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!"
