Chapter 173: Past Ghosts
Berkeley, California.
Evening sunlight slanted through the tall windows of a quiet suburban home, painting amber streaks across polished hardwood floors. The soft sound of a jazz record filled the living room, blending with the gentle laughter of a family.
Benjamin Scott sat on the couch, his arm wrapped around his wife, Sofia. Her long dark hair brushed against his shoulder as their three-year-old son wriggled happily in her lap, squealing whenever Ben tickled his tiny ribs. The boy’s laughter was the kind that could melt the coldest heart. It was pure, infectious and untouched by the world’s noise.
Ben smiled warmly, eyes creasing at the corners, enjoying the simple and peaceful life he now has.
Sofia brushed a stray lock from her son’s forehead and looked up at her husband. "You’re smiling again. That’s a good sign."
"Am I not allowed to?" Ben chuckled, kissing her temple. "I’m a happy man, Sofie. You and this little rascal are all I need."
The boy giggled and reached for Ben’s face, small fingers pressing against his stubble. Ben laughed and caught his hand. "Hey, easy there, soldier."
The moment was perfect — until the television stole their attention.
The news anchor’s voice cut into the room like a sharp edge. "Breaking news tonight from Los Angeles International Airport. The privately owned Airbus A380 has just landed, following what is now being called the most extraordinary civilian flight in recent history."
Ben sighed, ready to tune it out.
Billionaires and their toys, he muttered.
It wasn’t his concern though. But when the anchor’s tone changed, he suddenly found himself curious.
"Sources confirm the aircraft is fully registered under a single individual. Details remain sealed, but social media reports claim the owner is... just eighteen years old."
Sofia raised an eyebrow in shock. "Eighteen? That can’t be right."
Ben chuckled, shaking his head. "People on the internet will say anything for clicks."
The broadcast switched to live footage — the black giant of an aircraft gliding across the runway, sunlight shimmering off its platinum streaks.
The anchor’s voice trembled with awe, as she spoke, "Viewers, what you’re seeing right now is not a movie. That aircraft belongs to a young man named Liam Scott."
The picture of familiar young man was displayed, causing Ben to freeze.
The name hit him like a bullet through glass. He blinked once, twice — but the image didn’t go away. The camera zoomed in, showing the hangar doors sliding open and the sleek Maybach rolling out.
Sofia’s voice was soft, distant. "Ben? You okay?"
He didn’t answer. His hand, resting on the armrest, trembled slightly. His throat tightened as he leaned closer to the screen.
"Son?" he whispered, voice breaking. "That’s... my son?"
Sofia looked at him, startled. "What did you say?"
He barely heard her. His gaze was locked on the screen, the image at the top left corner and the name echoing again, and again in his mind. Liam Scott.
"After all these years..." a laugh escaped him. The laugh was brittle and half-choked.
Ben sank back against the couch, eyes distant. The weight of memory pressed down like a physical thing. For the first time in a long time, the ghosts of his past had finally clawed their way to the surface.
Charlotte — the woman he once loved and the woman who shattered him.
He had met her when she was young, reckless, full of dreams. She was radiant then — wild hair, fiery laughter, eyes that could make a man forget himself.
They’d married in haste, out of passion more than reason. But it didn’t last. The first affair had crushed him and he second had broke something deeper in him. His faith, his pride and his capacity to forgive.
He remembered that night as if it were yesterday. The rain hammering against the windows. Charlotte’s trembling confession. And the child she was carrying then — the one she swore he could still love, could still raise as his own.
He had tried. God help him, he had tried. After Liam was born, he’d looked into that his face and told himself he could love him, no matter the blood. But when the betrayal came again, something inside him died.
He had left that night. Walked out with nothing but his coat, his wallet, and the cold certainty that his love for her had turned to ash.
That was four years ago.
Now, that boy — the one he had once carried in his arms — was on every screen in the world. An eighteen years old who is the owner of a private jet that nations couldn’t afford.
Ben exhaled, a shuddering breath that carried years of guilt and disbelief.
"Liam... Forgive me, son," he whispered inwardly. "I hope you’re happy. I hope you made it."
Sofia placed a hand over his. "Ben... is it really him?"
"Yeah," He nodded faintly.
There was silence for a long moment. The television droned on, reporters shouting over crowds, helicopters circling above LAX. Ben’s gaze never left the screen.
He whispered under his breath, "You’ve done well, son. Better than I ever could have imagined."
Sofia studied him quietly, then asked softly, "Will you reach out?"
He shook his head. "No. I forfeited that right the day I left. I walked away. He doesn’t owe me anything."
Sofia smiled and squeezed his hand gently.
Ben smiled to himself. It was faint wistful, proud and aching smile. Then he exhaled, long and heavy, and shook his head, as he decided not to focus on the past anymore.
Charlotte and Liam are old ghosts. The mistakes he’d buried. He had no right to walk back into that world. Not after so many years.
He turned the volume down, lifted his son onto his lap, and kissed the boy’s hair.
***
Beverly Grove.
Elsewhere in Los Angeles, in the cramped servant quarters of a Beverly Grove mansion, Charlotte sat hunched on her narrow bed, her nails digging into her palms as she scrolled through her phone.
Her son’s name — her son’s name — was everywhere. On every posts, videos and headlines.
"Private A380 owned by 18-year-old Liam Scott."
Her breath hitched, as she scrolled again, watching the footage in disbelief. The jet, the crowd and the government escort.
"That’s my boy," she whispered, trembling. "That’s my son."
She laughed — a high, nervous sound — but there was bitterness behind it, too. Years of resentment, regret, and greed tangled together. "You see, Charlotte? He made it. You raised a genius."
But her laughter faded as quickly as it came. Her hands clenched tighter around the phone, as she muttered, "And he forgot me."
She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. "He forgot his mother."
Her thoughts spiraled fast — too fast. She remembered the years of struggle, the late nights and the bills piling up. The men she’d served, the humiliation she’d endured just to keep a roof over her head. She had done all of it for survival... and, at least in her mind, for him.
She had given him life, carrying him for nine long months. She had sacrificed everything.
And now that he was rich beyond imagination, she deserved her share.
Her face hardened. "He wouldn’t have all this without me. He owes me."
A voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Charlotte!" A heavy thump sounded at the door before it swung open, revealing a half-naked man — gray hair slicked back, a towel slung around his waist, and a drunken smirk curling his lips.
"What are you doing? You’re supposed to be—"
The slap came before he could finish.
It cracked through the room, loud and clean. He staggered back, hand flying to his cheek.
"Don’t touch me," Charlotte spat, eyes blazing. "Don’t you ever touch me again, you disgusting pig."
The man blinked, stunned, then laughed. "Ah, so the kitten has claws now? What’s gotten into you?"
"What’s gotten into me?" she hissed, snatching up her torn uniform from the chair. "I don’t need this anymore. I don’t need you, or this house, or this life."
"Don’t tell me you found another rich fool to—"
"Shut up!" she screamed. "My son is rich! You hear me? My son! The whole world is talking about him — Liam Scott! He’s my blood, my child!"
For a moment, the man only stared. Then, slowly, his expression shifted from disbelief melting into something darker — greed.
"Your son, huh? Well, isn’t that something..."
Charlotte’s lip curled in disgust. "You stay out of this."
He reached for her, but she jerked away, snatching a clean dress from the clothesline. "Don’t you dare touch me."
"Charlotte—"
She didn’t listen. She was already out the door, the torn uniform crumpled in her hand. She raced down the hallway, barefoot, ignoring the man’s curses echoing behind her.
Outside, the night air hit her. It was cool and refreshing. She didn’t stop, as she threw on the dress, slipped her feet into worn sandals, and ran.
Down the street, under the glare of neon signs, past curious onlookers and the bustling sounds of traffic. Her heart pounded with adrenaline, fury, and something dangerously close to delusion. If not delusion outrightly.
Bellemere Mansion. Her son’s mansion — that’s where she was going.
He might not recognize her but she would make him remember. After all, she was his mother.
And mothers, she thought bitterly, always deserved their due.