CHAPTER 273: DISTRAUGHT DESMOND

~Allen Family House~

Desmond drove into the Allen estate, his knuckles white against the steering wheel as he pulled to a halt in front of the grand family residence. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath ragged with suppressed emotion.

"From the beginning till now... I’ve been treated like an outsider," he muttered bitterly, slamming the car door shut. "All this while, I thought I was fighting for what was rightfully mine."

He stormed into the house, fury radiating from every step. The silence that greeted him in the living room only deepened the roar in his mind. The vast space, once a symbol of pride, now felt foreign, cold and accusing.

Without wasting a moment, he marched upstairs and into his bedroom where the answers he is to find lay. He went straight to his drawer, yanked it open, and retrieved the sealed folder he had secretly taken from Elder Allen’s study the night the old man went into shock and got hospitalized.

His fingers trembled slightly as he sat heavily on his bed, the large folder in hand, his heart dreading the result inside.

For a long moment, he just stared at it, his mind playing through every conversation, every whisper, every sideways glance he’d dismissed over the years. Even the memory of Elder Allen asking him if he loves the family.

Now it made sense, now he understood. Now he understood why he does everything to placate him.

Slowly, deliberately, he opened the envelope.

Inside, there were aged documents and a collection of old photographs. The first image made his breath hitch. It was a black-and-white picture of a small infant wrapped in a cloth. Tucked behind it was another photo with Elder Allen and his late wife smiling as they cradled a baby. It was the same baby.

His heart thudded wildly as he unfolded the next paper. Legal documents. Birth certificate. Adoption agreement. Signatures. The proof was undeniable.

Desmond’s eyes widened in disbelief, then slowly clouded with unshed tears. His lips parted, but no sound came. His body slumped forward as though the weight of truth had collapsed his spine.

"This... this can’t be..." he whispered hoarsely.

He clutched the photo of Elder Allen tighter, hands shaking. "So it’s true. I wasn’t born into this family... I was taken in."

His throat tightened, and he blinked back the moisture blurring his vision.

"All these years, I fought, I bled, I sacrificed. I lived by the name Allen, thinking it was mine by birth, by right."

He laughed bitterly, the sound broken and hollow. "But I was never truly one of them."

He stared at the documents again, hoping they would somehow change. That the ink would dissolve and rewrite a new truth. But it didn’t.

"Does this mean I was wrong all along? That I was never meant to stand at the forefront?" he asked the silence, hoping for an answer.

His mind raced with years of memories—family dinners, corporate meetings, being addressed as ’Young Master Desmond.’ Had it all been a lie wrapped in kindness?

Desmond ran a hand down his face, dragging it over his jaw. Rage boiled beneath the pain.

Shame tangled with betrayal. And somewhere within it all was the overwhelming sting of rejection—blatantly told "you are not Allen."

"Is this why he always chose Alex and Davis over me?" he choked out. "Because I was never truly his blood?"

He stood abruptly, sending the papers fluttering to the floor. He stared down at them, at the life he thought was his, now scattered in fragments before him.

"No, I have to find out everything, who am I? Where do I come from, and why am I abandoned? And if the Allen family thought this revelation would end this quest for the heir, they were sorely mistaken.

Tears fell unchecked as he whispered to himself, "I may not be an Allen by blood, but I will not fade into the background."

Desmond clenched his fists.

If they had taken everything from him, he would make sure they remembered who he was—even if he had to burn down the name he once called his own.

Desmond stood in the center of his bedroom, the documents at his feet like shattered pieces of a life he thought he understood. His chest heaved. The silence of the room seemed to scream louder than any voice could.

His eyes burned, but he didn’t wipe the tears away. He let them fall.

His gaze dropped to the crumpled adoption papers lying beside the black-and-white photo of the baby—of himself. His fists clenched tighter.

"Adopted," he muttered. "Adopted... and yet I gave this family everything."

He took a step forward and bent to gather the papers, his fingers moving slowly, reverently, as though holding a fragile piece of his soul.

The photo of Elder Allen and his wife smiling as they cradled him was what crushed him the most. It wasn’t staged. The joy on their faces wasn’t forced. He had been loved... once.

His knees buckled and he sank onto the bed again, resting the documents in his lap.

His voice cracked, low but resolute. "So what if I wasn’t born with the Allen blood in my veins? I was raised in this house. I bore the Allen name. I protected it. I expanded the company, made sacrifices no one saw. I stood when others fell, all in the name of Allen."

He let out a humorless laugh. "And now... now you say I’m not worthy because I wasn’t born one of you?"

He shook his head, slowly, then stood up again—taller this time, his shoulders straightening with a new, hardened determination.

"No," he whispered. Then louder: "No! I will not step down. I will not walk away quietly."

He paced to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Outside, the estate lay still, calm and serene, oblivious to the storm gathering in his chest.

"I was a child when they brought me here. I didn’t choose this name. They gave it to me. They raised me as an Allen. And now, I’m suddenly unfit because of blood?" He let out a humourless laugh.

His voice rose in a mix of anger and anguish. "Is that what all of this has been about? That I was never the true heir? That I was always just a placeholder? A shadow standing in the light of someone else’s destiny, just because of blood?"

He slammed his hand on the nearby table, making a glass ornament topple and shatter. The sound barely registered in his ears.

"No," he said again, this time with deadly conviction. "Once a son, always a son. I don’t care if I wasn’t born into this family. They made me their own. I will not let anyone treat me like a mistake to be corrected."

He turned toward the mirror, staring into his own reflection, his eyes bloodshot, his lips pressed in a grim line.

He grabbed the adoption paper and tucked it back into the envelope, locking it in his desk drawer.

"Let them think I’m done. Let them think I’ll fade away. But I’ve played the obedient son long enough."

He walked toward the closet and pulled out a fresh shirt, his movements sharp, filled with a new purpose.

"They gave me this name. They taught me to protect it. Now I’ll use everything they taught me, to show them what a ’non-Allen’ can do."

Slowly he slipped on the shirt and buttoned it, a smirk crept onto his face, cold and dangerous. He adjusted the cufflinks slowly.

"If they want a war, I’ll give them one."

And with those final words muttered to the night, Desmond picked up his phone and made a call.