Filthy Rich (Blackstone Dynasty 1)

“What is the fucking truth that’s been kept from me for my whole life?” I yelled back at her.

She flinched in her seat.

The only thing holding me from going into a total meltdown was Brooke’s hand rubbing on my back in gentle but steady circles, grounding me from absolutely losing my motherfucking shit in front of everyone I cared about most in the world.

My mother straightened her back and lost the hauteur that she usually carried around on her face. I knew the truth I was about to hear would change everything.

She turned to me and said it calmly.

“The truth is, Caleb, you are not my son.”

RELIEF. I felt relief for the first time in thirty-one years where my “mother” was concerned. I didn’t have to wonder what I’d done to spurn her love. Now I understood. It finally made some goddamn fucking sense to me. I blocked out everyone else in the room. I knew they were there, but I didn’t care anymore. The truth is all I cared about, because I had nothing to hide from any of them.

“My father?” I was almost fearful of asking.

“Your father was your father, Caleb. You are his son, but you are not mine.” More relief poured over me at knowing my whole existence was not a lie. I was a Blackstone after all.

“H-h-how did it happen?”

“Shortly after we’d married I found out he had a lover. One of the cleaning staff, a girl named Melody Rainford—a student on a work visa from England. Yes, she was British,” she said in a tone I did not care for. But I held my tongue because I wanted her to tell me the rest. “He made her pregnant and you were born. JW was completely infatuated with her, and I am quite certain he would have left me and married her, if she hadn’t died just three weeks after you were born.”

I lifted my eyes and stared daggers at my mother—no, wait—I stabbed Madelaine with the question I dared not ask.

“No, Caleb. I am not a murderer, despite what you might be imagining right now. It was a postpartum aneurysm that killed your mother. They are a tragic complication that does happen sometimes, and the result is usually fatal. Your father was devastated to lose her, but he wouldn’t part with you. He loved you because you were his son, and he wanted you to be raised as his son in the eyes of society, with all of the benefits that would come with his name.”

I couldn’t imagine the terrible emotion my father must have experienced when my birth mother suddenly died, leaving him with a newborn to raise. I looked over at Brooke and felt the stab of fear punch right through my gut. If I ever lost her there would be nothing left of me.

“He came to me humbled and begged me to take him back. We struck a deal, your father and I. I would claim you as my child, and he would never stray again during the course of our marriage. He would also give to me certain assets that would belong only to me—so I would never be under his thumb for money again and always in control of my own personal wealth, even if he lost everything he owned. The deed to Blackwater was one such provision. Fortunes are lost every day in the oil business. I had to make sure what I was getting would stand the test of time and hold its val

ue.”

I couldn’t fault her explanation. A fortune promised in exchange for claiming me as her own. Secrets kept . . . for a price.

“He moved us to Houston for two years so our friends wouldn’t question your birth after it was announced I was expecting. Everything was arranged, even your birth certificate was altered. People were paid to forget what they’d seen, if they were even aware. Good servants understand the value of turning a blind eye and your father made sure they were well compensated. By the time we returned to Boston, you were a little boy in the care of your nanny, because I was pregnant with twins and too ill to mother you. Nobody noticed. You looked just like JW, and so your parentage was accepted without doubt. People see what we want them to see, Caleb. And what they saw was a growing, happy family with a mother and a father.

“Your father did all of that for you, Caleb. He kept his promise to me, and in spite of what you might believe, I did love him very much and our marriage grew stronger after our tumultuous beginning because of our agreement. I did my best for you—the best that I was capable of giving you. I did not interfere with your relationship with your father or with your brothers and your sisters. You loved them all unconditionally, and they you—I could see that clearly.

“He didn’t want you to know. Even on his deathbed, your father made me promise never to tell you, because he was afraid you would lose respect for him. He was afraid for all of his children to lose their respect for him. JW was not the perfect man you’ve always believed him to be. He was flawed . . . as we all are. Until right now, I have kept my promise to my husband, and I never once betrayed him or h-his w-wishes,” she stammered slightly, “and regardless of what you think, Caleb, I have always thought of myself as your mother.”

She stood up from the table with all of the poise I’d known her to have throughout my life and tilted her head in my direction as an acknowledgment. “So you know the truth, son.” She addressed the rest of the people in the room. “Please excuse me, but I must say goodnight to all of you. Thank you for dinner, Caleb and Brooke, but I find myself suddenly very tired.” Then she walked out with her head held high. We heard the front door open and close a minute later.

We are a mother and a son who are not a mother and a son.

I didn’t feel the devastation I thought I should be feeling, because it was all shades of gray, wasn’t it?

A father in a desperate situation trying to make the best he could out of it.

A wife who had been betrayed in her marriage asked to cover up her husband’s mistakes.

A child completely unaware of anything different from what he’d always known.

Because really, my childhood had been good. I’d been a happy kid. I’d felt loved. I never remember feeling like I was set apart within the family, so I couldn’t fault her for excluding me in any way that had been recognizable to me as a child. She’d sent my brothers off to boarding school when they were ten, same as me. My sisters, too, when it was their turn. So, she’d hidden her resentment well. I guess my dad had loved me enough for the both of them. I was curious about my birth mother, though. She had been a British girl like my Brooke. Melody Rainford—a pretty name. I wanted to know more about her.

As I came out of my mental fog, I felt Brooke touching me, letting me know she was still with me as she rubbed my back with one hand and held my face with the other. She tugged on my cheek so I would turn to her. “Caleb, my love, how are you?”

“I am surprisingly well.” I gave her a small smile because I really felt it. “If I have you, I am fine.”

“You have me.”