"The Family Secrets"

I was eight years old when I first learned that love could turn to hate.

It was a quiet evening. The kind where shadows stretched long across the marble floors, and the air smelled of my mother's vanilla perfume. My father, Smith Jr., sat at the head of the dining table, his presence as steady as the legacy he carried. Beside him, my mother smiled, her delicate fingers tracing circles on her teacup. Across from me, my twin sister, Dalian, giggled over a joke I had already forgotten.

And then Lucas arrived.

He didn't knock. He never did. He simply walked in, his polished shoes clicking against the floor, his jaw set tight, his expression unreadable. The moment my father looked up, the warmth in his eyes flickered, replaced by something colder. My mother stiffened, setting her teacup down with a soft clink.

"Lucas," my father said, his voice even, but I heard the weight behind it.

Lucas gave a slow nod. "Father."

Father. Not Dad. Never Dad.

I was too young to understand the tension that gripped the room like an unseen force. Too young to realize that the man standing in front of us—the man with the same sharp eyes as my father—was more than just my uncle. He was the fracture in our perfect family. The wound that never healed.

Years later, I would learn the truth.

I would learn how my grandfather, Morris Smith, built an empire with his own hands. How he nearly destroyed his marriage for an heir. How my father and Lucas—brothers born from different mothers—were raised under the same roof but never as equals. And how Lucas, fueled by resentment, would stop at nothing to take back what he believed was stolen from him.

But on that evening, all I knew was this: when Lucas entered a room, the air grew heavy, and the laughter stopped.

And that was how I learned that family wasn't always about love. Sometimes, it was about power.

My grandfather, Morris Smith, had two sons. But he only ever acknowledged one.

My father, Smith Jr., was the son of Linda, the woman my grandfather loved. Lucas was the son of Maria, the woman my grandfather regretted.

Maria had entered my grandfather's life like a storm—unwanted, but impossible to ignore. A second wife, forced into the family by tradition and desperation. She had expected to be the woman standing at Morris's side, the queen of the Smith empire. Instead, she had been discarded the moment Linda announced her pregnancy.

Maria never forgave him for that. But more than that—she never forgave my father for existing.

For years, she watched from the outside as my father became the pride of the Smith name, while Lucas was kept in the shadows. And so, she turned her bitterness into something far more dangerous: a plan.

A plan to remove the obstacle in her son's way.

It happened on a bright summer afternoon. My father—just a child then, no older than six—was playing alone at the park near our estate. The wind carried his laughter through the air as he swung higher and higher, his small hands gripping the chains of the swing.

Maria stood a few feet away, watching.

She approached with slow, deliberate steps. "Let me help you," she cooed, stepping behind him. Her fingers wrapped around the swing's chains, and for a moment, she pushed gently—just like any caring adult would.

Then she pushed harder.

Hard enough for the swing to lurch forward, dangerously close to the low-hanging branches of a tree.

My father's laughter turned to a startled cry as he felt himself being thrown forward, the swing tilting at an unnatural angle. Maria's lips curled into a smile as she pushed again—harder this time, enough to make him lose his grip.

But fate had other plans.

A stranger, a man passing through the park, saw what was happening. His instincts kicked in, and in a split second, he lunged forward, grabbing my father just as he tumbled from the swing. The impact sent them both to the ground, but my father was safe.

Maria's smile vanished.

She had failed.

And failure was something she couldn't accept.

That night, under the cover of darkness, she tried again.

This time, she waited until the house was quiet, until the servants had retired for the night. She crept through the halls, her movements careful, calculated. She knew where Linda kept the medicine—knew which bottle contained the sleeping tonic.

A few drops, that was all it would take.

She poured the liquid into a glass of warm milk, her hands steady as she carried it to my father's room. He was already half-asleep when she entered, his small form curled beneath the blankets.

Maria leaned down, her voice a whisper. "Drink this, sweetheart. It'll help you sleep."

My father, groggy and trusting, reached for the glass.

But just as the rim touched his lips, Linda appeared in the doorway.

She had seen Maria slipping through the halls. Had followed her. And in that instant, she knew.

The next moments were a blur—a shattered glass, Linda's furious scream, Maria's desperate excuses. By morning, the entire household knew the truth.

Maria was dragged from the estate in handcuffs, her cries echoing through the halls.

Morris watched in silence as the woman who had once carried his child was taken away. And then, with the same cold detachment he had shown her from the beginning, he turned his back and walked away.

But Maria wasn't the kind of woman who disappeared quietly.

She left behind a son. A boy filled with anger. A boy who would grow up believing that his mother had been wronged.

And years later, Lucas would return—not just as a son seeking justice.

But as a man seeking revenge.

Years passed. The name Maria became a ghost in our household, a forbidden word that carried the weight of an old wound.

But Lucas never forgot.

He was raised in the same house as my father, but they were never truly brothers. Smith Jr. was the golden child, the one who bore the name, the heir to the empire. Lucas, though given the same education, the same luxuries, was always a step behind.

It was subtle at first—the way he watched my father during family dinners, the way his jaw tightened when Morris praised Smith Jr.'s achievements. The way his hands clenched into fists every time someone mentioned the future of Smith Co. Ltd.

But over time, subtlety turned into something darker.

Lucas's resentment became his identity.

And when Maria was released from prison, she made sure that resentment became a weapon.

---

The night Maria returned, the estate was silent. Most of the family had long since stopped thinking about her. But Lucas hadn't.

He met her at a hotel downtown, away from the eyes of the Smiths. The years had aged her, but not in the way time should. It wasn't wrinkles that lined her face—it was bitterness, a cruel kind of hunger that had only grown sharper with time.

She poured herself a glass of wine, watching Lucas with sharp, assessing eyes.

"I heard you're still working for the company," she said, swirling the liquid in her glass. "And yet, your dear brother sits in the chairman's seat."

Lucas stiffened. "Father hasn't retired yet."

Maria laughed. A quiet, bitter sound. "And when he does? Do you really think he'll choose you?"

Silence.

Maria leaned forward, her voice a whisper. "That company should be yours. You're just as much a Smith as he is."

Lucas exhaled sharply. "I know that."

"Then why do you let them treat you like a shadow?" Maria's fingers drummed against the table. "Your father, your brother—they've stolen what's rightfully yours. And you let them."

Lucas said nothing. He had spent years convincing himself that his father's approval didn't matter. That being second-best was enough.

But sitting here, across from his mother, hearing the truth in her voice, something inside him shifted.

Maria smiled as if she could see the change in him. "You don't have to be in his shadow anymore, Lucas."

He looked up, his eyes cold. "Then tell me what I have to do."

---

The next morning, Smith Jr. arrived at the office as usual. He was greeted with the usual bows, the usual smiles. Employees moved out of his way, their gazes respectful, their voices hushed.

But when he stepped into his office, something was different.

Lucas was already there.

Sitting at his desk.

Smith Jr. froze. "What are you doing?"

Lucas looked up slowly, his expression unreadable. "Isn't it obvious?" He leaned back in the chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. "I'm taking what's mine."

A tense silence stretched between them.

Smith Jr.'s voice was quiet when he spoke. "This isn't yours, Lucas."

Lucas tilted his head. "Isn't it?" His lips curled into a slow smile. "You think you deserve this? That I should just stand by and watch you take everything? Father may have chosen you, but that doesn't mean I will."

Smith Jr. exhaled, his patience thinning. "This company isn't about birthright, Lucas. It's about leadership. Responsibility. And trust—something you've never earned."

Lucas's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his eyes. A sharp, dangerous glint. "Then maybe it's time I take it."

Smith Jr. studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, reaching into his desk drawer.

Lucas tensed.

But instead of pulling out something dangerous, Smith Jr. simply retrieved a single document. A contract. He set it on the desk between them.

"This is my company," he said, his voice steady. "But if you want to fight for it, then let's do it the right way."

Lucas's gaze flickered to the paper, then back to his brother.

His smile widened. "Be careful what you wish for, brother."

Because this wasn't just about business.

This was war.