The crash of waves echoed against the cliffside like the steady beat of a war drum—an eternal rhythm that Mrs. Rowland had listened to for decades.
She stood tall in front of the massive glass windows that stretched from floor to ceiling, her silhouette regal and unmoving. Her silver hair was swept into a loose but precise chignon, not a strand out of place. Clad in a deep navy robe trimmed with gold embroidery, she carried herself like a queen in exile—one who had never relinquished her throne, only chosen to rule from the shadows.
The room was quiet but alive, filled with the scent of sea salt and roses from the garden below. A grandfather clock ticked softly in the background, though time did not dare rush her.
A soft knock never came. Instead, the door creaked open, and a beautiful young maid stepped inside. Slender and poised, she moved with practiced ease, tray in hand — but there was no need to announce herself. She was the only one permitted to enter uninvited at this hour.
"Mrs. Rowland," the maid said gently, bowing her head. "Sir Rick Rowland and Master Paul request your audience. They claim it is of utmost urgency."
The silence that followed was profound.
Mrs. Rowland's gaze did not shift from the horizon. The waves crashed again. Seafoam danced below the cliff edge, far too removed to concern her.
"Let's hope it is," she said, her voice calm and cool as marble.
Moments later, the double doors opened again, and Rick Rowland entered with his son Paul in tow. Both men bowed, but it was clear they had rehearsed the urgency in their steps, their words already loaded.
"Mother," Rick said, voice low and pious. "I bring troubling news."
Paul added with a scoff masked in concern, "It's about Ken."
The matriarch's gaze remained fixed on the sea.
"He's… adopted a child," Rick continued. "A five-year-old girl, no name worth mentioning. And from what we've gathered, he intends to make her his heir."
There was a pause. Then, the knife was twisted.
"An outsider," Paul said. "With no blood. It raises the question… is Ken still fit to be the head? he has become more impulsive"
The waves clashed violently against the rocks.
Mrs. Rowland said nothing at first.
The silence stretched long enough to feel eternal.
Then she spoke. "Is that so…"
Her tone was devoid of emotion—no surprise, no outrage. She might as well have been commenting on the weather.
She still did not turn around.
The maid, however, understood what was next.
With practiced grace, she stepped forward. "Gentlemen, if you would," she said politely, gesturing to the door.
Rick and Paul exchanged a glance but complied, satisfied. They had delivered the blow. The seed of doubt had been planted.
As the door closed behind them, the air in the room shifted—imperceptibly at first, like a cold breeze in a sacred place.
Mrs. Rowland's hands clenched slowly behind her back.
After Ken had been named head of the Rowland family, she had stepped back. Trusted his judgment. Let him hold the reins of the empire their ancestors had bled to build.
She had believed in him.
And now…
Her voice was low, nearly a whisper. But the weight behind it was enough to shake mountains.
"…What the hell are you doing, Ken."
Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—stern, proud, and ancient.
This better be good.
Below, Rick and Paul walked down the hall with smug grins, convinced they had finally gained ground in the ever-twisting power game.
Though the matriarch hadn't spoken to be heard.
She had spoken to herself.
And she would get her answers.
As Rick and Paul descended the staircase, the scent of bergamot and fresh linen met them from the drawing room.
Inside, three figures awaited.
Patrick stood near the fireplace, flanked by two other silent men in dark suits—unmistakably Rowland loyalists. Across the room, a woman sat elegantly poised on a velvet chaise, sipping tea from porcelain as if the world outside didn't matter.
Yelena Rowland.
Classy, composed, dangerous in silk.
Next to her sat a quiet little girl, legs crossed, back straight. Her dark hair was combed into soft curls, a satin ribbon woven in. She glanced up but said nothing. It was Sofia—Yelena's daughter.
"So… did you tell her?" Brandon asked from the side, his tone hushed but eager.
"Yes, we did," Rick said with satisfaction. "She didn't say much, but I could almost read her mind. She seemed furious. The family head position is finally in reach. This is the perfect excuse."
"Right…" Brandon replied, eyes gleaming. "Otherwise, no one else could take it. Ken's security is airtight, and he never slips up."
Yelena gave a low, elegant laugh. "I would be careful if I were you," she said, brushing an invisible fleck from her sleeve. "As you just said… he never slips up. I'm sure he has a foolproof plan already. Don't underestimate my brother. Or it will be your loss."
She rose in one smooth, commanding motion. "Let's go, Sofia."
The little girl stood without a word, her every movement quiet and deliberate, mimicking the grace she had always admired in her mother.
"I am not taking part in any of this," Yelena continued as she passed the men. "Or that monster will tear you apart before destroying your lives. I've seen it countless times."
Sofia followed, her steps soft but alert.
She had watched. Always watched.
Her mother never wavered—calm, composed, somehow always right.
Sofia wanted to be like her. Confident. Unshakable.
Yet she made mistakes. Unlike her mother.
But her mother once said: "Instinct is driven by insight and understanding."
Sofia didn't understand it yet.
But if she watched closely enough… she might.
In his villa,, Ken sat in his office, the polished wood desk untouched by the clutter of decisions. His eyes stared blankly at the glowing city beyond the glass. For the first time in a long while, he didn't know what to do.
The weight of his grandmother's silence loomed over him like a thunderhead.
How would he explain Mia?
How could he reveal the truth—that she was more than just an adopted child? That she bore the Rowland blood he'd sworn to protect, hidden behind layers of trauma and secrecy?
He was between a rock and a hard place.
The phone in his hand felt heavy, but he dialed without hesitating.
It rang once. Twice.
Then, a voice answered. Cool, poised, unmistakable.
"Yelena."
He exhaled. "We need to talk."