From Damnation to Dominance: Revenge of the Abused Heir

7. Back to the Potters

The black sedan, a silent beast of polished metal and darkened glass, slid to a halt before the wrought-iron gates of the Potter estate. Victor Morales did not wait for the driver. He opened the door himself and stepped out, the fine Italian leather of his shoes meeting the gravel of the driveway with a decisive crunch.

He stood for a moment, his hands in the pockets of his tailored overcoat, and took in the sight. 

The mansion was exactly as he remembered it—a monument to cold ambition and sterile wealth. White stone, vast windows, and manicured hedges that looked more like barriers than decoration. 

But today, it was different. It was lit up like a festival, golden light spilling from every window, and the faint, sophisticated strains of a string quartet drifted through the chilled evening air.

 Luxurious cars, he recognized—sleek, expensive models belonging to business associates and socialites—were lined up along the drive.

Of course, they are having a party.

Could they be celebrating for my release today? He thought. 

He hadn’t expected a welcome, but the blatant celebration felt like a deliberate slap in the face. 

Today was the day he was supposed to be released. They hadn't just forgotten; they were throwing a party for someone else.

He walked through the open gates, his stride long and steady. The three years of grueling training had rewired his nervous system. 

Where there might have been nervousness, there was only a cold, analytical calm. Where there might have been anger, there was a focused, patient purpose. 

He was no longer a boy returning to a place of painful memories; he was a man with extraordinary talents. 

The grand oak door was ajar, revealing the shimmering, noisy spectacle within. He stepped inside, and the warmth of the house, thick with the scent of champagne, perfume, and roasted canapés, washed over him. 

He stood at the doorway, unnoticed for a moment as he scanned the room.

And there, at the heart of it all, was the source of the celebration, Frank.

Frank stood near the grand fireplace, preening under the attention. He was holding a glass of champagne, his face flushed with excitement and alcohol. Flanking him were Tobias and Catherine—Tobias looking every bit the proud patriarch, a hand on Frank’s shoulder, and Catherine beaming with a viper’s pride. And then there was Sandra.

She stood beside Frank, a vision in a deep emerald gown that complemented her dark hair. She was smiling sheepishly as she watched Frank act chidishly. 

It was the same careful, public smile she had worn for years. She held a small, velvet box in her hands. 

As Victor watched, she presented it to Frank.

“Happy birthday, Frank,” she said, her voice just audible over the din. “I hope you like it.”

Frank made a show of opening the box, his eyes widening in feigned delight. Inside, resting on a bed of black silk, was a wristwatch. 

Even from a distance, Victor could see its weight, its intricate dial. It was a Patek Philippe. 

Victor's heart panged in hurt upon seeing the gift. Since when they began dating, Sandra had never gotten him anything tangible. 

It waved it off instantly.

“Sandra, it’s perfect!” Frank exclaimed, his voice booming with false warmth. He pulled the watch from the box and fastened it around his wrist, holding it up for all to see. Then, his eyes, flicking over Sandra’s shoulder, suddenly locked onto Victor’s.

He got stiffened and shocked for some seconds, he never expected to see him at the mansion anytime soon. Did he escape from the prison? 

A wicked, knowing smirk twisted Frank’s lips. He had seen him before any other person. 

In a move that was both sudden and possessive, Frank leaned in, wrapped an arm around Sandra’s waist, and planted a loud, smacking kiss on her cheek. 

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, his voice dripping with a intimacy that was meant for Victor’s ears. “You always know exactly what I want.”

Sandra stiffened, and pushed him away slightly. Her carefully constructed smile vanished, replaced by shock and discomfort. 

She pulled back slightly, her mouth opening as if to protest, her eyes wide with confusion. “Frank, what—?”

But her words died in her throat as she followed Frank’s triumphant gaze and saw the figure standing in the doorway.

“Victor!” She gasped uncontrollably, staring at him like she just saw a ghost. 

The color drained from her face. Her hand flew unconsciously to her mouth. Her eyes met Victor’s, and in them was a maelstrom of emotions: shock, guilt, and a desperate, pleading panic.

One by one, the conversations around them faltered and died. The string quartet played on, but the social hum was replaced by a ringing silence as more and more guests turned to see what had captured the host family’s attention.

The Potters family were shocked to see him. 

Tobias was the first to find his voice. His paternal pride curdled into pure fury. “Victor?” he barked, his voice laced with hatred. “What is the meaning of this? Have you lost your mind? How did you get out of prison?”