She came to the bedroom occasionally to keep me company, but more often, she went to see the child.

She would hold him, tell him stories, her eyes softening with something foreign—something that looked like maternal love.

One evening, she stood behind me as I sat at the vanity. The silence stretched between us until she finally spoke.

"Otis, about the miscarriage... I was wrong. I just wasn't ready."

A pause. Then she added, "Nathaniel—he's just too dependent on me. Don't hold it against him."

I lifted my gaze slowly, meeting her reflection in the mirror.

She looked radiant. I looked hollow.

"Hold it against him?" A dry laugh escaped me.

"What right do I have to hold anything against anyone? I couldn't even protect my own child."

Her face twisted as if I'd slapped her.

"It was an accident!" Her voice pitched higher. "Why do you keep dragging this up? I've been trying to make it up to you!"

Make it up to me.

Money was the most useless thing she could offer.

I had no desire to argue. I rose and guided her toward the door.

"Otis, what do you want from me?"

"What do I want?" I looked at her, my tone cutting. "I want you to stay away from me."

She slammed the door on her way out.

After that night, she rarely set foot in my room again.

The fragile pretense between us—thin as a cicada's wing—we no longer bothered to maintain.

On the child's hundred-day celebration, the Wiley family hosted a banquet of extraordinary grandeur.

The estate's sprawling lawn had been transformed into an elegant venue. Crystal chandeliers hung from white canopy tents. Every notable figure in the city had gathered—old money, new money, politicians, celebrities—all come to pay their respects.

I wore a tailored white suit, the child cradled in my arms, standing beside my grandparents as guests offered their congratulations and thinly veiled envy.

Grandfather had named the boy Evan—a wish for a peaceful, untroubled life. For me, the name carried a private meaning: a memorial to the child I had lost.

Halfway through the banquet, Grandfather made his way to the stage, cane tapping against the polished floor. He took the microphone.

The crowd fell silent.

"Today, on the occasion of my great-grandson Evan's hundred-day celebration, I have an announcement."

His voice rang out, commanding and clear despite his age.

"The Ashford Group has established a new subsidiary specializing in artificial intelligence. Current projections place its market value at one hundred billion dollars."

He paused, letting the figure sink in.

"Today, I am giving this company to Otis Wiley."

Applause erupted like thunder.

I held Evan close and offered a slight bow, a practiced smile on my face. The crowd's gasps and murmurs washed over me—awe, jealousy, disbelief.

A hundred-billion-dollar company, handed over like a birthday gift. The sheer magnitude of it.

I was about to step onto the stage to express my gratitude when—

The banquet hall doors burst open.

A man in a white suit shoved past the security guards, wild-eyed, charging toward the stage like a man possessed.

Nathaniel.

He pushed through the crowd, making a beeline for me. Behind him, Serena followed, her face ashen.

"Wait!"

The room froze. Every head turned.

Serena rushed forward, grabbing at his arm. "Nathaniel! What are you doing here? Stop this!"

He shook her off violently. His eyes—bloodshot, feral—locked onto mine. In his raised hand, he clutched a document.

"I'm causing a scene?" His voice cracked, shrill and desperate. "Serena, look at him!"

He jabbed a finger in my direction.

"He's holding my child! Basking in glory that should be mine! He's the one who should be stopped!"

A broken laugh tore from his throat. He reached into his bag and pulled out a folder, holding it high above his head.

"I'm going to show everyone here exactly how the Abbott family treats people!"

He charged onto the stage and ripped the microphone from the emcee's hands.

"Take a good look! This is a paternity test!"

His voice blasted through the speakers, reaching every corner of the venue.

"It says right here—black and white—Evan Abbott and I share 99.9% DNA compatibility!"

"I'm his biological father!"

The room erupted.

Every eye in the place swung toward me like searchlights locking onto a target.

Suspicion. Contempt. Barely concealed glee.

Old Mr. Abbott's face turned to stone, his gaze boring into me with silent accusation.

Serena rushed the stage, trying to snatch the report from Nathaniel's hands while cooing at him in that placating voice of hers.

"Stop this. Let's go home and talk about it, okay?"

Nathaniel didn't even glance at her. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on me with pure hatred.

"Otis Wiley! You thief! You stole my child and now you're standing here playing the victim? You're shameless!"

He jabbed his finger at me, his voice cracking from the force of his accusations.

The venue descended into chaos.

Serena lunged to clamp her hand over his mouth, but he shoved her away hard.

"Serena, you only have one choice now—divorce him and be with me!"

My assistant appeared silently at my side. He set an antique black lacquered wooden chest at my feet.

I drew a slow breath and walked toward the stage.

I took the paternity report from Nathaniel's hands. Didn't bother looking at it.

Then I lifted the microphone and surveyed the sea of faces below—shocked, hungry, waiting.

"He's right."

I said it plainly, a ghost of a smile on my lips.

"Everything he said is true."

The chaos peaked.

That's when Mason stepped onto the stage, placing a heavy sandalwood box in my hands.

I opened it.

Faced the microphone.

Looked out at all those stunned expressions.

"Please. Bear with me a moment."

"Because today, I have a surprise of my own."