the forgotten son dailymotion

Victoria's POV

The champagne tasted like lies.

I stood by the window, watching snow fall on the gardens where Elias used to hide from our mother's piano lessons. Twenty years gone, and I could still hear him laughing behind the hedges. Still see his grey eyes peeking through the leaves.

"Victoria, darling, you look pale." Mother appeared at my elbow, her perfume choking me. "Are you feeling well?"

I wasn't. I hadn't felt well since Father announced this ridiculous party. Sixty years old, he said. Time to celebrate. Time to show everyone the Ashbourne family still mattered.

Time to pretend we weren't monsters.

"I'm fine," I lied. The same lie I'd been telling for twenty years.

The ballroom glittered with people I didn't care about. Business partners. Politicians. Old money and new money, all mixing together like oil and water. Father held court by the fireplace, his silver hair catching the light. He looked distinguished. Powerful. Not like a man who murdered his own son.

Thomas touched my shoulder. "You should mingle. People are noticing."

My older brother always noticed things like that. What people thought. What people saw. He'd built his whole life around appearances.

"Let them notice," I said.

His jaw tightened. "Don't make a scene. Not tonight."

I wanted to laugh. A scene? What could I possibly do that would compare to what we'd already done? But Thomas didn't like thinking about that night. He'd locked it away somewhere deep inside, where guilt couldn't reach him.

I wasn't that strong.

The clock struck nine. The doors to the ballroom stood open, letting in cold air from the entrance hall. I watched Father raise his glass, ready to make some speech about family and legacy and all the other words he used to hide the rot underneath.

Then the front door opened.

At first, no one noticed. The music kept playing. People kept talking. But I felt it. A change in the air, like the moment before lightning strikes.

A man walked in from the darkness.

He wore a dark coat covered in melting snow. His hair was black, touched with grey at the temples. He moved slowly, like someone walking through a dream. Or a nightmare.

When he stepped into the light, I saw his face.

My wine glass slipped from my fingers. It shattered on the marble floor, the sound cutting through the music like a scream.

Everyone turned. Everyone stared.

The man had our eyes. The Ashbourne grey, like storm clouds over the moor. He had our father's sharp jawline and our mother's elegant hands. He looked exactly like the portraits we'd burned. Exactly like the brother we'd buried.

"Hello, Father," he said. His voice was quiet but it filled the entire room. "I've come home."