Chapter 2

A package from Bolivia…delivered by a courier person fulfilling the instructions to have Oberon Hunter sign for it himself so that the delivery to himself was personally assured and there was no chance at all of the package being mislaid and not reaching him. The package from Bolivia…the one his father, the biological one has sent. Oberon could not believe that the man who had never thought of accepting his son in his life time would now go and do that at his sixties. But now he did not need a father any longer.

He did not want to open the packet and envelope lying on his desk in front of him. And neither did he want to take a look at it. The hand that had directed this package to him, the hand of his father tied by blood who had not earned the right to touch his life in any way and definitely no right whatsoever to force an entry in his current life. That door had been closed sixteen years ago.

No, much earlier than that.

A lot earlier.

The memory of himself as a young school boy not understanding anything at all stirred Oberon out of the chair with a shot and surge of adrenaline in his system. He had to move away and get away from the package that had been sent to him from Bolivia. At seven he had been a complete innocent, a child caught in the web of adult deceptions and lies trying to see where he fit. But then he had come to understand in the very hard way that he did not. So he had realized the brutal truth that he did not. 

Anywhere.

So he had learnt to make his own place.

And this house, this penthouse apartment was a part of that place, driving the centre of the advertising company that occupied a complete building in one of the most prestigious points and commanding view of Sydney Harbours, in Circular Quay. It was his company alone. Not his friends, not his family and not anyone else’s. His alone. Oberon had built it up without any help of anyone else just based on the concept of what the market exactly needed and what he would be able to provide it. It was the basic principle of demand and supply and he had been correct. Dazzlingly and spectacularly correct.

As he stood at his balcony and looked out at the opera house and then thought about it sardonically. It was more like a reflection on a fact that everyone knew. Everyone knew that sex sold and that was a fact.

Sex and glamour. And it sold, no matter what. But he knew it personally, and he had seen it all his life so intimately and from close quarters that he had the knack of packaging it better than anyone else. Oberon was perfectly aware that which scenes and which backdrops were going to work creating the maximum impact shots which were highly memorable. And it was easy to imprint the target product in the memory of people with his viewpoint and it did not let people forget his ads or ad-series easily. It was his unique view-point which had made him an immensely wealthy man. His style and his work and dedication to it had made him an enigma.

Here he was standing on the top of his world, totally self-sufficient, independent and a successful man in his own right. He did not need anything from his fathers, thought Oberon as he could feel the bile rising up his throat. Not from the one that had been the cause of his birth and definitely not the ones that his mother had been stringing all her life, attracting them and taking it what ever her heart coveted. After all she was a star in her own right and merit and she had never let the world forget that ever.

Over the years of his boyhood and teenage and adolescence these men had shelled out a lot to him, in the desperate attempt to keep his mother pleased but there was one thing she had made clear in her life and to all those who came in it. She had only one son and he was going to be her only child forever no matter what. And she had not backed out of that commitment.

But he didn’t take anything from anyone any longer.

Didn’t need to.

Definitely didn’t want to.

And it was definitely too late for Sir Cedric Hunter to offer him anything at all which he might want for himself. The Bolivian Knight had two chances in his life to make things right and to take the chance that fate had offered him. One when he had been the cause of the disaster of his birth. Second time when Oberon had turned up in his ancestral home just at seventeen to acquaint himself with his father whom he had never known Oberon had met with the disgust and resentment at his impudence of calling himself his own son.

“What do you want from me? What do you think that you can get out of me?” the Bolivian had sneered at him.

The jeering contempt from the man he had come to know to be his father had stung him bad. And Oberon had not pased or missed a bit while replying the highly placed man.

“Nothing at all. I just wanted to see you and meet you in flesh. Let you know that you had borne a son. But I will take your name. I can see that now it clearly belongs to me,” Oberon had replied.

There was no point in denying the strong genetic pattern that had been handed down from father to son. The same thick black dark hairline, high cheekbones and olive skin which gave them a regal air, deeply set green and golden eyes which would remind you of a jaguar looking at you silently from over the top of the hill with thick double lashes. A long aquiline and aristocratic nose and a cleft in the left of the chin which gave him a rakish air and a charming smile which no woman would be able to resist.