A Dynasty of Deceit

Chapter Seven: Blood Never Lies

The letter sat untouched on the wooden desk for two days, its envelope neatly slit, the contents spread like an autopsy report. It had legal jargon, paternity clauses, veiled threats masked as procedurebut it wasn’t the bold crest of Maduako Holdings at the top that made Zayn pause, it was the signature at the bottom, inked in a steady, deliberate hand, Alaric T. Maduako. His father’s name not just printed but written, alive, and undeniably a name he’d heard only in whispered curses and childhood nightmares now staring at him like a mirror he had spent his whole life avoiding.

Though he had once dreamed of this, fantasized about this exact confrontation, imagined storming into the Maduako estate with truth as his sword and justice as his crown, now that the door was open, it didn’t feel like victory, it felt like a trap.

Adanna watched him silently, curled on the sofa in their Calabar hideout, the ocean air drifting through the open shutters, her fingers tapping against her thigh rhythmically, like she was keeping count of the seconds he had left before the world outside swallowed them again; “You don’t have to go,” she said finally, but Zayn heard the quake beneath it. He heard the fear masked as logic, the pain she tried to temper with reason and he turned to her, unsure of how to explain what burned inside him, that this wasn’t about revenge anymore, or exposure, or even justice, but something more ancient, the need to be seen, truly seen, by the man who had erased him, “He’s not trying to prove you’re his son,” Adanna added, “he’s trying to erase the possibility that you are,” and she wasn’t wrong because if the test came back negative, if the chain was broken, then everything Zayn had built would collapse under the weight of a truth he could no longer claim, but he also knew something Alaric had never expected. That he no longer needed his name, or his acknowledgment, or his money, all he needed was proof, the kind that couldn’t be burned or denied, the kind that would live in databases and legal records forever, and so he made the call.

Within 48 hours, he stood in a private diagnostics center in Ikoyi, escorted by two plain clothes officers and a family lawyer in a charcoal suit who barely looked him in the eye, and when they drew his blood, he didn’t flinch because the real pain had already passed, long ago, the day Alaric left his mother alone in a clinic with a broken promise and a bastard child, and everything since then had been preparation for this. After the sample was taken, he walked outside into a swarm of reporters, their cameras clicked like machine guns, and for a split second, he considered ducking into the car but then he stopped, turned to the press, and said only, “Whatever the truth is, I carry it already,” before disappearing behind the tinted glass.

The results were scheduled to arrive in seven days, but the media circus erupted instantly “Alaric’s Secret Son?” “Dynasty Under Fire!” “Maduako Bloodline Scandal!”, and while some dismissed it as a stunt, others connected dots long buried. Alaric’s mysterious Lagos trips eighteen years ago, his foundation’s untraceable scholarship programs, the rumors of a mistress who vanished and suddenly, Zayn’s face, once unknown, was everywhere, dissected by gossip blogs and political analysts, his intelligence was praised, his origins was questioned, his relationship with Adanna dissected like a national crisis and through it all, he stayed silent, choosing not to fight the media, but to prepare for the fallout.

Adanna, meanwhile, received her own share of fire labeled a traitor to her family, accused of seducing a “fake heir,” paraded in tabloids as the girl who dared defy tradition and though her spine remained unbroken, Zayn saw the toll it took. The quiet nights where she sat by the window with red eyes, the trembling in her fingers when she thought he wasn’t watching, the nightmares where she called for her mother and woke up gasping and each time, he held her, tighter than before, he whispered, “We’re almost there,” though he didn’t know where there was anymore.

The results came early, it was delivered by a special courier, and this time Zayn opened them with trembling hands, the room went silent except for the crashing of distant waves and when he saw the words “Probability of paternity: 99.9987%”, he didn’t cheer or cry, he simply exhaled, like a man who had held his breath for eighteen years and could finally breathe not because he needed Alaric’s blood, but because he now held undeniable proof that the legacy they tried to steal already lived inside him.

Within hours, it was everywhere, broadcast across national news, printed in headlines, debated by scholars, “Zayn Adeyemi Confirmed as Alaric Maduako’s First Son”, and with it came the shift, not in power, but in perception, board members began to demandmeetings, Maduako Holdings’ shares dipped under pressure, government affiliates started asking questions, and the public began to rally out not out of love for Zayn, but out of hunger for disruption, because nothing thrilled a nation more than watching the mighty fall.

Alaric, for his part, said nothing. He released no statement, held no press conference, made no appearance and that silence was more telling than any denial, because it wasn’t a silence of doubt, it was the silence of a man recalibrating, calculating, preparing his counterattack, and Zayn knew it was coming. It arrived in the form of a private letter, it was handwritten and no seal. The letter was slid beneath the door of their current safehouse, and it read: “If you want to be part of this family, you will sit at the table. But remember every seat here is earned in blood.” and Adanna, reading over his shoulder, whispered, “Don’t go,” but Zayn already knew he would, not because he believed in redemption or reconciliation, but because the table Alaric referred to was the only place left to burn and he would rather set it ablaze from the inside.