In Washington, D.C., Liam was remade—groomed, dressed, and introduced as the long-lost heir of the Brightons. Meetings, photographs, and headlines followed.
Yet each night, the luxury around him felt hollow. He missed the creak of the cabin floorboards, the warmth of the fire, Elise’s laughter, and Harold’s steady voice.
One evening, passing by his father’s office, he overheard Victoria’s voice:
“He’ll serve his purpose for a while,” she said. “Then we’ll send him abroad. The story will have served its goal.”
Liam froze. He was not a son—he was a symbol, a tool for image and ambition. That night, before dawn, he packed a small bag, clutching a photo of the three of them by the lake, and slipped away.
