The Forgotten Hilton

Chapter Two – The Bastard Heir

The hall fell silent, the woman’s voice echoing off the marble walls like a crack of thunder.

Marcus stood frozen, every instinct screaming at him to step back. Her presence radiated power, sharp, suffocating, and hostile.

Charles Vane, however, didn’t flinch. He bowed slightly. “Lady Evelyn.”

Evelyn Hilton’s eyes cut through Marcus like daggers. Her beauty was regal, but her smile was poison.

“So the stray finally crawls back. Tell me, Charles, what trick is this? Parading some street rat into my home and calling him heir?”

Marcus clenched his fists. “I didn’t ask to be dragged here.”

“No,” Evelyn snapped, “but you’ll regret stepping into this hall.”

She circled him slowly, her heels striking the marble with deliberate rhythm.

“Look at you, filthy suit, eyes full of fear. And this… this is the man my father thought worthy of inheritance? What an insult.”

Her laughter rang sharp, and the staff lining the walls shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

Marcus’s voice cracked, but he forced the words out.

“I didn’t come here to be mocked again. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime.”

Evelyn stopped in front of him, her eyes narrowing. “Mocked? Oh, boy, you have no idea what mockery is.

You’ve been gone, hidden, surviving like a rat in the gutter while I’ve carried this family on my shoulders.

And now, after years of silence, you appear to snatch it all away?”

Her face twisted. “No. I won’t allow it.”

Charles finally stepped forward. “With respect, Lady Evelyn, it is not for you to allow or deny.

The late Richard Hilton named Marcus as heir. His bloodline is unquestionable.”

Evelyn’s gaze snapped to him. “And you, Charles, the ever loyal dog.

Still sniffing around for scraps of Father’s approval even after his death. You disgrace yourself by siding with this fraud.”

Marcus’s chest tightened, the weight of her scorn pressing down.

But something inside him, something that had begun stirring in that car, refused to break this time.

“You hate me because of my blood,” he said quietly.

Evelyn tilted her head. “Wrong. I hate you because you exist.

Because your father, my brother, chose some nobody over the empire, and your very birth was the stain that shattered this family.

And now you dare to return, thinking you can replace him?”

Her words struck Marcus like a slap. His father? The ghost he never knew, suddenly painted as the reason for all this venom.

His hands trembled at his sides.

“I didn’t choose to be born.”

“No,” Evelyn hissed, leaning closer until her perfume choked him. “But you will choose how you die if you stay here.”

The room’s tension coiled like a snake.

Charles’s voice cut through, cold as steel.

“Enough. Lady Evelyn, your threats are beneath you. The will is clear.

Marcus Hilton is the rightful heir. You may challenge him in the boardroom if you dare, but not here, not tonight.”

Evelyn’s laugh was a low, dangerous thing.

“Challenge him? There’s no need for challenge. He’ll collapse on his own. Look at him, he’s weak, pathetic, humiliated.

He doesn’t have the spine to lead, much less survive.”

She turned her back on Marcus, striding toward the grand staircase. At the base, she paused and glanced over her shoulder, her eyes glinting like ice.

“Run back to the streets, bastard. It’s the only place you belong.”

With that, she swept up the stairs, her crimson dress trailing like spilled blood behind her.

The silence she left behind was suffocating. Marcus’s chest heaved, his fists trembling at his sides.

Charles finally spoke. “You see now, Marcus. This is not a family.

It’s a battlefield. And if you want to survive, if you want to claim your birthright, you cannot hesitate. Not even for blood.”

Marcus swallowed hard, his voice rough. “She hates me because of who my father was.”

“Yes,” Charles said simply. “And others will hate you for far more.

Power breeds enemies. Already, word will spread that the bastard heir has returned.

By morning, the city will know. And every vulture circling the Hilton empire will descend.”

Marcus pressed his palms against the cool marble column beside him, his shame and anger colliding inside.

“I was a nobody just hours ago. How am I supposed to fight people like her? People with power, with wealth, with… everything?”

Charles stepped closer, his eyes unyielding. “By refusing to be nobody anymore. You suffered tonight, Marcus. Use it.

Burn their laughter into your memory. Make every sneer, every insult, every humiliation your weapon.”

Marcus lifted his gaze. The fear in his eyes had not vanished, but beneath it, something else burned, Resolve.

“I won’t crawl again,” he whispered.

Charles’s lips curved in a rare, approving smile. “Good. Then the war begins now.”

At that moment, a sharp sound shattered the tense silence, the crack of glass breaking somewhere deep in the mansion.

Both men spun toward the noise. A servant came rushing in, pale as ash.

“Sir, intruders. They’ve breached the east wing!”

Marcus’s breath caught. Intruders? Here? In this fortress?

Charles’s expression darkened. “So soon…”

He turned to Marcus, his voice urgent.

“You wanted proof of what you are, of what you’ve inherited? Then see it with your own eyes, Tonight, Marcus, your enemies come for you.”

The servant’s voice quivered.

“Masked men, armed. They cut through the east wing’s glass doors, security is holding them back, but”

A gunshot cracked through the mansion, silencing him.

Marcus’s blood ran cold. His pulse hammered in his ears. Gunfire. Here.

Charles’s hand gripped his shoulder like iron. “Do not cower, Marcus. This is your inheritance, wealth, power, and enemies who will kill you for both.”

Marcus’s throat tightened. “I… I’m not ready for this.”

“No one ever is,” Charles said sharply. He drew a sleek pistol from beneath his jacket, the metal gleaming under the chandelier’s light. “Stay close. And watch.”

Another shot rang out, closer this time. Shouts echoed from the east corridor.

The staff scattered, some screaming, others rushing to lock down the hall.

Marcus felt the walls closing in, the portraits of the Hilton ancestors staring down at him, cold and judgmental.

“This isn’t my world,” Marcus muttered, his chest heaving. “I can’t”

Charles spun on him, his voice a whip. “It is your world. Tonight proves it. They didn’t wait a day before trying to erase you.

That means they fear you. Remember that, Marcus, fear is power.”

The double doors to the east wing slammed open. A masked intruder stumbled in, firing wildly.

The bullet shattered a vase near Marcus’s feet, porcelain exploding across the marble.

Marcus dropped instinctively, his ears ringing. His heart screamed to run, but Charles didn’t flinch.

With a single, fluid motion, he raised his pistol, one shot. The intruder collapsed, a dark stain spreading across his chest.

The hall fell silent but for Marcus’s ragged breathing.

His stomach churned, bile rising at the sight of blood pooling across the marble he had just walked.

“You killed him,” Marcus rasped.

Charles didn’t look away. “He came to kill you. Never forget that. In this war, hesitation is death.”

Before Marcus could reply, more figures surged through the doors, three, four, five of them, guns raised.

“Down!” Charles barked, pushing Marcus behind a column.

Bullets tore into the air, shredding tapestries and splintering wood. Staff screamed and fled.

Marcus crouched low, his body trembling uncontrollably. The acrid scent of gunpowder burned his lungs.

Charles returned fire with surgical precision, each shot measured, deliberate.

One intruder fell. Another stumbled, clutching his leg. But the others pressed forward, relentless.

Marcus’s mind spiraled. I shouldn’t be here. I’m no heir, no leader, I’m nothing, and then, Sophia’s voice slithered through his memory.

You’re trash. Trash belongs on the street.

Rage flickered through his fear. His fists clenched against the marble. No. Not again. Not anymore.

One intruder broke off, circling the column where Marcus hid.

Marcus saw his shadow stretching long across the floor, the glint of his weapon catching the light.

His breath quickened. His body screamed to stay down. But another voice, a voice that had been buried for too long, rose inside him.

Stand up, Fight. The intruder swung around the column, gun raised, Marcus lunged.

The move was clumsy, desperate, but it caught the man off guard.

They crashed to the ground, the gun skidding across the marble. Marcus grappled with him, fists flying, fueled by panic and fury.

The man snarled, slamming an elbow into Marcus’s ribs. Pain shot through his body, but he held on, his knuckles splitting against the intruder’s mask.

Finally, with a guttural roar, Marcus smashed the man’s head against the floor. The body went limp.

Silence swallowed him. His chest heaved. His hands trembled, bloodied and raw.

He had never fought like that before. Never killed, had he killed? He didn’t know.

His mind screamed denial, but his body thrummed with something else entirely. Adrenaline, Power.