The Hidden In House Heir

Chapter 3: Not My Blood

The mansion smelled different that morning, not the usual mix of lemon cleaner and cigar smoke, but something tense, sharp, like metal in the air before a storm.

Stephen descended the attic stairs as usual, already mentally preparing for the day’s insults, but today felt different. The halls were quiet, too quiet. No laughter from the brothers. No barking orders from Mr. Rosewell.

He stepped into the main foyer and froze. Every member of the Rosewell family stood there: all five children. Mr. Rosewell, in a sharp charcoal suit, and someone new.

A man in his early forties. Neat, clinical, like a hospital administrator in disguise, he held a slim black briefcase and had the kind of smile that made Stephen feel like a lab rat. “Ah,” the stranger said. “You must be Stephen.”

Stephen instinctively glanced at Mr. Rosewell, who offered nothing but a hard, unreadable stare. “Stephen is the housekeeper,” Mr. Rosewell said coldly. “We found something of interest last night in the attic. Some… items.”

Stephen’s stomach dropped. “You went through my things?”

“They’re not your things if they’re in my house.”

The man with the briefcase stepped forward. “My name is Dr. Harold Graves. I’ve been contracted to assist Mr. Rosewell with a matter of paternity verification.”

Stephen blinked. “What?”

Samuel, standing behind his siblings, looked confused too. “Dad, what’s going on?”

Mr. Rosewell cut him off with a raised hand. “Silence.”

Dr. Graves continued, “Due to the recent media attention surrounding Mr. Caldwell’s search for his lost son, we’ve taken it upon ourselves to conduct some… housekeeping of our own. Stephen here seems to be at the center of some curiosity.”

Stephen’s fists clenched. “You stole my things. My birth tag. The wristband, ”

Mr. Rosewell raised his voice. “Enough!”

Stephen stood his ground for once; he didn’t bow his head. “If this is about Mr. Caldwell, then I should be the one to, ”

“You are nothing, boy!” Mr. Rosewell thundered. “You clean toilets in my house, do not mistake the charity of a roof over your head for significance.”

Seth chuckled. “Let the rat get tested. Maybe he’ll find out he’s just a rat after all.”

Dr. Graves opened his case with a metallic snap, revealing a small DNA swab kit. “It’s simple,” he said, approaching Stephen. “A quick sample. Then we compare it to the sample provided by Mr. Caldwell’s legal team. Discreet. Confidential.”

Stephen’s chest rose and fell. This could be it, he nodded. Dr. Graves swabbed the inside of his cheek, sealed the vial, and packed the kit like it was nuclear material.

“You’ll hear from us in a few days,” he said. “But I suggest you don’t go anywhere.”

Mr. Rosewell turned to his sons. “Escort him back to his quarters.”

Stephen narrowed his eyes. “I’m not a prisoner.”

“You’re nothing unless that test proves otherwise,” Seth smirked. “And if it doesn’t…?”

Stephen didn’t answer because the truth was, he didn’t know.

Back in the attic, Stephen stared at the ceiling. His mind ran wild. What if he wasn’t the heir? What if it was all some sick game?

Or worse, what if he was the heir… and Mr. Rosewell had known all along?

Downstairs, he could hear raised voices, Samuel yelling at his father, and a door slamming. Footsteps pacing then silence again.

His pulse wouldn’t slow; he needed air, he needed answers. That night, under the cover of darkness, Stephen slipped out through the service door and headed to the local public library.

It wasn’t far, fifteen blocks; he ran the entire way. Inside, the night librarian gave him a wary glance, but he nodded politely and went straight to the newspaper archives.

He searched for hours, looking up anything on Richard Caldwell. Birth records. Old interviews. Anything about a missing child. A scandal. A loss.

And finally, he found it. “Tragedy at Sea: Wife of Young Entrepreneur Drowns in Ferry Accident,  Infant Presumed Missing.”

The photo of the woman in the article, with long brown hair and a kind smile, sent a chill through Stephen. He’d never seen her before, but something deep in his chest ached. His mother?

The article claimed the child vanished after the crash, and the body was never recovered. The father, Richard Caldwell, had nothing but a single hospital ID wristband, no trace of the child since.

Until now. Stephen snapped a photo of the article with his phone as he turned to leave, and the librarian approached. “Library’s closing, son.”

Stephen nodded, heart still racing. He was halfway to the exit when his phone buzzed.

UNKNOWN NUMBER. He answered cautiously. “Hello?”

A voice on the other end spoke quickly, almost urgently. “You don’t know me, Stephen, but they’re watching you.”

Stephen stopped walking. “Who is this?”

“I used to work for Caldwell’s company. On the inside. You’re closer than you think. But be careful. If they confirm you’re the heir, they won’t let you live long enough to claim it.”

The line went dead.