The Officer's Runaway Wife & Secret Son novel Chapter 41

The taxi pulled over about two kilometers away from Huntington Manor.

"Miss, that's a private road ahead. I can't drive in," the driver said.

Clara dragged her small suitcase along the winding mountain road alone. This was the mid-levels of South Ridge, the heart of Brighton City's wealth and power. The Huntington family estate was magnificent.

As soon as Clara approached the entrance, the iron gates slid open. The butler, Carrol, was waiting with two maids.

"Young madam."

Clara always got goosebumps hearing that title. She couldn't quite pull off the air of a wealthy young madam, so she simply responded with a polite nod.

Once inside the courtyard, Mia came rushing out of the main hall and took Clara's hands.

"My goodness, you walked here alone? You should have had Rhys bring you. Look at your poor face, it's frozen stiff."

"Aunt Mia," Clara managed a smile.

In the Huntington family, Mia was the only one who made her feel any warmth. It wasn't that the others actively hated her, but a century-old dynasty like this cared deeply about status and lineage. Nobody could control Rhys, though, which was the only reason she had managed to marry in.

They passed through the foyer and into the living room. An elderly man sat on a rosewood sofa, watching television. This was Rhys's grandfather, Justin Huntington, the patriarch of the family.

Clara greeted him obediently. "Grandfather."

Clara opened the wardrobe. Inside hung a few of Rhys's old school uniforms and tracksuits. When she hung her own clothes inside, the few splashes of bright color looked jarringly out of place.

She sat at the desk and habitually opened the main drawer. It was excessively clean, containing only an old tin biscuit box. The paint on the edges had chipped away with age.

Clara took the box out and opened it. Inside were the odds and ends of a teenage boy: a police academy badge, a used fountain pen, and several photographs.

Her hands trembling slightly, Clara picked up the one on top.

The photo was taken in a hospital garden. Rhys, about fifteen or sixteen, was wearing his school uniform. He had already grown tall, the cold sharpness of his brow beginning to take shape. He was bending slightly, one hand hovering over a little girl's head to shield her from the sun. The girl in his arms, perhaps eight or nine, wore a hospital gown and looked thin, her hand clutching tightly onto Rhys's uniform. She looked up at him with unreserved dependence.

Even with the childishness of youth, that face was unmistakably Margot's.