person he used to be.
The car slowed to a stop, "We have arrived Young Master Damon."
The driver, a stern man who had served the Allard family for years, opened the door and said.
Damon nodded at the driver and slowly stepped out, his expensive loafers crunching on the gravel.
He fixated his gaze on the mansion's entrance where a middle-aged woman with neatly pinned back hair and a quiet elegance about her stood, Miss Miller.
In her hand, she held an umbrella to shield her from the harsh rays of the afternoon sun. Despite the heat, she wore her usual attire—a long, modest dress and an apron, the fabric neatly pressed. She seemed like a fixture of the house, always there, always watching over the Allard's, and yet, her face betrayed a hint of melancholy.
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As Damon approached, Miss Miller's eyes softened. She had known him since he was a young boy, always running about the estate with Alex, full of laughter, the picture of innocence. But today, as he walked up the long gravel path with an air of quiet resolve, the boy she had known seemed like a different person altogether- he seemed more mature and well put together.
"Young Master Damon ..." she began, her voice hesitant, as if testing the weight of his name. "It's good to see you again, Young Master...I... I trust your journey was well?"
Christopher paused, looking up at her, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"It was Miss Miller although tiring and delayed."
The words felt foreign on his tongue. His gaze wandered to the mansion behind her, the house he had once known so well, but now it felt like a shadow of something he had long abandoned.
Miss Miller took a step forward, lowering the umbrella as she did.
"Your family is waiting inside, young master… I… I've prepared a room for you, just like old times."
She hesitated, unsure if she should offer more, but the hesitation was quickly followed by a forced smile.
"I appreciate it greatly, Miss Miller."
Damon said, his words heavy with emotion he wasn't yet ready to express. Miss Miller watched him walk past, his steps measured but slow, his posture confident and upright which surprised her due to the recent events.
She lingered for a moment longer, then turned, walking inside the mansion herself, casting one last glance back toward the boy who had been like a son to her.
She wanted to express her concern and empathy to the loss of his brother but for reason's unknown the words could not form.
As Damon walked inside the mansion, the familiar smell of polished wood, leather-bound books, and the faint scent of aged paper filled his senses, but it was all tainted by an unfamiliar chill, as if the house itself was holding its breath in anticipation of his return.
The grand hallway stretched before him, lined with portraits of his ancestors—faces he had once known as figures of pride, now just faded memories. His feet moved almost instinctively, carrying him toward the end of the hall where his father's study stood.
The door was already half open when he reached it, the polished brass handle gleaming in the dim light. He paused, taking a moment to steady himself before he stepped inside. His father's presence, though expected, still felt like a weight on his chest.
The study was just as Damon remembered—neatly arranged, with shelves filled with books on everything from law to philosophy, framed awards hanging on the walls, and a large mahogany desk that sat proudly at the centre of the room. The only difference now was the quiet tension that lingered in the air, the absence of warmth that had once radiated from the space.
All the memories he had long suppressed resurfaced in that instant,years of joy and pain, each one intertwining to remind him of what had been lost and what had shaped him.
Sitting behind the desk was his father, Arthur Allard, tall and imposing as ever. His grey hair was neatly combed, his face etched with the years, yet there was still something about him—the sharpness in his gaze, the way his hands rested calmly on the desk—that made Damon feel like a young boy again, standing in front of him, awaiting judgment.
"Damon."
His Father's voice reverbed through his head it was still as intimidating as ever he thought. Arthur Allard's eyes never left him, sharp and calculating, as if he were searching for something in his son's face—something that had been missing all these years.
Damon inhaled deeply, a chill running through him as he realized the gravity of the moment. This was where the real game would begin—the ruthless, unyielding struggle where the powerful would outmanoeuvre and crush one another in a bid for dominance. A game of manipulation and deceit, crafted in the shadows, its rules written by those who thrived on power and control. It was a game that had consumed everything, and he was about to step into its very heart.