FAYE BEAUMONT'S POV:
On the way to the institute, a thought flashed through my mind. The manuscripts my birth mother left me. They were the only things of hers I had. I couldn't leave them in that cold house.
"Drake, turn around," I said suddenly. "Back to the Beaumont estate."
He didn't ask why. He just executed a smooth U-turn. The car came to a stop in front of the familiar mansion.
I got out. "Wait in the car. Ten minutes."
He nodded, his eyes scanning the darkness like a hawk.
I used my fingerprint to open the front door. The living room was brightly lit but felt colder than the night air. My mother, Cynthia Beaumont, was sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed elegantly, as if she'd been waiting.
"You have the nerve to come back?" Her voice was devoid of warmth, filled only with suppressed rage. "Do you have any idea what a laughingstock you've made of the Beaumont family tonight?"
I ignored her and walked toward the staircase. "I'm just here to get my things."
"Your things?" She stood up, her voice sharp and shrill. "Everything in this house belongs to the Beaumonts! You shameless girl, publicly abandoned by a man, and you still have the face to return?"
I stopped and turned to face her. For the first time, she looked like a complete stranger. "First, a correction. I dumped him. Second, what I'm here for belongs to My real mother."
Cynthia's face went pale. It was the ultimate taboo between us. My birth mother, the genius physicist whose existence the family had tried to erase.
"You..." She trembled with rage, pointing a finger at me. "You just want to kill me with anger! You're exactly like that crazy mother of yours!"
I didn't have the energy to argue. I turned and ran up the stairs to my room. It was just as I had left it, but everything felt foreign and wrong.
I didn't touch the designer clothes or the jewelry. Instead, I pulled a worn wooden box from under the bed.
I opened it. Inside were all of my birth mother's manuscripts and notes. The papers were yellowed with age, but the equations and theories on them shone brighter to me than any diamond. This was my real inheritance.
I closed the lid and dragged the box downstairs. Cynthia was still standing there. Her eyes fell on the box in my hands, her expression turning to one of utter disdain. "Still clinging to that useless junk at a time like this!"
I didn't answer, walking straight to the door. Just as I pushed it open, a deafening roar filled the air.
A Black Hawk helicopter was descending from the night sky. Its massive rotors whipped up a gale, making the trees on the lawn sway violently. A searchlight beam locked precisely onto me.
Then, several black Chevrolet Suburban SUVs drove up silently, forming a semicircle that blocked the entrance to the estate.
Cynthia was terrified by the scene before her. She rushed to the door, saw the commotion, and clutched her mouth in horror. "My God, Fay, what have you... what have you done? Is this the FBI? Or the CIA?"
She took a startled step back, but when she noticed the agents' eyes were all fixed on me, the fear in her gaze suddenly froze. A few seconds later, that terror miraculously dissipated, transforming into a twisted, malicious glee.
"I see..." she let out a sharp, mocking laugh, pointing at me. "You've broken the law, haven't you? Fraud? Or did you steal some classified information?" ！ I knew it—just after Julian abandoned you, you'd obviously been so shaken that you did some crazy, reckless thing!
She shouted urgently at the agent outside: "Officer! No matter what serious federal crime she's committed, it has absolutely nothing to do with our Beaumont family! We've long intended to throw her out of the house!"
Then, looking down on me with contempt, she added, "I told you—you'd eventually get us into big trouble. Just like your insane mother, you're a curse on this family!"
The SUV doors opened. A team of men in black suits, earpieces in place, their faces grim, quickly got out and established a perimeter around the helicopter's landing zone.
Drake Ryder was suddenly out of the car, standing in front of me, his gaze locked with the lead agent. The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
The helicopter's cabin door slid open. A man in a U. S. Army Class A uniform, with captain's bars on his shoulders, stepped out. He was ramrod straight, his face resolute. He walked directly toward me.
He ignored Drake, who was shielding me. He ignored the dumbfounded Cynthia. He stopped three paces in front of me, stood at attention, and gave a flawless military salute.
"Dr. Faye Beaumont," he said, his voice loud and clear. "I am Captain Marcus Grant. By order of the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon, I am here to take over your security detail."
I looked at him and said coolly, "I haven't finished my hot chocolate."
Captain Grant blinked, then a small smile touched his lips. "Ma'am, we have a full Godiva setup on the aircraft for you. Freshly made."
I nodded, satisfied.
Cynthia was completely stunned. She stared at the scene, her mouth agape. "Doc... Doctor? What doctor? Captain... Grant?"
Captain Grant turned and gave Cynthia a polite nod. "Ma'am, due to matters of national security, I cannot disclose any more information. We must escort Dr. Beaumont away now."
Two of his men stepped forward and respectfully took the heavy wooden box from my hands, holding it as if it were a priceless treasure.
I glanced back at Cynthia. The expression on her face was a fascinating mix of terror, confusion, and a flicker of regret.
"Tell Father," I said to her, "that from this day forward, I have nothing more to do with the Beaumont family."
Without another look, I walked toward the waiting Black Hawk, escorted by Captain Grant and his team.
Drake exchanged a few quiet words with Captain Grant, seemingly handing over security details. Then, Drake followed me onto the helicopter. As my personal security, he had the right to accompany me.
I boarded the aircraft and settled into a comfortable leather seat. An attendant immediately served me a steaming cup of Godiva hot chocolate.
The helicopter lifted off slowly. Through the window, I watched the figure of my mother at the mansion's entrance grow smaller and smaller, a ridiculous silhouette against the bright doorway.
