Mrs Lyle sat in the quiet of her room, curled up on the edge of her bed, her teary eyes fixed on a photograph in her hands, an old picture of her and Ana, both smiling brightly. Her fingers traced the image with aching familiarity. It had been many months since Ana vanished. Many months of silence. Five months of unbearable dread.
A soft knock on the door pulled her from her thoughts. She didn't answer. A moment later, the door creaked open, and Adonis stepped inside. He paused, taking in her slumped form, and then quietly walked over to sit beside her.
Without saying a word, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gently patted her back.
Julia's lips trembled. "I miss her so much, Adonis," she whispered, her voice cracking as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "It's like… it's like there's a hole inside me."
Adonis sighed deeply and pulled her into his chest, hugging her tightly. His voice was soft but resolute. "I know. I miss her too. Every second of the day. But I believe she's still here… in this country. I'll find her, Mother. I won't stop until I do."
She nodded wordlessly, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
Meanwhile.
In an elegant private lounge adorned with crystal chandeliers and velvet drapes, Soraya sat stiffly on a plush sofa, her back straight and expression distant. Opposite her lounged Ivan Osman, tall, handsome, and unmistakably smug. His tailored suit clung to his athletic frame, and his lips curled into what he must have thought was a charming smile.
To Soraya, it was nothing short of revolting.
She had no interest in this man, not his looks, not his status, and certainly not his womanizing ways. His notorious escapades were whispered about in every elite circle. Yet, here she was, forced into this charade because her parents insisted.
Ivan's eyes devoured her, lecherous and unashamed. "I heard you just returned from abroad not long ago," he said, leaning forward. "Why don't you give me the chance to show you the most amazing places in the city? I'm sure you'll love it."
Soraya's disdainful snort cut through the air. "Mr. Osman doesn't have to bother himself. I didn't return to be paraded around. I came back for someone I love. I suggest you inform your parents to withdraw the marriage proposal. You and I… we're as incompatible as water and fire. Kindly stay away from me."
Ivan's smile faltered. His eyes turned sharp. As she rose to leave, he reached out and grabbed her wrist tightly.
Soraya froze, her eyes narrowing.
"No woman has ever spoken to me like this," Ivan growled. "Who is he? Who's the man you think is better than me?"
Soraya raised a brow, angered by his growing fury. Compared to Harry, this man was nothing more than an entitled brat.
"You want to know?" she asked mockingly. "Harry Fairchild. He's the man I love."
Ivan's face twisted with rage. Harry Fairchild… again? That man had always stood in his way. And now even Soraya....
SLAP!
Soraya's hand landed hard against his cheek. The sound echoed.
"Now let go of me, you imbecile!" she snapped. When he didn't immediately release her, she slapped him again—harder.
Ivan's grip slackened in disbelief, and Soraya yanked her arm away. "Stay away from me," she warned, her voice as cold as ice. Then, with regal poise, she turned and strode out, leaving him stunned.
Ivan's jaw clenched as he watched her walk away, eyes burning with fury. "Harry Fairchild," he muttered darkly. "This isn't over."
Fairchilds Mansion
The old Fairchild estate was unusually quiet that midday. The atmosphere inside the Patriarch's private quarters was heavy with tension. The faint scent of incense burned in a corner, mixing with the sterile smell of medication. A low hum from the oxygen machine served as a constant reminder of the old man's fragility, though his eyes,sharp and commanding, betrayed no such weakness.
Bruce Fairchild stood at the foot of his father's grand bed, his once proud shoulders now stooped with shame. His hands trembled as he bowed his head low, forcing humility he was unaccustomed to showing.
"Father… please," he choked out, his voice strained. "I don't know what Harry has told you, but I swear...I've never betrayed the family. I have nothing to do with those missing funds. I'm being framed. I am innocent."
The Patriarch lay propped against the headboard, blankets covering his frail frame. His piercing eyes studied Jacob for a long moment before he spoke his voice low, slow, but laced with steel.
"Spare me your lies, Bruce."
Bruceflinched.
"You think I don't know who you are? What you have been up to?" The old man's lips curled in disappointment. "I turned a blind eye for decades. Every scheme, every intention, every silent betrayal, I saw it all. I let it go, because you were my son. Because I hoped… God help me, I hoped you would one day grow into something better."
"Father..."
"But this," the Patriarch cut him off coldly, "this time, you went too far. Embezzling from Fairchild Pharmaceuticals? Falsifying reports? Endangering our family's name? Did you think no one would notice? Did you think Harry wouldn't act?"
Bruce dropped to his knees, sobbing now. "Please… don't cut me off. Don't disown me. I've only ever wanted what was mine! You gave Harry everything...your love, your trust, your legacy. What did you ever give me?"
The Patriarch's voice turned harsh. "I gave you a seat at the table. I gave you my name. And you desecrated it."
Bruce's tears dripped onto the marble floor. "I can fix this. I'll make it right. Just… give me one more chance."
"No." The word landed like a hammer. "From this day forward, you are stripped of all authority within the Fairchild conglomerate. You are no longer welcome at board meetings, and your shares will be held in trust until further notice. If it were up to me alone, I would disown you entirely."
The silence that followed was damning.
"Get out of my sight," the Patriarch whispered bitterly, closing his eyes. "And pray I die before I change my mind about cutting ties permanently."
Outside the old man's chamber, Bruce stumbled into the corridor, still shaken. He was trying to compose himself when a sharp, clipped voice sliced through the air like a whip.
"Well, that was pathetic."
He turned slowly. The matriarch stood by the archway, dressed in an elegant black gown with pearls around her throat like a noose of judgment. Her eyes were icy, her tone poisonous.
"Still groveling, Bruce? After all these years, you still can't amount to anything useful"
"Don't start with me, Old Madame," he growled, his voice hoarse with frustration and humiliation.
She stepped closer, her heels clicking with precision. "You're an embarrassment. You always have been and what can l say. I'm not surprised. Afterall nothing goods is bound to come out of the womb of a slut. Your wretched mother couldn't win against me and to think you actually thought you could outmaneuver my grandson?" She let out a sharp laugh. "You'll never be half the man he is."
Bruce's fists clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes darkening.
The matriarch leaned in, her words a venomous whisper. "It disgusts me that someone like you carries the Fairchild surname. But don't worry when the time comes, I'll make sure you're remembered for what you really are: the bastard."
She turned on her heel and walked away without sparing him another glance.
Bruce remained frozen, his chest heaving, humiliation curdling into rage. His eyes blazed with fury as he muttered through clenched teeth, "This isn't over. None of you will forget me. I'll make sure of it."
Bruce Fairchild stood, seething, his face contorted in rage.
His elegantly dressed wife Lucille who had been waiting for him in the garden, rushed to his side when she saw approaching. The Old Madame had her prevented from entering the main house. She could only swallow her pride and indignantly await Bruce's return in the garden. "Husband, what happened?" she asked in alarm.
"That old witch!" Bruce spoke. "She thinks she can keep crushing me under her heel. She's forgotten who I am."
His voice dropped into something darker, colder. "Let's see how strong she remains when her precious grandson lies in a coffin."
Instead of horror, his wife's eyes gleamed with cruel anticipation. "Do you have a plan?"
Bruce nodded coldly before pulling her away.
Old Madame sat across from Harry in the ornate tea room, the aroma of jasmine filling the air.
"We must begin preparing for your grandfather's birthday," she said, her tone brisk but warm. "It will be as grand as ever, despite his illness. The guests expect it."
Harry nodded solemnly. "Of course."
"The party will be held as usual, and afterward, the hunting trip. You know how much he enjoys that. Even if he cannot attend, the tradition must continue."
The Fairchild family had long been known for their lavish affairs, and none were more anticipated than the patriarch's annual birthday gala. Royals, magnates, and politicians all vied for invitations.
Harry glanced out the window, expression unreadable. In his heart, he felt the weight of many things; his duty, his secrets, and the enemies gathering in the shadows.
But for now, he nodded. "Leave it to me, Grandmother. This year's celebration will be one to remember."