Un hijo con el chico malo

“Ethan Ethan,” I screamed

I was twelve years old when my brother disappeared.

The Hart Estate always felt too big for kids like us, so large we could even hear our thoughts. It was quiet, strict, and everything had to be perfect. That afternoon, the sun was bright over the gardens, lighting up marble statues and neat hedges that stretched farther than we should have gone. Ethan ran ahead, laughing, his little shoes kicking up dust as our dog led us deeper into the green maze.

“Don’t go too far,” I called, already feeling older than I should have at that age.

He turned and gave me that soft smile that always made things feel safe. He trusted me. I protected him. That’s how it always was.

We walked, laughed, played, and wandered.

And then he was gone .Just like that, he vanished.

At first, I thought he was hiding. Ethan loved games. Loved making me search until I pretended to cry just to make him come running back. I called his name once. Then again. Each time louder than the last, but I couldn't see or hear him.

The garden answered with silence.

My feet took me back toward the mansion to call for help; everyone I knew searched for him. In less than 24hours, the news had spread like wildfire.

The next day, after school, I remembered opening the doors, before I could reach my room, I saw she was already waiting, “Sophia, she screamed”.

My stepmum, Vivan, always treated me harshly, maybe because I wasn't actually her real daughter but a stepdaughter.

I never actually knew my mum because dad never told me; he was so focused on business that he ignored the way I was treated.

She stood waiting, just like always, sharp-eyed and unforgiving. Her presence filled the room, making it hard to breathe.

“Where is my son?” she demanded.

I tried to explain. I told her we were just playing like we always did, that I only looked away for a moment, and he was gone.

She didn’t listen.

She never did.

She screamed that I was cursed, that my blood was rotten, that I should never have been allowed near him. Her words hurt more than anything else she could have done.

The next day, the house was still in chaos.

The search was still on. Guards searched the grounds. Police filled the estate. Chicago swallowed Ethan, and my childhood disappeared with him.

He was eight when he disappeared.

And Vivian lost her mind shortly after that.

At first, she was just grieving. Then she became desperate. I could actually understand her, the grief that comes with losing a child. She turned to things that dulled her pain enough to get by, like drugs. Days became weeks, weeks became years, yet she wouldn’t leave her room, nor did Ethan return. Servants bathed her, fed her, and watched her stare at nothing.

But grief wasn’t enough for Vivian as she kept longing for his return.

She wanted answers.

She went to see a renowned priestess.

I didn’t hear about it until years later, whispered by servants who feared her even more than my dad, after she came back. The priestess had told her something strange, something that stayed with her long even after the years had passed.

A long-awaited guest will return to your house.

Vivian held onto those words because they were like a glimmer of hope to her.

Years later, my father had to rebuild our family’s image. Our wealth and status grew. Our influence spread. The old money felt heavier, and with it came people looking to take advantage of it.

Men began to appear at our gates every day claiming to be Ethan.

Frauds, one more convincing than the last. Some cried. Some even pretended to remember things like it were their own memory. All of them knew what was at stake

The prize.

One million dollars.

That was the reward my father had placed on my brother’s return.

And my father’s investigator, a fraudstar as well, kept bringing them.

Until he stopped.

Fourteen years of silence and grief.

Then today.

The man stood in the living room now, older, thinner, trembling under my father’s rage.

“You’ve wasted enough of my time,” my father snapped. “Enough of my hope and patience.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t sure,” the investigator said.

“You said that before.”

“This time it's different.”

The air shifted.

Something felt off.

Footsteps echoed from the hall.

Slow. Controlled. Heavy.

A man about 6’3 stepped into the room.

He said nothing.

He didn’t look around or search faces. He didn’t hesitate or react. He just walked forward, tall and calm, his presence quiet but strong. His skin was light, his expression unreadable, and his posture was too refined for someone who had supposedly been missing for fourteen years.

Cold.

He didn't say a word

The investigator cleared his throat.

“This is Ethan Hart,” he announced. “He has no memory of his childhood. He disappeared at eight. Everyone was shocked that maybe it was another fraudster.

Every physical feature matches height progression, facial structure, and birthmark placement. Medical confirmation aligns with our records.”

The man did not react.

Did not deny.

Did not confirm.

He stood there as if he belonged and didn’t care if we believed him or not.

That was when I heard my own footsteps. I rushed into the living room like I always did when a fraud showed up, my heart racing, my breath shallow, hope and dread crashing together inside me.

My eyes found him.

And in that instant, my heart sank.

This…..

This is not my brother.