- ( Dylan's POV ) -
I didn't wait for permission.
I stood the moment Helena opened her mouth,
because I knew that if I stayed even one second longer,
I might say something I could never take back.
Or worse...I might look at her again.
The sharp scrape of my chair against marble cut through the dining hall.
One sound, heavy enough to signal that I was done. No one stopped me.
No one tried. No one ever did.
In that house, silence carried more power than shouting.
And I had long learned how to survive between the two.
I walked out with long, controlled strides, through the endless corridors of the mansion.
Portraits lined the walls... men who shared my blood,
yet never once claimed me as one of their own.
Their painted eyes followed me, just as they always had.
Measuring. Judging. Deciding whether I belonged.
I never did.
The door closed behind me with a low, final sound, like a verdict.
Only then did I breathe.
I wasn't supposed to lose control.
I rarely did. I was trained to stay calm, calculated, contained.
But hearing my name spoken like a problem, like a liability that needed fixing,
scratched at wounds that had never truly healed.
" Talent doesn't replace legitimacy."
Helena's voice echoed in my head... refined, polished, and sharp.
A blade she wielded with practiced ease.
I smiled as I descended the stairs,
a smile devoid of warmth.
" Legitimacy. "
A word people like her loved.
A word used when blood mattered more than effort.
When results meant nothing without the right surname attached to your name.
Everything I had, I built without them.
And I would keep it that way.
I didn't inherit success.
I earned it.
When my mother died, all that remained were silence, anger, and a hard decision.
I would not disappear quietly. I started where no one could reach me.
In the volatile, unforgiving digital world. Crypto was unstable.
High risk. High reward.
I studied market behavior. Analyzed patterns.
Learned restraint when others panicked.
Learned to trust instinct when the world trembled.
Luck comes once. Skill keeps it.
I reinvested everything. Automotive startups. Performance engineering.
Track testing. Race vehicle design.
I entered the racing world not as a hobbyist, but as a strategist.
Speed became discipline.
Discipline became reputation.
And whenever my mind tightened with memories I didn't need,
velocity became my escape. Visibility became credibility.
Credibility became partnerships.
Then I built Café Bulle De Ciel.
It is not as a refuge, but as a statement. A business open to the public,
clean, refined, respectable. Proof that I could create something people trusted.
Something solid.
By twenty-eight, DLS Automotive Performance & Engineering Group
was no longer "promising."
It was undeniable.
I was the youngest CEO and founder in my field.
No Chen money.
No protection.
Only results.
The drive out of Alderidge Heights was quiet.
Too quiet.
My hands were steady on the wheel, eyes fixed on the road,
but my thoughts refused to follow.
They returned... unwanted...
to the dining table.
To her.
Sophia Redford.
No.
Amelie...
The name surfaced on its own, painful and familiar, as if it had never left.
She sat beside Elijah, composed, flawless, playing her role with unsettling precision.
The smile at the right moments.
The subtle tilt of her head when spoken to.
The way she allowed Elijah's hand to remain close, as if it meant nothing.
As if it were natural.
As if there were no cost.
I told myself it meant nothing.
That whatever game she was playing now had nothing to do with me.
People don't change positions without reason.
But the memory of her eyes following me when I stood confused, unsettled,
lingered longer than it should have.
My jaw tightened. I pressed the accelerator.
By the time I reached central Raventon, anger had faded into something heavier.
I parked near the coast and stayed longer than necessary, engine running,
watching sunlight ripple across the water. Santa Catalina wasn't far.
On days like this, I could almost smell the salt, the rust, the summer dust.
Almost hear echoes of a time when everything was simpler.
Before expectations.
Before surnames. Before her.
I turned off the engine and stepped out.
I didn't belong in the mansion. But the city?
The city understood me.
Café Bulle De Ciel was already busy when I arrived.
The staff straightened instantly,
but I waved them off. This place didn't run on fear or hierarchy.
It ran on discipline, precision, and trust.
I took my usual seat near the counter. My black coffee arrived without an order.
Stella Santos stood beside me, tablet in hand.
Café manager and my personal assistant. Mid-thirties. Sharp. Reliable.
One of the few people I trusted completely.
"The mall crowd is big already,"
she said, scanning the screen.
"The Hernandez campaign is larger than expected."
I nodded. "Good."
She hesitated. "You okay?"
I looked at her. "I'm fine."
She didn't push. Stella never did.
Business was clean.
Predictable.
Unlike family.
By afternoon, I headed to the mall.
Not because I wanted to, but because presence mattered.
Investors wanted a face. Partners wanted reassurance.
Leaving didn't mean disappearing.
The campaign area was alive. Lights. Cameras. Applause.
Executives shaking hands as a sports car was unveiled under aggressive spotlights.
I stood where I was expected to stand.
Jasmine Hernandez was beside me.
She hooked her arm through mine as if it belonged there,
and her smile perfect, rehearsed. She was beautiful, sharp-featured,
confident, raised under attention.
I didn't remove her arm.
I didn't encourage it either.
There was a difference she didn't notice.
"Relax," she murmured. "They love you."
"They love the numbers," I replied.
She laughed, mistaking detachment for charm.
Jasmine was strategic. Useful.
The Hernandez name opened doors, whether I liked it or not.
And she didn't ask. She assumed.
That made things easier.
Then I felt it.
A shift.
A movement at the edge of my vision.
Yuri.
And beside her....
My chest tightened before I could stop it.
Amelie.
No.
Sophia.
I pretended not to see them.
She stood slightly behind, deliberately keeping her distance, but I saw it.
The subtle clenching of her fingers.
The way her gaze lingered longer than simple curiosity.
Good.
She saw me.
I moved a fraction closer to Jasmine, just enough to make it convincing.
The cameras caught it instantly.
I didn't look at Amelie.
I didn't need to.
I felt her.
Later that night after the event..
It was late when I returned to my condo.
The silence was heavier than before.
I poured a drink I didn't finish.
Stood by the window longer than necessary.
I told myself, again and again,
that I didn't care. That whoever she was pretending to be now,
whatever role she was playing, was no longer my concern.
But memory was cruel.
It never asked permission.
And as the city lights shimmered below, a truth I didn't want to face settled in.
Seeing her again didn't reopen the wound.
It only reminded me that it had never truly closed.
And whatever game she was playing now...
I wasn't sure I could keep pretending I didn't care while watching it unfold.