Chapter 201

Patrick Collins stood at the top of the stairs in the Collins’ mansion. When he’d left this place, he had thought–no,he’d decided–that he would never come back.
But here he was. Back to square one.
And as he stared at the large ’family’ photo hanging there, perfectly centered like a crown jewel, he felt a pang. A bitter, quiet sting. Was this how his father was supposed to be? The man in the photograph, arm around his wife, standing tall with that easy smile- it had once meant everything to him.
For most of his life, Patrick had looked up to Robert Collins as an exceptional man. He’d admired him. Wanted to be like him. Marry someone he loved. Build a home. Be happy.
Who would’ve thought that after more than thirty years of admiration, he’d be staring at that same man through a completely different lens? Because the truth had come out almost twenty years ago. And this truth was ugly.
The man he had once believed to be honest and kind, maybe even noble in his own way, was nothing but a manipulative jerk. No—worse than that. He’d worn the mask of a loving husband, a devoted father, while quietly pulling strings behind the curtain. And the people he hurt? His own family. His own brother. And the woman he claimed to love.
He had stolen the woman his brother loved, paraded it like some grand victory, stolen their son, and then-despite winning her, despite getting the one he supposedly couldn’t live without-he hadn’t stopped for a moment to cherish her. Not even close.
There were other women. Younger. Much younger. Girls, really. Ones who had been around the house, around the staff, always lingering just long enough to be noticed. Girls who were ’groomed,’ as Patrick now understood, taught and trained to care for Sir Robert Collins. To please him. To depend on him.
It made Patrick sick. And yet, somehow, the photo still hung there. With his mother still smiling. Still pretending that everything in this house had once been warm and good and worth admiring. What a joke.
He sighed. Long and quiet.
Yes. His mother had stayed with Sir Robert Collins even after discovering everything—the lies, the affairs, the betrayal. And she had done it for his sake. Then, later on, she stayed for Adam too. Always putting them first. Always bearing the weight of someone else’s sins in silence.
And in some twisted way, Patrick had followed in her footsteps. He had stayed with a shrew for a wife-not out of love, not out of duty to the marriage-but for Spencer. And to protect Adam. Because he owed the boy and his father. He had convinced himself that they needed stability, a home, even if it was built on a foundation of resentment and rot.
But when his own father’s games had gone too far—when Robert’s scheming had cornered him into doing the unthinkable, forcing him to throw an innocent Adam out of the house-Patrick knew. That was the moment. That was when the line had finally been crossed. He had looked at himself in the mirror that night and realized he didn’t recognize the man staring back at him from the mirror.
He couldn’t live like that anymore.
So, he had used the situation—used it as an exit. He had pretended to be heartbroken over the death of a woman he had ’loved’ and walked away from everything. From the house. From the family. From the lie of a life, he had been trying to hold together desperately.
He knew Robert Collins loved him-in his own twisted, selfish, controlling way. So Patrick had played the part, convinced him that he needed to grieve, to be alone. And Robert had let him go, perhaps believing that Patrick would come to his senses, would crawl back and thank him one day. Perhaps he thought his son would finally understand the burden of being a Collins.
But Patrick hadn’t felt grateful. Not for a second.
The only way he might have felt grateful would have been if he had never come back. If he had stayed far, far away and died somewhere quiet and forgotten. At least then, he wouldn’t have known that his father’s shadow had found the way to creep into his son’s heart. At least then, he could have clung to the comforting illusion that Spencer would never turn out like Robert Collins.
But now, even that mirage was gone. Shattered.
He sighed again, heavier this time, and let his eyes drift to the portrait of his mother—the one with the soft smile and tired eyes. The only part of this house that still felt human.
And then, for the first time in years, he spoke out loud to her.
“Mother… I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t think I can take care of the little treasure you left me anymore.”
He took a slow step closer to her portrait, fingers brushing lightly against the wooden frame, as if he could somehow reach through it and feel her warmth again.
“You left him with me. That tiny bundle you cradled like he was the last good thing in this world. You said I’d know what to do. That I’d raise him better. That I’d love him better. And I did.. I did my best but I don’t think I will be able to do it anymore.”
His shoulders sagged as he dropped his hand from the portrait.
He swallowed the lump rising in his throat.
“I tried, Mother. God knows I’ve tried my best to protect him. But now… I won’t be able to do it anymore. I won’t be able to take care of him.”
“You won’t be able to take care of whom anymore, Patrick?”
His heart stopped for half a second. How much had his father heard him talk?
He took a slow breath and turned around, making sure that his face was composed and not revealing his thoughts and worries.