HOUSEKEEPER TO HEIR

CHAPTER ONE: SILENCE ISN’T PEACE

The marble floor gleamed under Redington’s calloused fingers, its chill biting into his skin as he scrubbed the same corner for the fourth time that morning.

Outside, the golden sun bathed the estate in light, but here in the hallway of House Everhart, shadows reigned. Even the light didn’t dare linger too long.

A polished leather shoe kicked the bucket beside him, spilling water across the floor. "You're in the way. Again," sneered Mason Everhart, the second son. He didn’t wait for a response. He never did.

Redington lowered his head. “Sorry, sir.”

“Don't call me sir,” Mason spat, his breath heavy with morning whiskey. “You're not military. You’re just a mop in a man’s skin.”

He turned on his heel and strode off, leaving muddy footprints across the very floor Redington had just cleaned. Redington stared at them for a second too long.

Another voice cut through the air, soft but firm. “Don’t waste your energy, Red.”

Redington looked up to see the youngest Everhart: Emmett, fifteen, holding a backpack and a gaze that didn’t match his age. “Why do you let them treat you like that?” Emmett asked, kneeling beside him. “You’re not a slave.”

Redington forced a small smile. “I’m the help.”

“You’re a person.”

Before Redington could respond, a voice thundered from the upper landing. “Emmett! Get away from the staff and get in the car!” barked Clive Everhart, the family patriarch and owner of Everhart & Steele Holdings. Ruthless in business. Worse at home.

Emmett gave Redington a quick, apologetic look and jogged away. The moment passed. Just like always.

At twenty-nine, Redington had forgotten what his voice used to sound like when it wasn’t muttering apologies or answering to commands.

He’d worked at the Everhart estate for six years, since the day he stumbled through its iron gates half-conscious and desperate for work. They took him in, not out of kindness, but out of convenience. Cheap labor was still labor.

He never asked about his past. The truth was, he didn’t remember it. Not the years before he turned eighteen. Not even his real name. "Redington" was the surname written on the orphanage intake form. Nothing more.

And now, he scrubbed floors in a home full of chandeliers and snakes, In the laundry room, Redington folded towels with robotic precision. His hands moved, but his mind was elsewhere.

A voice on the radio caught his attention: “Breaking: Tech tycoon and business magnate Alaric Wynthorpe, chairman of Wynthorpe International, has issued a global plea in search of his missing son, taken in a kidnapping incident nearly three decades ago. Doctors say Wynthorpe, 74, has mere months to live. The heir to his empire remains unidentified…”

Redington froze... The name Wynthorpe echoed in his head like a bell from some forgotten chapel, He couldn’t explain it. The name felt like gravity, He turned up the volume.“…a reward of fifty million dollars is being offered to anyone who can help identify the missing heir, who would be approximately twenty-nine or thirty years old today…”

Redington’s heart skipped, That was his age, He walked over to the mirror mounted above the sink. His reflection stared back, quiet, tired, skin marred with old bruises and new shame.

Then… something flickered, A memory? No, A sensation. The smell of pine and expensive leather.

The warmth of a woman’s hands brushing his cheeks. A name: Grayson. Where had that come from? Redington didn’t sleep that night.

Instead, he sat in the staff quarters, going through what little he owned. A notebook, two pens, a second-hand watch, and a photograph taken by Emmett a year ago. In it, Redington wore his usual gray uniform, barely smiling, standing under the mansion’s willow tree.

There was nothing unusual about it. Until he turned it over, Scrawled in the corner, faint, like ghost ink- were the letters: G. W.

He didn’t write that. He didn’t even own the photo until Emmett gave it to him, He stared at it for hours, The next morning, Redington was called to the dining hall.

All five Everhart children were seated, dressed like royalty. Clive sat at the head of the table, eyes hard, chewing on a cigar. “You’re late,” he said.

“I wasn’t told”

“Silence.”

Clive tossed a newspaper onto the table. The headline read: Billionaire Seeks Heir: Could You Be the Missing Wynthorpe?

“You’re not thinking of trying your luck, are you?” sneered Lucien, the eldest. “We saw you listening to the broadcast. Dream on, mop boy.”

“I-”

Lucien stood, strode over, and slapped Redington across the face, Hard. “You don’t get to pretend to be someone,” he whispered. “You're nothing.”

No one at the table stopped him, Except Emmett, who looked sick, Later, as Redington stood outside rinsing the garden walkway, Emmett approached again. “Don’t listen to them,” he said quietly.

Redington didn’t answer.

“I found something,” Emmett added, glancing around. “I went through the photo album in the attic last year. There’s a photo of you. A baby. In someone’s arms. And that someone? Wasn’t one of us.”

Redington dropped the hose. “You sure?”

“I swear on my life.”

That night, Emmett sneaked him into the attic, They climbed past trunks of antiques, family heirlooms, and dust-covered secrets, Emmett handed him an old leather album. Page after page passed.

Then he saw it, A photo of a woman with storm-colored eyes and a soft smile, holding a baby with a familiar face, his own. A man stood beside her, face half turned.

The photo was labeled in faded ink: Wynthorpe, 1996.

Redington sat down hard, He remembered her. The woman in the photo. Her voice. “Grayson. My sunshine.”

He couldn’t breathe, But the door slammed open. It was Lucien, And he wasn’t alone, Redington stood, clutching the album. “What’s this?” Lucien growled. “Stealing now, are you?”

“I didn’t take”

Lucien lunged. A fist met Redington’s ribs. He stumbled, but didn’t fall, The album hit the ground, Lucien picked it up, ripped the photo from its page, and sneered. “You think this makes you special? You’re a worm playing king.”

He walked out, taking the photo with him, Emmett watched, horrified. “I’m sorry”

“It’s not your fault,” Redington said softly.

But his eyes were different now, Alive with something dangerous. Hope. At 3 a.m., Redington packed a duffel bag, He left a note on Emmett’s window.

“Thank you. I’m going to find out who I am. And then, I’ll be back. Not as the help. As something else.”

He stepped out into the cold night, For the first time in years, he wasn’t walking toward the mansion, He was walking away from it. Toward the truth.