Cole Patrick is merely a doorstep spawn who is reluctantly adopted by the Wyatt dynasty. He endures the mistreatment from the family but cannot speak up because the Wyatt's are powerful and influential. Zye Wyatt is an exception. She shows him kindness but is careful not to do it in front of the other members of the family. An innocent touch, a shared laugh, and suddenly, their bond blossoms into a forbidden love, ignited under the stars one lazy evening. However, their ruse comes to an end on prom night when Zane, Zye's brother finds them kissing behind the school library. He reports to their father who ships Zye abroad and kicks Cole out. At 18, homeless and determined to rise above his status, Cole forges a path of his own. Ten years later, Zye, broken and fresh from her divorce, finds herself looking for work in a small town. She is attracted to a bike gang from the town and is interested in joining as a step to her freedom. She realises that the bike gang leader is none other than Cole. Hardened by life but still her first love. However, their reunion does not last longer. A private investigator sent to find Zye's whereabouts reports them to her dad. The fragile peace they've curated shatters as shocking truths emerge: Cole wasn't abandoned; he was stolen from his mother after Mr. Wyatt brutally murdered his father. And his mother? Alive, a prisoner of the Wyatts' dark secrets all these years. Now, Cole stands at a crossroads: choose the woman who once offered him solace, or embrace the roaring vengeance for his shattered past and reclaim his stolen birthright. Can their love, forged in the fires of deception and longing, survive the ashes of Wyatt family lies?
View MoreThe servant quarters were a world away from the main house, even though they were just a short walk across the manicured lawn. For me, they were a refuge, a place where the air felt lighter and the shadows of Zane's cruelty couldn't quite reach. Mr. Patrick, the gardener was a kind man, his smile always warm, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he laughed. He never asked about my days at school, never questioned why I spent my afternoons reading dusty books by the mango tree instead of playing with Zane.It was a quiet afternoon, the sun shining lazily in the sky. I was engrossed in a worn-out copy of Treasure Island, the adventures of Jim Hawkins, a welcome escape from monotony. A rustle in the bushes pulled me from my book. My heart pounded. Had Zane followed me? Was he about to launch another one of his "pranks"?Instead, a small, familiar figure emerged, her bright eyes wide with a mixture of curiosity and defiance. It was Zye. Almost 13, she was a wisp of a girl with a fierce
The stale air of the detention room clung to me. Outside, the last rays of the afternoon sun painted the windows orange, a vibrant contrast to the gloom within. Each tick of the oversized clock on the wall echoed in the silence, mocking the ache in my chest. This was my fifth time in here. All because of Zane, my brother. Despite him being older than me, we were in the same class. He was not the brightest tool in the box and was always landing me in trouble. Today was no exception. I was here because he had taken my science project about the solar system and presented it as his own. "Cole, you can go now," Mrs. Davison's voice was flat, devoid of warmth. She probably thought I was a delinquent, a liar, just like Zane had told everyone. I mumbled a thanks and grabbed my backpack, its weight a familiar comfort against my weary shoulders. The walk home was a blur of familiar streets and unfamiliar thoughts. The anger was a slow burn, but beneath it, a deeper current of loneliness flowe
The air in the servants’ quarters was thick with the scent of disinfectant and the nervous flutter of my own little heart. Tomorrow was the day. The day I would officially become a Wyatt. Or, at least, a version of one. Morison had told me, his eyes soft with a mixture of pity and hope. “A big party, Cole. For you. To welcome you.” The words felt hollow, like promises whispered in a dream.That night, sleep escaped me. I tossed and turned, willing sleep to find me but it couldn't. My mind couldn't stop replaying the conversation I had stumbled upon. Mrs. Cecilia had sent me to the mansion to take the grocery list to Mrs. Wyatt for approval. She was not in the lounge room so I decided to look in the patio. I was nearing the back door when I heard Mrs. Wyatt's voice.“It’s total madness. Alistair! LUDICROUS!” Her thin and brittle, sliced through the silence. “To give him the Wyatt name? My family’s name? Our ancestors’ name? He’s not a Wyatt. He’s nothing. He’s… a street urchin you pick
The sun, relentless and unforgiving, beat down on the dusty path leading from the servants’ quarters to the main house. I was ten, and the path was etched into my memory, every pebble, every crack. It was a route I knew intimately, yet one I was rarely allowed to fully explore. My world was largely confined to the small, neat rooms behind the imposing mansion, a world of hushed conversations and the ever-present scent of cleaning products and warm food.My name is Cole Junior. Morison had named me Junior as they did not know my second or third name. I was not a "Wyatt," like Zane and Zye. I knew I was different. Different enough to be kept in the shadows, while the Wyatts lived and dined in the light.Ten years. Ten years of wondering why. Why was I always given hand-me-down clothes, sometimes a little too big, sometimes a little too small, always with the faint scent of Zane’s perfume still clinging to them? Why were my toys always second-hand, chipped and worn, while Zane’s latest g
It was a spring morning, not too cold, nor too hot. The sun was mild in the sky, its usual hotness dulled by a looming sense of change. The Wyatts were still asleep in their opulent mansion. The workers were milling around, cleaning here, dusting there. They had to wake up early and satisfy Rosalie Wyatt's OCD by bleaching, sweeping, dusting and mopping the whole compound. Short, plump and with a sharp tongue, Rosalie was feared by all her workers.The Wyatts were a family figure worth emulating. They held galas, helped the poor, donated a lot of money to charity. Mr. Wyatt even had a statue erected, at the centre of the town, in his honor. Rosalie's sharp tongue was always hidden whenever they were in public. Beyond the pearly gates of their mansion, she was always smiling-her white and neatly arranged teeth out for everyone to see. She was always dotting on her husband and son.Today was no exception for the workers. As soon as the alarms started ringing, mops, lawmowers and bleache
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