History

Elliot was a child long prayed for, a wish uttered in desperate whispers by his mother as she sat beneath the windows of their grand estate, hands resting over the quiet ache of an empty cradle. When at last he arrived, small and fragile, his mother wept with joy. But joy, as he would come to learn, is a fleeting thing in the halls of his family’s home. His father, having secured an heir a decade prior, greeted the news of his birth with little more than a nod. The spare, they called him - not unneeded, but unnecessary. A boy who had come too late to matter.

For the first few years, Elliot was his mother’s shadow, a soft-footed creature trailing after her in grand rooms that felt far too big. She was his refuge, a rare and quiet kindness in a house ruled by cold expectations and a father whose presence cast a shadow even in his absence. But Esme, though loving, was not limitless. The weight of her husband’s temper and the demands of society kept her tethered to duty, and Elliot - bright-eyed, curious Elliot - was left to his own devices more often than not.

He learned early how to entertain himself, how to lose himself in books that spoke of worlds far gentler than his own. He filled his mind with poetry, with sonnets of love and longing, with philosophers who spoke of beauty and purpose. He would read by candlelight long after the house had gone quiet, sketching stories in the margins of his journals, dreaming of a life that belonged to him alone. But dreams do not shield one from the real world. His father was a storm of a man... thundering, unrelenting, and impossible to please. Elliot, too soft, too thoughtful, was a disappointment before he had ever been given the chance to prove otherwise. His mother did what she could, drawing him close, shielding him from the worst of it. But love, however strong, is not always enough.

By the time Elliot was a young man, he had perfected the art of being present but unseen. He moved through the world like an afterthought, a well-dressed ghost in London’s ballrooms, charming enough when required, but never essential. It was only with Robert that he allowed himself to be truly seen. Robert was unlike anyone Elliot had ever known. Robert was bold, magnetic, the kind of man who carried the weight of a room with effortless ease. He made Elliot feel wanted, not as an accessory, not as a son trailing behind a greater legacy, but as himself. In the stolen hours of midnight meetings and whispered promises, Elliot let himself believe in the kind of love he had only ever read about.

But love is not always gentle. As the months passed, Robert’s fire, once so captivating, began to burn too hot. Words that had once been playful turned sharp, and the warmth in his hands became something else entirely. He had his father’s temper, though Elliot did not want to see it, not at first. He excused the first time Robert’s grip tightened too hard, the first time his words came like a lash. But love should not be endured, and by the time Robert struck him for the first time, Elliot understood - he had fallen into the same storm his mother had spent years shielding him from.

Leaving was not easy. Elliot, ever the romantic, had wanted so badly to believe they could be something better. But Robert did not love in soft edges; he loved in bruises and broken things. And Elliot, despite his longing, would not be broken for someone else’s comfort. So he walked away, carrying the pieces of himself with him, hiding the wounds beneath layers of fine tailoring and practiced smiles. He returned to the life he knew - endless dinners, polite conversation, a role that did not ask too much of him. But something had shifted. He could no longer drift so easily, no longer content to be merely an afterthought. His father was gone, and with him, the weight that had kept Elliot pinned to a life half-lived.

Now, in the quiet aftermath of his family’s storm, Elliot stands at a crossroads. His brother, older, hardened, bears the brunt of their father’s legacy, while Elliot lingers, caught between obligation and the aching desire for something more. He does not yet know what shape his future will take, but he knows this - he will not be his father. He will not let love be a thing of fury and control. During the aftermath, he chose to request one of the family townhomes from his mother in London, promising to create a name for himself but, instead, seeking refuge from the world that had battered him. A space that could be his to visit and live when he needed warm embrace and a soft caress of comfort from the harsh realities of the smog-ridden world.

He is the forgotten son, the long-awaited child left to wander, but for the first time, he is searching not for approval, not for a place in a world that never made space for him - but for himself.