HOUSEKEEPER TO HEIR

CHAPTER TWO: THE BOY WHO DISAPPEARED

The city looked different at night, Redington stepped off the last bus with nothing but a duffel bag, a burned image of a photograph in his mind, and a name that might not even be his.

The streets of Graybridge were slick with rain. Neon signs buzzed above shuttered storefronts. Somewhere nearby, a siren wailed. But to Redington, the chaos of the city was liberating. At least here, no one knew who he was. Or who he wasn’t.

He pulled the hood of his coat over his head and walked two blocks until he found the place: St. Marian's Orphanage.

The gates were rusted, the garden overgrown. It had been abandoned for years. But it was where his records started, the place the Everharts said they pulled him from, He pressed a hand against the gate.

Locked.

Redington climbed it instead, Inside, the orphanage was a graveyard of broken beds and peeling paint. Dust hung in the air like fog. But Redington moved with purpose.

He found the old records room in the back, half-collapsed. Metal cabinets were rusted shut, paper files turned to mulch from water damage.

He coughed as he forced one drawer open. A file labeled “G.W.” sat near the back, His fingers trembled as he pulled it out. Inside were three things: A birth certificate with most of the details blurred by mold

A crumpled letter, written in rushed, trembling handwriting, A photo, creased and faded, He unfolded the letter. “To whoever finds him: His name is Grayson Wynthorpe. Please keep him safe. They’re coming. I can’t protect him anymore…”

No signature. No date, Just fear in ink. Redington’s heart thudded so loud it echoed in the hollow building, Grayson, That name again. His name? He looked at the photo. It was the same woman. The same child, But in this one, there was blood on her sleeve.

He left before dawn, ducking into a 24-hour diner on Eastwick Avenue. Inside, he ordered the cheapest coffee and sat in the far corner, The waitress didn’t ask questions. Just refilled his cup every time it emptied.

Redington sat there for hours, going over everything. If this was true If he really was Grayson Wynthorpe, the missing heir to Wynthorpe International, Then why was there no one looking for him all these years? And who were “they”?

The letter mentioned danger. A threat, Could that be why his mother gave him up?

He was still thinking when a man slid into the booth across from him, Sharp suit. Cold eyes. “Redington, is it?”

Redington stiffened. “Do I know you?”

The man smiled. “No. But someone wants to meet you.”

He slid a small envelope across the table, Inside: an address, No name. No note. Just a date and time, tonight. “Who sent this?”

The man stood. “Someone who knows who you really are.”

He walked out without another word, Redington stared at the envelope, A trap? Or an answer?

He finished his coffee, left cash on the table, and walked out, The streets had warmed by noon, but Redington felt cold. Paranoia clung to his skin. Every shadow felt like a watcher.

By evening, he stood in front of a high-rise overlooking the city. The building was all glass and steel, far too upscale for a former housekeeper with nothing but broken memories.

He took the elevator to the 51st floor, The door opened into silence, A single man sat in a dark room, staring out the window with an oxygen tank beside him.

Redington stepped forward, The man turned, Alaric Wynthorpe. The dying billionaire himself. Their eyes locked. Something passed between them, unspoken and electric.

“You have her eyes,” Alaric said hoarsely. “But I need more than eyes.”

Redington’s throat was dry. “Is it true?”

Alaric didn’t answer. Instead, he nodded to a man in the corner. A quiet, thin doctor emerged from the shadows, holding a small device. “We’ll know soon enough.”

The test took minutes. Swab. Scan. Silence, The doctor’s face turned pale. “It’s him,” he said quietly. “He’s the match.”

Alaric exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for thirty years. “You’re Grayson.”

Redington staggered back, but the wall caught him. “Why… why didn’t you find me?”

Alaric’s expression darkened. “Because they didn’t want you found.”

The story came out slowly, painfully, like digging up bones from the past.

Redington or Grayson, now, was born during the bloodiest chapter of Alaric Wynthorpe’s life. His empire had just been attacked by enemies disguised as allies. His wife, Grayson’s mother had uncovered a plot within the board of directors. Before she could speak, she was murdered.

Grayson vanished that same night. “I thought you were dead,” Alaric rasped. “But she saved you. She ran. Gave you up to keep you alive.”

Grayson felt sick, His whole life mopping floors, bowing to the rich, sleeping in linen closets was built on a stolen legacy. “You’re my son,” Alaric said. “And they’ll come for you now.”

“Who?”

“The ones running my empire like it’s theirs. The ones who buried you.”

He stood, shakily, gripping his cane. “You don’t just inherit my money, Grayson. You inherit my enemies.”

By midnight, Grayson was back in a hotel, staring at the ceiling, He couldn’t sleep, The past wasn’t gone. It was just waiting in the dark, A knock at the door shattered the stillness. He opened it.

Emmett. Soaked in rain. Eyes red. “They’re coming after you,” he said. “Lucien knows. He found out everything.”

Grayson blinked. “How did you find me?”

“I followed you. I had to make sure you were okay.”

Grayson stared at him. The only decent Everhart. “I can’t stay here,” Grayson said.

Emmett nodded. “Then let’s go.”

Grayson hesitated. “…You’re not afraid?”

“I am,” Emmett said. “But I think the world should be afraid of you.”