CHAPTER 131: YOUR SON IS NOT DEAD BUT I’M HIS REPLACEMENT

"I loved you, Lewis," she cried, lowering her hands just enough for her bloodshot eyes to meet his.

"Even through all the rumors, even through all the shadows. I loved you. And this is what you’ve given me back—humiliation, shame, a daughter who can’t even look at her father without hate."

Lewis’s shoulders sagged for the first time. His mask cracked, his defiance faltering under the weight of her words.

For a fleeting second, guilt etched itself into his features.

But the officers pulled again, and this time he didn’t resist.

The heavy doors creaked open, and the roar of the crowd outside crashed into the mansion like a wave.

Reporters screamed his name, cameras flashed wildly, and the shouted questions were merciless:

"Mr. Jenkins! Did you order the murder of Logan’s father?"

"Do you have ties to the Steve family?"

"Is Rachel complicit in your crimes?"

The voices blurred together into a chaotic storm as Lewis was escorted down the grand steps.

The lights of the patrol cars illuminated his grim face, every flaw exposed for the world to see.

Cassandra crumpled to the floor, her sobs muffled against her trembling hands.

Servants hovered uncertainly at the edges of the hall, none daring to intervene.

Rachel stood rooted, her entire body taut with conflicting emotions.

She wanted to turn away, to shut out the sight of her father being taken like a criminal. Yet she couldn’t.

She watched, her throat tight, her nails biting into her palms.

He had been her father—the man she once trusted, the man who had shaped her world. And yet, he had also been the destroyer of another’s.

For the first time, Rachel wondered if she could ever forgive herself for being his daughter.

Behind her, Cassandra’s voice cracked again, raw and broken. "What will become of us now?"

Rachel turned her head slowly, looking down at her mother’s crumpled form. For once, she had no answer. Only silence.

Outside, the police car doors slammed shut. Engines roared. The convoy pulled away, taking Lewis Jenkins into the night—leaving behind a house filled with regret, misery, and the echoes of a family destroyed.

From the other part of the city, Logan sat in the dimly lit apartment, the shadows of the single bulb flickering gently against the walls.

A faint smell of old wood and dust lingered in the air, mixing with the bitter aroma of cold coffee left forgotten in a chipped mug.

He leaned back in the creaking chair, a slow smile spreading across his face, almost wide enough to hide the sharp edge of his thoughts.

For a moment, the weight of the past seemed to lift, replaced by a fleeting sense of satisfaction, as if the city around him finally acknowledged that he had survived.

Across from him, a framed photograph rested on the worn table. His eyes fell on it, and the smile faltered, replaced by a pang of sorrow.

The picture captured the warmth of his childhood he had once known: his parents standing together, their faces radiating a happiness Logan had longed to feel.

His father’s firm, commanding presence in the frame reminded him of the empire he had built, and the company he had dreamed would carry on through generations.

But the bitter truth struck him: his father was no longer alive to rule, no longer here to shape the legacy he had envisioned.

The weight of that absence pressed on Logan’s chest, a dull ache that made him clench his fists involuntarily.

He ran a hand over the photograph, feeling the faint texture of the frame beneath his fingers, almost as if touching it could bring his parents back.

"You had dreams," he whispered to the silent figures, his voice thick with both reverence and regret. "Dreams that are mine now to claim... and maybe to avenge." The thought of vengeance coursed through him, sparking a fire he had buried for years beneath layers of survival and solitude.

But even as anger and determination flared within him, Logan knew that the first step could not be revenge.

There was a deeper, more delicate task—seeking forgiveness from the family that had lost a son, a family he now needed to confront.

His eyes drifted to the floor, tracing the patterns of cracked tiles, and he felt the familiar hollow ache of two decades of abandonment.

No one had welcomed him. No one had offered him shelter, a room, or even a moment of kindness.

The memory of empty doorways, scornful faces, and cold streets pressed against him like the night wind he had walked through for years. Yet he had endured, sharpened, and survived.

And then his voice broke the silence, soft but heavy with pity: "The truth is... Your son is not dead but I’m his replacement."

Logan’s eyes turned distant, staring at the shadowed corner of the room as he recalled the events that had unfolded two years ago.

The image of the real Logan Steve, lying in a pool of blood, flashed in his mind—horrific, vivid, and impossible to erase.

His lips tightened as he remembered the shock, the disbelief, and the strange recognition that had made him stop cold on that night.

He shook his head slowly, the dim light catching the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. " I have survived twenty years alone... but now, I cannot turn back. "

The inner voice that had carried him through hunger, rejection, and nights spent wandering empty streets whispered insistently: First forgiveness, then... justice. But step carefully. Every word, every action counts.

Logan’s jaw tightened. The city outside hummed softly, indifferent to his grief and determination, but inside the apartment, the air seemed to thrum with the weight of memories and the promises he had silently made.

And slowly his mind drifted back to the night.

2 Years Back.

The night air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked asphalt and the faint smoke drifting from a nearby street vendor’s cart.

Logan pulled his worn, threadbare coat tighter around his shoulders, trying to ward off the chill that seemed to seep not just into his bones, but into his very spirit.

His shoes were scuffed, with holes at the tips revealing the pale skin of his feet, and the bottom of his pants were frayed from years of walking city streets, alleys, and abandoned pathways.

A thin scarf, ragged and nearly unraveling, clung to his neck, offering little warmth, but it was the only thing between him and the biting night air.

He had been wandering aimlessly, a ghost among the silent, dimly lit streets, haunted by the memories of a life that had never given him a home.

Twenty years had passed since he had been cast out, abandoned, left to survive on scraps and the kindness of strangers, which had rarely come.

The memory of his parents’ deaths was still a raw ache; no one had bothered to guide him, no one had shown him the smallest flicker of compassion.

That night, however, the city felt different, heavier somehow, as if it knew the tragedy it was about to reveal.

Turning a corner near the abandoned pier, he noticed a faint glimmer of light reflecting off the wet surface of the road.

His curiosity, mixed with the instincts honed from years of surviving in the shadows, drew him closer.

As he approached, he saw it: a car, its engine still faintly humming, headlights flickering as if struggling against the darkness.

The body inside was slumped unnaturally against the steering wheel, drenched in blood that gleamed like dark rubies under the dim streetlight.

Logan froze, every instinct screaming at him to run, yet his feet were rooted to the spot. He was baffled—not just by the scene, but by the face.

He had to blink several times, certain his mind was playing cruel tricks on him. But no matter how often he looked, the features staring back through the shattered windshield were unmistakably like his own.

Sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a pair of piercing eyes, half-shut and glazed with shock and pain, met his gaze even through the layer of blood that plastered the man’s hair to his forehead.

The ragged coat on Logan, the thin scarf, and the worn shoes—the very emblems of his long, wandering life—suddenly felt heavier.

His heart pounded so loudly he feared it would echo through the night, startling anyone—or anything—lurking nearby. He took a cautious step forward, the wet gravel crunching beneath his foot.

Each movement was deliberate, almost hesitant, as if any sudden action might shatter this uncanny, impossible vision.

He crouched slightly, studying the body. Blood had streaked across the man’s face in dark rivulets, but the resemblance to himself was undeniable.

Every curve, every line, every subtle angle of the jaw and the forehead... it was him, yet not him. Logan’s hand trembled as he brushed against the car door, feeling the cold metal beneath his fingertips.

His mind raced: Who is this? Why does he look like me? How is this possible?

The stench of iron and smoke filled his nostrils as he leaned closer, peering through the cracked glass.

He noticed the fine, tailored fabric of the man’s shirt, now soaked and darkened with blood.