Crash.
A loud bang echoed through the hall. It wasn’t the pen. It was the heavy, ornate doors of the ballroom being thrown open, slamming against the wall. A gust of wind swept in, carrying the chill of a late autumn night. Everyone turned. A tall figure stood in the doorway. She wore a simple black trench coat and was pulling a silver Rimowa suitcase. Her hair was casually tied back, her face devoid of makeup, yet her skin seemed to glow. Her eyes were cold and deep, like a star-filled sky untouched by city lights.
It was Sophia.
She was clearly just off a flight, not even having had time to change.
“Sophia,” I whispered, tears threatening to spill.
Gregory froze for a second, then frowned.
“What are you doing back? I told you to stay put and focus on your work.”
Then a thought occurred to him.
“Good. You’re here. Talk some sense into your mother. Tell her not to be a fool.”
Sophia ignored him. She let go of her suitcase, which glided across the polished floor and came to a neat stop at Melanie’s feet, making her jump back. Sophia, in her low-heeled boots, walked into the hall. Her stride was steady, each step seeming to land on the collective heartbeat of the room. She moved through the gawking crowd and came straight to me. She looked at my pale face, then at the papers and the check on the table. Finally, her gaze fell on the illegitimate son still gnawing on his chicken. No hysterics, no tears. Sophia simply reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. Her voice was as cool as if she were commenting on the weather.
“Mom, your hands are freezing.”
I, trembling, took her hand.
“Sophia, honey, don’t—”
Sophia cut me off. She turned and, for the first time, looked directly at Gregory. Her gaze was so cold that even a seasoned shark like him, who had swum in the cutthroat waters of the business world for years, couldn’t help but shiver.
“Dad,” Sophia said, her tone devoid of any emotion. “This is the last time I’ll call you that. You want a divorce?”
Gregory puffed out his chest, trying to reclaim his paternal authority.
“This is between adults. You’re a child. Stay out of it. That $50 million is for your mother’s fu—”
“Fifty million?” Sophia interrupted, a deeply sarcastic smile playing on her lips.
She reached out, picked up the check, and flicked it.
“For a man of your current net worth, Mr. Thorne, are you tipping a valet?”
Gregory was seething, but Sophia’s tone shifted. She snatched the Montblanc pen from the table and pressed it firmly into my hand. The force was undeniable. She leaned in, close, her voice a whisper only I could hear. Yet it carried a strength that settled my frantic heart.
“Mom, sign it. Sign it right now. Don’t hesitate for a second.”
I stared at her, bewildered. Sophia held my hand, guiding the pen to the signature line. Her eyes were as steadfast as a mountain.
“We don’t want this filth anymore.”
The ballroom was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Gregory seemed stunned that Sophia was being so cooperative. After a moment of confusion, a triumphant smirk spread across his face.
“See? Sophia gets it. She knows what’s practical. Elara, even your daughter has more sense than you.”
Melanie’s eyes flashed with pure ecstasy. She clutched her son, her hands trembling. Once that paper was signed, she would be the rightful Mrs. Thorne. Her son would be the sole heir to Nexus Corp. Gregory’s mother was grinning so wide her wrinkles folded in on themselves.
“That’s more like it. Sign it and get it over with. Don’t hold up Leo’s ceremony.”
My hand, holding the pen, was shaking. Not from fear, but from the warmth spreading from Sophia’s palm. This was my daughter, the child I carried for nine months. She was standing in front of me now, a shield against all the world’s cruelty.
“Mom, trust me,” Sophia whispered.
I took a deep breath and looked at Gregory’s face, now so twisted and unfamiliar. Twenty years of my youth, twenty years of sacrifice, all came down to the black ink flowing from this pen.
Scribble, scribble.
I signed my name. Elara Vance.
As the last stroke finished, I felt a metaphorical chain break. My heart didn’t ache as I’d expected. Instead, there was a strange, liberating lightness.
“Good, good,” Gregory laughed, reaching for the signed agreement. “Get a lawyer to notarize this.”
But a long, slender hand pressed down on the document first. Sophia looked at Gregory’s outstretched hand with an indifferent expression, showing no intention of giving him the papers.
“What are you doing?” Gregory’s brow furrowed. “It’s signed. You’re not backing out now, are you?”
“What’s the hurry?” Sophia’s voice was flat.
Her other hand pulled a small black device from her coat pocket. It was a portable card reader and a smartphone. She tossed the device onto the coffee table with a clatter.
“Payment for goods. Since this is a buyout, the contract is just a piece of paper until the funds are in the account.”
Gregory scoffed.
“Do I look like someone who would renege on a payment? The check is right there.”
