CHADLABS Scholarly Hub
Marcus’s grip on the crumpled drawing tightened as he instructed his driver to head to the address he'd just gotten from HR. The image of those familiar violet-blue eyes burned into his mind. The address was a quiet apartment building a short drive from the Sterling Enterprises headquarters, close enough that he recalled Eleanor mentioning she sometimes walked to work. His mind raced with a chaotic mix of disbelief, anger, and a strange, unfamiliar ache. A son. He had a son and had never known.
The car pulled up to the address, a modest building that seemed a world away from the gleaming steel and glass of his own penthouse. Marcus’s hands trembled as he got out, instructing his driver to wait. He walked with a sense of grim purpose towards the entrance, his heart pounding with each step.
He found Eleanor’s apartment number and hesitated for a moment before knocking, a sudden wave of uncertainty washing over him. What if he was wrong? What if this was all some elaborate misunderstanding? But the image of those violet-blue eyes in the childish drawing was too vivid to ignore.
He knocked again, louder this time. No answer. He tried the handle on impulse, and to his surprise, the door yielded, swinging inward with a soft click. He pushed it open slightly and called out, his voice rough with emotion, “Eleanor?”
Silence.
He pushed the door open further and stepped inside, his gaze sweeping across a small, cozy living room bathed in the soft light of late morning. The remnants of a child’s life were scattered around – a half-finished Lego creation on the rug, a stack of colorful picture books on a low shelf, a well-loved stuffed dinosaur slumped in the corner.
And then he saw him. A little boy sat cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in a game with toy cars. Dark hair, a determined set to his small jaw… and those eyes. The unmistakable shade of violet-blue that mirrored his own with an almost unsettling accuracy.
Marcus froze, his breath catching in his throat. The world seemed to tilt on its axis. It was like looking at a miniature version of himself, a younger, softer echo of the man he was. A wave of emotion, complex and overwhelming, washed over him. Five years of muted longing, a nameless ache that had haunted him in the quiet hours, suddenly had a face. A small, innocent face that looked up at him with wide, curious eyes.
“Hi,” the little boy said, his voice small and slightly shy. “Are you here for Mommy?”
Just at that moment, Eleanor walked in from the bedroom, carrying a cardboard box filled with folded clothes. She stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widening in disbelief, then dawning horror as she took in the sight of Marcus standing in her living room, his gaze locked on her son.
The cardboard box slipped from her trembling hands, the contents spilling onto the floor with a soft thud. The moment hung in the air, silent and explosive, thick with unspoken truths and years of buried secrets.
Marcus looked from the little boy, his son, to Eleanor, his face a mask of shock that was quickly hardening into a cold, raw fury. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and dangerous, the question ripping through the quiet of the small apartment.
“Is he mine?”
