Chapter 1 "Mrs. Vanderbilt, the food's gone cold again. Should I reheat it?" The housekeeper's cautious tone carried a hint of impatience as she glanced at Paisley Sutton. Paisley sat alone at the large dining table, the vast space around her amplifying her solitude. She glanced at the time and then at the housekeeper, whose frustration was over her face. "Just clear it away," said Paisley with a faint smile that barely masked her weariness. It was her birthday today, yet neither her husband nor son had bothered to come home. The stark absence of their presence made the silence in the room deafening. The housekeeper began clearing the table with swift, almost annoyed movements, muttering under her breath, "Mrs. Vanderbilt, not to be rude, but why go to all this trouble? You knew neither your husband nor your son would be back tonight, yet you insisted on preparing a whole feast. "Reheating this food three times tonight? It's exhausting. Honestly, as a wife and mother, you're not exactly winning any awards. Otherwise, why would they both avoid you like this?" "You're right. I've failed spectacularly," Paisley replied with a bitter smile. The words stung, but she no longer had the strength to argue. In this house, even the housekeeper had no qualms about being openly dismissive toward her. She understood that the housekeeper's attitude mirrored the Vanderbilt family's treatment of her. She scoffed internally, 'If my husband and son don't respect me, why would anyone else?' Seeing Paisley's quiet despair, the housekeeper softened slightly, a flicker of pity crossing her face. With a sigh, she muttered, "People always cling to things that don't belong to them. If I were you, I'd let go. Let it all go. You'd be doing yourself a favor—and maybe even others." Paisley didn't respond, but the words lingered, sinking deep into her mind like stones dropped into a still pond. The room remained quiet, save for the clinking of dishes being cleared away. The chandelier overhead cast a soft, golden glow, but it only emphasized how hollow the space felt. Paisley's chest tightened, her heart weighed down by the emptiness she'd grown accustomed to. The housekeeper finished clearing the table and retreated to her quarters, leaving the vast dining room eerily silent. Paisley turned off all the lights, her movements slow and deliberate, as if each step required effort. Cradling the cake box, she climbed the grand staircase and returned to her bedroom. The space was cold, the kind of cold that seeped into her soul rather than her skin. She settled onto the plush sofa by the window, the moonlight spilling in faintly, casting soft shadows on the walls. Carefully, she opened the cake box. Inside was a delicately crafted dessert meant for celebration, though the atmosphere couldn't feel less festive. She removed the cake, placed a single candle on top, and lit it. The flickering flame reflected in her tired eyes in an overwhelming darkness. Just as she was about to gather her thoughts, a sharp WhatsApp message shattered the silence in the room. The sound was jarring in the quiet space, its abruptness making her heart jump. She hesitantly reached for her phone, only to find it was a video message. She clicked on it, and the screen revealed a scene from a VIP hospital suite. Her husband, Dominick Vanderbilt, and her young son, Grayson Vanderbilt, sat by the bedside of a gorgeous, frail-looking woman. Paisley recognized her instantly. It was Marissa Prescott, Dominick's childhood sweetheart, to whom Dominick had once been engaged. This video was from her. "Dom, I'm so sorry to keep you here so late," Marissa's weak voice came through, punctuated by soft, deliberate coughs. "It's no trouble," Dominick replied, his tone warm and gentle, with a tenderness Paisley hadn't heard from him in years. It wasn't just warmth—it was affection, even indulgence. 'So, he's been with her all day,' Paisley thought, a faint, self-deprecating smile curling her lips. She couldn't even remember the last time Dominick had spoken to her without an edge of irritation, let alone with this kind of fondness. A pang of bitterness twisted in her chest as she wondered when his voice, once a source of comfort, had turned into a weapon. Now, it seemed, every word he directed at her was either critical or cold. "Marissa, you don't need to worry," came Grayson's soft, childlike voice from the video. His small, chubby body crawled up onto the bed, snuggling into Marissa's arms. "Daddy and I love staying here with you. We don't wanna go home." The boy's next words hit like a dagger. "I love having Marissa around. I wish she was my mommy." The video ended abruptly, leaving Paisley staring at the blank screen. Her hands trembled as she set the phone down. The candle on the cake flickered, its glow dim against the suffocating darkness in the room. Finally, Paisley made up her mind. She drew a deep breath and blew out the flame. The dimness swallowed the room as her voice broke the silence, soft and almost a whisper. "Happy birthday to me." Dominick returned home well past midnight. The house was shrouded in darkness, an unusual sight. There was always a light left on for him, no matter how late he arrived, but tonight, that small comfort was conspicuously absent. His brow furrowed with irritation as he handed Grayson off to the housekeeper. Without a word, he strode toward the master bedroom, his steps brisk and sharp. When he noticed the light spilling out from under the door, his grim expression eased slightly. Inside, Paisley sat upright on the sofa, her posture unnervingly composed. Beside her was a neatly packed suitcase, and on the low coffee table in front of her lay a divorce agreement, stark and unmissable. Dominick's fleeting relief vanished, replaced by a cold, impenetrable look. His voice was clipped and edged with annoyance. "Paisley, what is this? Another one of your stunts?" Paisley could feel the tension between them crackle like static in the air. She didn't have the energy to entertain his accusations, nor did she have the desire to dig into the complicated mess he called a "stunt". She stood her ground, her voice quiet but unwavering, "Dominick, I want a divorce." He sighed heavily, his fatigue evident as he loosened his tie and tossed it onto the sofa. That was when his gaze fell on the small cake sitting on the coffee table, its candle burned down to the wick. "It's your birthday today?" His tone carried faint disbelief, laced with a trace of guilt. He'd forgotten, and his assistant hadn't reminded him either. "It doesn't matter," Paisley replied, shaking her head. She pushed the divorce agreement closer to him, her expression unwavering. "Sign it. Let's end this." Dominick's brows drew together, his irritation and confusion flaring as if she were the one making a scene. "Why?" he demanded, his tone accusatory. "Because I forgot your birthday? Don't you think that's a little melodramatic?" He glanced at the agreement with a hint of mockery in his eyes, and then stretched out two fingers, pinching the paper between them. Slowly, he began flipping through it, one page at a time, as if inspecting it like some trivial document that didn't matter. He sneered, "You ask for nothing? You're going to leave empty-handed? Paisley, where would you even go without me?" A bitter laugh escaped Paisley's lips, though her heart felt heavier with every beat. 'So that's it,' she thought. 'He's so certain that I'm trapped, that I have no one to rely on in Harrowfell, no place to go. That's why he's so confident, so sure he can keep draining me of every last ounce of love and patience.' Her inner voice hissed with venom, 'What an arrogant, self-satisfied jerk.' Yet on the outside, Paisley remained eerily calm, her silence more cutting than any retort. She let out a cold, mirthless laugh. "Where I go is none of your concern. All you need to do is sign the papers and meet me at the City Hall tomorrow." Her voice was calm, but the ice in her tone could cut through steel. At that, Dominick's temper flared, his voice laced with frost. "Have you really thought this through?" She didn't bother responding, simply tossing the pen onto the table near his hand. "Stop wasting time. Sign it." Her unwavering resolve struck him like a blow. For a moment, Dominick faltered, his mind clouded with a fleeting sense of unease. Her once-soft eyes now burned with an unyielding determination he hadn't seen before. Slowly, he drew in a deep breath and massaged his temple, the weariness in his expression growing more pronounced. "Fine. Divorce it is," he said, his tone heavy with frustration. "But Sonny's custody? That's off the table. You're not taking him." Before Paisley could react, a small voice pierced the tension. Grayson had woken at some point and now dashed into the room, clutching Dominick's arm tightly. He glared at Paisley, his little face twisted with anger as he yelled, "I'm staying with Daddy. I don't want to go with you. You're a horrible mom. A witch!" "Sonny," Dominick snapped, his voice sharp enough to startle the boy. But Grayson was undeterred, his tear-streaked face defiant after getting screamed at. "I'm not wrong," he shouted, his words tumbling out in a storm of emotions. "You're just a useless housewife. Grandma and Aunt Kayla said so. "If you hadn't come between Daddy and Marissa, she would be my mom right now." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dominick sighed deeply, "Grayson, enough—" But Paisley cut him off, her voice slicing through the air like a blade. "I don't care about Grayson. I don't care about anything. I just want a divorce." Her tone was final, leaving no room for negotiation or second-guessing. Dominick's lips tightened into a thin line, his expression hardening in disbelief. He hadn't expected Paisley to say something like that—something so resolute, so cold. To refuse to take Grayson with her after the divorce, after everything she had been through for Grayson, felt unthinkable. Dominick couldn't forget the sacrifices she had made to bring their son into the world. Paisley had nearly lost her life on the operating table, and afterward, she had poured herself into raising Grayson, tending to him with an intensity that bordered on obsession. She had given him everything, every part of herself, to make him safe, healthy, and loved. And now, she was simply saying she didn't want him and didn't want anything to do with him. Even Grayson seemed stunned into silence by her words, his sobs abruptly halting as he stared at her in disbelief. But the shock didn't last long. A twisted smile crept onto his face, one too bitter for a child. "Good. "Daddy, hurry up and divorce her. Then Marissa can be my mommy." The words hung in the air like poison, choking the remnants of warmth left in the room. Dominick ignored Grayson's outburst entirely, his sharp gaze fixed on Paisley like a predator sizing up its prey. His voice dropped an octave, cold and commanding. "I'll ask you one last time—are you absolutely sure about this divorce?" Paisley met his eyes without flinching, her tone calm yet resolute. "Yes." She watched Dominick's pen carved his name onto the divorce agreement, his movements deliberate yet forceful. Without hesitation, she picked up her copy, the weight of it oddly liberating. She grabbed her suitcase and headed toward the door. Her voice was steady, but the undercurrent of finality was unmistakable. "9:00 a.m. tomorrow. City Hall. Don't be late." Just as her fingers tightened around the handle of her suitcase, her wrist was seized in a firm grip. Dominick's hand was broad, his veins prominent along the back of it, exuding a raw, masculine allure that once had her utterly captivated. She'd been obsessed with those hands, with the man they belonged to. But now, his touch felt like repulsive shackles. "Let go," she said icily, her voice stripped of all warmth. Her thoughts churned bitterly. 'What's the point of clinging now? Isn't this divorce exactly what everyone wanted? Dominick, his family, and the housekeeper seemed eager to see me gone.' Dominick's lips curled into a mocking smile, his tone laced with dark amusement. "In such a hurry to leave? What? Got yourself a lover on the side already?" A wave of exhaustion swept over Paisley, sinking into her very bones. She looked into his eyes, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. "Dominick, I have never hated you more than I do right now." For a moment, her words seemed to shake him. His grip loosened, and he let her wrist slowly slip from his grasp. His tone softened, almost imploring. "It's late. Even if you're set on leaving, you could wait until morning." A dry, humorless laugh escaped her lips. She pulled her hand back, her gaze unwavering. Without sparing him another glance, she grabbed her suitcase and walked out. The sound of the door closing behind her echoed in the vast emptiness of the house—a house that had imprisoned her for four long years. Her departure felt like breaking free, but the weight of her pain and disillusionment lingered, trailing behind her like a shadow she couldn't quite shake.

Chapter 2 The airport buzzed with activity, a symphony of distant announcements, hurried footsteps, and rolling suitcases blending into the steady hum of life. Crowds ebbed and flowed in a rhythm that was both chaotic and strangely orderly. The cool, filtered air carried faint traces of coffee and jet fuel, grounding Paisley in the reality of her impending departure. Her flight had begun boarding. Just as she was about to step forward to hand her boarding pass to the attendant, her phone buzzed insistently in her pocket. She slid her ticket across the counter and answered the call without checking the caller ID. But before she could say a word, Grayson's young voice shrilled through the speaker. "I want rainbow pasta!" Paisley paused mid-step, glancing down at the phone. It was Dominick's number. "There's frozen pasta in the fridge," she replied coolly, her voice even and detached. She collected her boarding pass and continued walking toward the gate. "The nanny said it's all gone." Grayson's voice climbed in pitch, sharp and grating the way children's voices do when they're on the verge of a tantrum. Paisley's lips tightened. She'd worked hard to instill discipline in Grayson, especially when it came to shouting or making demands in public. But this naughty boy had his father's stubborn streak, and lately, her corrections only seemed to irritate him further. Her tone remained indifferent as she replied with a frown, "Then it's gone.""That's not fair," Grayson wailed. His voice rose again, teetering on the edge of a full-blown fit. "Come back right now and make it for me. I want it now." Paisley inhaled slowly, her grip on her phone firm but calm. "Ask your precious Marissa to make it for you," she said, her voice laced with an edge that cut through his whining. The line went silent for a few heartbeats, but it wasn't long before Grayson's crying and howling began in earnest, loud enough that Paisley had to hold the phone slightly away from her ear. After a muffled scuffle on the other end, Dominick's deep, irritated voice finally came through. "Paisley, why are you picking a fight with a child? He's just a kid. He doesn't understand." By this point, Paisley had stepped into the cabin, her heels clicking softly against the carpeted aisle. She flashed a polite smile at the flight attendant and handed over her handbag before settling into her seat in first class. Reclining slightly, she adjusted her tone to one of detached finality. "If a child doesn't understand, then surely the adults should, don't you think?" Her mind drifted as the seatbelt light blinked on. Grayson hadn't always been this way. Up until the age of two, he'd been a sweet, clingy little boy who adored her, proudly declaring to anyone who'd listen that his mother was the best in the world. 'When did that start to change?' she wondered. The answer came to her with a pang of bitterness. 'It must have been when Marissa came back to Harrowfell.' Everything Paisley had forbidden, Marissa would indulge. If Paisley said no to candy, Marissa would slip it to him behind her back. If Paisley enforced bedtime rules, Marissa would sneak him out for late-night games. At first, the Vanderbilt family had always looked down upon Paisley. Slowly but surely, their obvious preference for Marissa over Paisley began to seep into Grayson's perception. In his young, impressionable mind, Paisley had been recast as a villain—a meddling outsider, a scheming woman who broke up the family. "Dominick," Paisley said firmly, "we're divorced now. There's no reason for us to keep in touch anymore." Without waiting for a response, she ended the call and switched off her phone. As the plane ascended, Paisley stared out the window, the city shrinking beneath her until it was no more than a blur of lights and distant memories. She took a deep breath, the hum of the engines steadying her frayed nerves. 'It's over,' she thought. 'I've left it all behind.' **** Four years later, in the heart of Harrowfell, inside the director's office at the prestigious Harrowfell Hospital, the room exuded an air of understated luxury. Rich mahogany paneling adorned the walls and soft, ambient lighting cast a warm, golden glow. Paisley, however, had no interest in conforming to the room's dignified atmosphere. With her legs casually crossed in an unbothered fashion, she lounged on the plush sofa, leaning back as if she owned the place. She exuded an effortless charm, her casual demeanor oddly endearing. Jonathan Walsh, the director of the hospital, strolled over with a wry smile. He patted Paisley gently on the head. "You're a mother now, for goodness' sake. Can't you sit like an adult for once?" Paisley huffed and grudgingly straightened up, though the playful glint in her eyes remained. She reached into her chic leather tote and pulled out a small, neatly packaged bag of herbal tea. "Here. Make it last. It's a pain to prepare, you know." The tea itself wasn't difficult to mix, but the ingredients were another matter entirely—rare and hard to procure. Jonathan chuckled as he took the tea, his expression softening with gratitude. "You're still the most thoughtful kid I know. My health practically depends on your herbal concoctions these days. Sit tight. I'll pour you some of the coffee I just bought. You'll love it." He handed her a delicate porcelain cup, and Paisley took a careful sip, her discerning palate immediately picking up on the premium quality. 'Top-notch beans,' she thought, her approval faint but clear. Jonathan leaned against his desk, his gaze warm but probing. "Paisy, how long are you planning to stay in Harrowfell this time?" "A while," she replied, setting the cup down on the coffee table with a soft clink. One of her screenplays had recently been adapted, and the production was set to start filming locally. As the lead writer, she needed to be on-site for the shoot. On top of that, there were other odds and ends demanding her attention. Jonathan grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief, "Ever thought about coming back here to see some patients? Maybe teach a few students while you're at it?" "Nope. Not happening," Paisley said, cutting him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. This wasn't the first time Jonathan had tried to coax her into joining the hospital's ranks, and she had no intention of giving in. Jonathan opened his mouth to press the issue further, but before he could get a word out, Paisley's phone buzzed sharply, its timing a small miracle. She picked it up with a muted sigh of relief and answered quickly, pretending the call was urgent. Within moments, she was making her exit, leaving Jonathan behind with an amused shake of his head. Not long after Paisley left, the administrative director knocked and stepped into the room. "Mr. Walsh, Mr. Vanderbilt is here to see you." Jonathan straightened as Paul Vanderbilt, a spry old gentleman with sharp eyes that missed nothing, entered the office. His gaze immediately fell on the coffee table, where a glass carafe of freshly brewed coffee sat, steam still curling lazily from the spout. The fine aroma filled the room, unmistakably from an exclusive roast. One look at the half-empty cup and Paul's shrewd mind began to piece things together. Paul teased, "Well, well. Who was it this time that got you to bring out the top-tier coffee you usually don't touch?" Jonathan chuckled, his expression as casual as his tone, "Who else could it be?" Paul's brows lifted in surprise. "You mean the traditional medicine expert you've been talking about?" Jonathan nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. "Too bad you missed her. If you'd come a little earlier, you might've caught a glimpse." Paul sighed wistfully, "What a pity. My health's been declining these past few years, so I could've used some advice." Jonathan sniffed thoughtfully, setting his cup down with a soft clink, "Strange. I remember you being in great shape a few years ago. When did things start going downhill?" Paul frowned, thinking back, "About four years ago, I guess..." It had started when Dominick's divorce drama began. Ever since then, Paul had been caught in a daily storm of frustration, anger, and stress. The constant turmoil had taken its toll, leaving him with more ailments than he cared to admit. Jonathan glanced at Paul's tailored suit and tie, his curiosity piqued. "You look sharp today. Where are you coming from?" "Oh, from the office. My grandson, Dominick, gave me a ride over." Paul, ever relaxed, shrugged off his suit jacket and tossed it carelessly onto the nearest chair, making himself at home. "On my way up, I ran into a friend's mother who's staying here. Thought I'd stop by to say hello." **** In the hospital elevator, Paisley leaned against the corner, idly scrolling through her phone to pass the time. A series of entertainment headlines popped up on her screen, their bolded hashtags catching her eye, [The Vanderbilt family's heir is spotted with a mystery woman late at night], [Exclusive: Vanderbilt Group's CEO Dominick Vanderbilt's imminent engagement]. The blurry photos accompanying the articles were enough for her to immediately recognize the figures. One was Dominick. The other was Marissa. 'Imminent engagement? So they're really getting married, huh?' Paisley's lips curled into a cold smile as her thumb froze on the screen. Her chest tightened with a bitter mix of irony and contempt. Dominick had once sworn to her—so earnestly, so convincingly—that there was absolutely nothing going on between him and Marissa. He'd dismissed Paisley's suspicions as baseless jealousy, even calling her irrational and paranoid. During their marriage, she'd been invisible. Not once had they appeared in the news together. Not once had he publicly acknowledged her as his wife. To the outside world, it was as if she didn't exist. She'd told herself back then that it was just his way—Dominick's principle of fiercely guarding his private life from the prying eyes of the media. She had believed it, justified it, and accepted it. Now, as she stared at the headlines and photos, a bitter realization settled over her like a storm cloud. 'Principles?' Paisley scoffed inwardly. 'Principles can crumble in an instant when it comes to true love, can't they?' As the elevator descended, there was a soft ding, and the movement halted. The doors slid open, and someone stepped inside. The newcomer was tall—tall enough that his presence immediately cast a shadow across her line of sight. Without lifting her gaze, Paisley instinctively shifted slightly to the side, giving the stranger more room. Her phone vibrated, and a call from Emery Collins flashed on the screen. She answered, her tone playful and warm as she greeted, "Hey, darling, are you here yet?" On the other end of the line came Emery's apologetic voice. "Paisy, love, I'm so sorry. Something urgent has come up at the shop, and I have to go handle it. I can't pick you up. "But don't worry. I've sent my friend to pick you up. He should be there soon." "No worries, I got it." Paisley's lips curved into a soft smile as she ended the call. Then, all at once, she felt it—a prickling sensation, as though a sharp, cold spotlight had been trained on her. Her head lifted instinctively, and her eyes collided with a pair of deep, shadowy ones. It was Dominick. He stood there, his towering height dominating the confined space. He was a head taller than her. The past four years had sharpened him—time had carved his once-youthful features into something even more defined, more striking. His chiseled jawline was sharper now, his cheekbones more pronounced. And those eyes—intense, penetrating, with emotions simmering just beneath the surface—were locked directly on her. Dominick took a single step forward, the distance between them shrinking, his presence heavy and suffocating. The elevator reached the first floor with a soft chime. "Excuse me," Paisley said, her voice polite but distant. Without hesitation, she brushed past him, maintaining her composure as though he were nothing more than a stranger in the crowd. Not a glance was spared, not a moment lingered. She walked away, poised and indifferent, leaving the echoes of his gaze behind her. Her heels clicked confidently on the tiled floor, her expression serene, but her heart was steady—untouched by the brief encounter. She had prepared herself for this the moment she decided to return to Harrowfell. Running into Dominick was always a possibility. And it didn't matter to her now that it had already happened. Not anymore. Whatever they once were, whatever had bound them together, it was all in the past now. And Paisley had long ago decided—she never looked back. Behind her, Dominick's footsteps echoed with a sharp urgency. Before Paisley could take another step, a strong hand grabbed her wrist, halting her escape. Dominick's voice was low, grating, and filled with restrained fury. "Paisley, you've been gone for four years. Don't you think you owe me an explanation?" At that, Paisley turned, a soft, ironic laugh slipping past her lips. Her eyes, bright and unreadable, fixed on him as if he were a stranger. "Mr. Vanderbilt," she began, her tone dripping with cool detachment, "in what capacity are you demanding answers? As my ex-husband?" Dominick's breath hitched, his chest heaving as he struggled to keep his composure. His gaze bore into hers, the faintest flush of red coloring the corners of his sharp eyes. "Then, as the father of your son," he questioned, each word deliberate, "don't I have the right to know where you've been?" She tried to pull her wrist free, but his grip remained unyielding, like a vice. Her voice, though calm, cut through the tension like a blade. "I gave up my son, Dominick. What right do you think you have to demand anything from me?" Dominick's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding audibly as he spat her name through gritted teeth, "Paisley." The sharp, abrupt sound of two car horns shattered the charged air between them. Both turned instinctively toward the noise, only to see a sleek car idling just behind Paisley. The driver's side window rolled down, revealing a strikingly handsome man with meticulously styled hair that dared not defy the hold of his gel. His smile was dazzling, the kind that could charm anyone on sight. "Paisy," he called out, sticking out his head, his voice buoyant and warm, utterly oblivious to the storm brewing in the space between her and Dominick. "I'm here for you."

Chapter 3 Paisley felt the firm grip on her wrist tighten suddenly, and the pain made her gasp in surprise. "Paisley, who is he?" Dominick's voice was sharp, his gaze burning into her. "The one who called you just now—was it him?" The tension in the room thickened as Dominick's eyes drilled into hers, a flicker of something dark in his expression. He remembered the way she had called the person on the phone "darling" earlier—a term of endearment she had never once used for him during their four years of marriage. The air between them crackled with tension, and Paisley quickly gathered herself, her voice a low murmur of defiance. "None of your business." She pulled her wrist from his grasp with all the strength she could muster. Dominick frowned, about to take a step closer, his lips parted as if to speak, but before he could say anything, he was interrupted by a voice from behind. "Dom, so this is where you've been." Marissa's voice was sweet and light, laced with an almost too-casual warmth. She appeared at Dominick's side, clad in a gorgeous, tailored outfit that seemed to glow with sophistication. Her long hair cascaded behind her, swaying as she moved with an easy grace. "My mother was so happy to see you earlier," she continued, her tone playful. "She was actually a bit upset, saying I don't take enough care of you, having you come to the hospital when you're always so busy." Marissa's laughter was soft and full of charm as she stepped closer to Dominick. "Honestly, I'm the one who's been wronged. You came here on your own, so next time, you explain it to Mom, alright?" Only then did Marissa seem to notice Paisley standing there. Her gaze shifted with a swift, almost rehearsed smile. "Ms. Sutton? You're back?" Her smile was polished and brilliant, radiating warmth. If Paisley hadn't caught the subtle way Marissa had been eyeing her—studying her from the moment she came into Marissa's view—she might've believed Marissa's friendliness was genuine. At that moment, Paisley couldn't help but feel a wave of utter boredom wash over her. There was no point in her staying and listening to more of Marissa's well-rehearsed act. Without a word, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking sharply against the ground as she headed for the car door. She quickly got into the car and left the scene. **** Later, in the living room, the air was heavy with unspoken thoughts. Emery handed Paisley a warm cup of milk, the steam rising gently from the surface. "So, you still haven't cleared things up with him?" Emery was a good friend Paisley had met in Brightmoor, a renowned designer of evening gowns. She had come to Harrowfell with Paisley, setting up her custom boutique in the town's poshest mall. She was known for her sharp eye for detail and even sharper opinions. Paisley sipped the milk slowly, feeling the warmth settle in her chest. "No. I didn't explain anything." Emery's reaction was far more animated than Paisley's. "Why not?" she asked, her eyebrows lifting with frustration. Paisley leaned back, the flicker of an old, bitter smile tugging at her lips. "We're divorced. We have nothing to do with each other anymore. There's no need to explain." Her eyes darkened, and she muttered with a touch of dry humor, "Besides, he's about to remarry." "Remarry?" Emery's eyes went wide in shock. "With that bitch?" "That bitch" was Emery's usual nickname for Marissa. Paisley used to correct her whenever she said it, though Marissa truly was a total bitch. But after a few unsuccessful attempts to stop Emery from saying that, Paisley had given up. The truth was, her marriage with Dominick had crumbled because of both of them—not just because of Marissa. Yet, deep down, Paisley knew she couldn't help but feel that sting. The end of her marriage had never been as simple as a villain in a story. It had been about two people who had simplydisagreed and drifted apart. "Yeah, that's her." Paisley continued sipping her milk quietly, as if the conversation didn't concern her. Emery shook her head in disbelief, her voice tinged with irritation. "You're like one of those heroines from those over-the-top romance novels—silent as a stone, driving everyone crazy." Paisley couldn't help but chuckle at Emery's comment, "You're mistaken. According to those novels, I'm not the heroine. Dominick's fiancée is the main character." Paisley had a wry smile on her lips as she thought of herself from Marissa's point of view. In her eyes, Paisley was the venomous second lead—returning after disappearing for four years, simply because she was the mother of Dominick's child. She imagined Marissa would think of her as the type of woman who, after vanishing, suddenly reappeared to insert herself back into Dominick's life, trying to repair her relationship with him and their son, and stirring up tension between Marissa and Dominick. In the world of those overdone stories, she'd be the villain, the one who'd come back to disrupt the perfect life the hero and heroine were about to build. And in the end, the story always ended the same—the hero would realize his fiancée was his true love, and the villain would be cast aside, left with nothing. But honestly, Paisley wasn't interested in playing that part. She didn't want to rekindle anything with Dominick. To her, he was nothing more than a stale loaf of bread, long past its expiration date. Seeing him again only made her feel disgusted. "By the way," Emery added, shifting gears as she thought of something else, "did you see your ex-husband today? And what about your ungrateful son?" The mention of her son made Paisley's calm demeanor waver just slightly. Grayson, her little boy—whom she hadn't seen in four years—was a constant ache in her heart. When she left four years ago, Grayson was only three. Now he was seven. She couldn't help but wonder what he would be like now. Before Paisley could dwell on it for too long, a soft, childish voice broke her thoughts. "Mommy." A tiny, soft body rushed into her arms, and Paisley's heart instantly softened. It was Serena Sutton, her youngest, still wet from her bath, her hair damp and fluffy. Serena's chubby little cheeks glistened with droplets of water, her big doe eyes blinking up at Paisley with curiosity and affection. Paisley held her close, feeling the familiar warmth of her daughter against her chest. "Why didn't you dry your hair before coming out? What if you catch a cold?" she scolded gently, her hands already reaching for the towel Maria had handed her to dry Serena's hair. Maria, the ever-smiling nanny who had been with them since Brightmoor, chuckled softly, "Rena heard your voice and just couldn't wait. She missed you so much and ran right out to see you, no matter what." Paisley couldn't help but smile at the thought. She didn't blame Maria—she had known her for years, and Maria had always been nothing but devoted to them both. Moreover, Paisley understood her daughter's personality all too well. Just like her, Serena was incredibly stubborn. Serena, her small face still tucked into her mother's arms, peeked out from under the towel and looked up with wide eyes. "Mommy, I was really good today. Can I not go to kindergarten tomorrow?" The hopeful gleam in her eyes was enough to melt anyone's heart. Paisley's fingers gently ruffled her daughter's soft hair, and as much as she wanted to give in to that pleading gaze, she held firm. "No, sweetheart. You have to go to kindergarten tomorrow." Serena's eyes dimmed, the sparkle fading from her little face. "Okay..." she murmured, her shoulders slumping just a little. Serena had been conceived right before Paisley divorced Dominick four years ago, and like her mother, she carried the surname Sutton. Just as Paisley had nicknamed her son "Sonny" all those years ago, she had given her daughter a name that started with the letter S. There had been no mention of Serena to Dominick. Paisley didn't think it was necessary. Otherwise, it would only stir up old feelings and drag her into a tangled mess she no longer wanted to be a part of. She had severed that connection long ago, and she intended to keep it that way. **** Paisley had enrolled Serena in a prestigious school, a unique institution that combined kindergarten, preschool, primary, and middle school all under one roof. The school boasted strict administration, a solid faculty, and state-of-the-art facilities. It had taken Emery several inquiries, along with a little help from her connections, to get Serena into this school. The kindergarten, preschool, and first-grade and second-grade primary school departments were all located in the same area and shared the same entrance. At the gate, Paisley crouched down, hugging Serena tightly as they said their goodbyes. Today was Serena's first day of kindergarten, and it was also the first time she would be separated from her mother for an extended period. Serena's face was scrunched up, trying to hold back tears, her little lips trembling. It broke Paisley's heart. "Mommy, I'll behave and listen to the teachers. You'll be the first to come pick me up tonight, right?" Serena pouted, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. Paisley's heart shattered at her daughter's words. She wanted nothing more than to scoop Serena up and run away, to keep her close forever, away from this world of school and strangers. But she held back. Serena was already three years old—old enough for kindergarten. Besides, she was exceptionally sharp for her age, and it would be good for her to go to the kindergarten and interact with more children, to learn and grow in that environment. Though Paisley knew it was the right thing, the logical thing, to let Serena go, it didn't make it any easier. The teacher, who had seen countless parents and children go through the same heart-wrenching goodbyes when the kids started kindergarten, didn't rush them. She gave Paisley and Serena the space to say their farewells in their own time. A car slowly rolled up, its engine humming gently as it came to a stop. Inside, Grayson stared blankly ahead, his eyes unfocused as if lost in thought. "Sonny, what are you looking at?" Stella Prescott, a little girl with her hair styled in cute pigtails, leaned in and followed Grayson's gaze. Her eyes widened when she saw Paisley squat down, hold her daughter close and speak softly to her. Paisley's tone was gentle but heavy with the sadness of parting. Stella blinked and asked tentatively, "Sonny, are you thinking about your mommy?" The mention of his mother seemed to hit a nerve. Grayson's face darkened, his expression sharpening into something fierce. His gaze turned cold, almost hostile. "Don't talk about that vile woman. She doesn't deserve to be my mother. I would never, ever, miss her." Stella's eyes widened in surprise, and she was momentarily frightened by Grayson's intensity. She paused for a moment before responding softly, trying to comfort him, "You're right, Sonny. A vile woman like that doesn't deserve to be your mom." She studied Grayson's face, searching for any sign of relief, before continuing, "But don't worry. When Aunt Marissa marries Dominick, she'll be your new mommy. She loves you so much. She'll be your real mommy then." Grayson's face softened a little at her words, though the storm in his eyes hadn't completely cleared. He clung to the thought, finding a small bit of solace in it. 'Yeah, if Marissa could be my mom, that would be great.' The notion swirled in his young mind like a comforting balm, as if the idea of Marissa stepping into the role of his mother could somehow make things better, could fill the void he felt.

Chapter 4 It had taken everything in Paisley to steel herself and leave Serena behind. She rushed to the temporary studio she rented in Harrowfell for work. But as soon as she stepped inside, her assistant, Lucy Green, brought her some bad news with a grim expression. "Mr. Anderson just texted me," Lucy said hesitantly. "The lead role in the new drama has been finalized. They picked Brittany Sullivan." Paisley's brows furrowed sharply, her voice cold and resolute. "Absolutely not. We had an agreement before signing. Brittany Sullivan was never an option." Although casting wasn't within her jurisdiction as the screenwriter, Paisley had made one thing crystal clear from the start—Brittany was not to be involved. It wasn't just about this drama either. In every project Paisley had ever worked on, Brittany had been a hard no, no matter how insignificant the role was. It was an unspoken rule that every production team collaborating with her had agreed to respect. "Get her replaced immediately," Paisley ordered, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. Lucy hesitated, her unease evident as she pulled out her tablet and opened Instagram. "I think it might be too late for that... The production team's already announced it on Instagram." Without a moment's pause, Paisley picked up her phone and dialed the director, Gary Anderson. The first call went straight to voicemail, then the second. On her third attempt, he finally answered, his tone mockingly jovial, "Ms. Vaire, what a surprise to hear from you." Her voice was sharp, every word striking with precision. "Spare me the pleasantries, Mr. Anderson. I don't approve of Brittany being cast in any role for this project. We discussed this and you agreed." On the other end of the line, Gary's guilty chuckle betrayed his unease as he said in a dismissive voice, "Well, yes, we discussed it. But, you know, verbal agreements don't hold much weight in this business." Paisley let out a short, incredulous laugh, her tone biting. "If that's your stance, then don't blame me for what happens next.""Wait, wait, Ms. Vaire. Let's not escalate things," Gary said hastily, his sigh heavy with frustration. "Look, it's not that I wanted this. If I had any say, Brittany wouldn't be anywhere near this project. "But this isn't about creative control—it's about power. I won't stand a chance against them. The investors demanded her as the lead. If I refuse, they pull funding and blacklist me across the industry." "What?" Paisley's breath hitched, her mind racing. She had encountered producers and investors who had tried to influence casting decisions, but never with this level of force. The audacity of it all took her completely by surprise. To think that even a renowned director like Gary could be swayed and threatened with his career to the point of having to comply was almost laughable. And what shocked her even more was the fact that she knew the investors in this project. None of them had the kind of power to make such sweeping decisions. "Which investor?" Paisley asked, her voice calm but her mind already spinning, strategizing. She thought she might be able to go straight to the source, have a word with whoever had made this call. She had the connections, after all. Gary's tone was deflated, as if he knew he was powerless in the face of it all. "It's not just one. All of the investors are insisting on Brittany as the lead." Paisley's heart sank, and a cold knot of tension formed in her chest. The weight of the situation hit her hard. She could feel her blood pressure rising, her grip tightening on the phone. Gary sighed again, his voice heavy with resignation, "Ms. Vaire, I'm sure you've figured it out by now. Brittany has someone powerful backing her—someone so influential that all the investors are simply following this mysterious figure's orders. Please, just take pity on me and let it go this time." Paisley didn't press Gary further. She understood that this was out of his hands now, no longer a matter he could control. "What's the deal with Brittany anyway?" Lucy asked, her confusion plain. "How could someone like her possibly know such a powerful figure?" Brittany was nothing more than a D-list actress, the kind who barely scraped by starring in obscure soap operas. She had no business landing a lead role in a major production like this one. Paisley frowned in thought. The Sullivan family she knew certainly didn't wield that kind of influence. "Are we just going to let this slide? Really let Brittany take the lead role?" Lucy asked, unwilling to accept the situation. Paisley's scripts were always top-notch, and the actors chosen for her leads were usually either A-list superstars or brilliant character actors. The idea that someone as insignificant as Brittany could land such a prestigious role felt like a slap in the face. Lucy thought in frustration, 'She's gonna ruin everything.' "Absolutely not," Paisley said firmly. She refused to let it end like this, but for now, she couldn't think of a way around it. After all, she couldn't exactly let Gary get blacklisted from the entire industry. Lucy hesitated before voicing a question that had nagged at her for a while. "Speaking of Brittany... why do you dislike her so much? I get that she's not lead material, but she's harmless enough for minor roles. Yet you won't even allow that. Why?" Paisley sank onto the sofa, her expression weary. "Brittany's adoptive parents are my biological parents." Lucy's eyes went wide with shock. "Wait... are you saying—she's a fake heiress?" A bitter smile tugged at Paisley's lips. She hated how her life seemed ripped straight from the pages of some tired soap opera, but that was the truth. As a child, she had gone missing in an accident. By the time she was reunited with the Sullivan family, fifteen years had passed. In those years, Brittany had firmly established herself as her adoptive parents' beloved daughter, living under their roof and in their hearts for fourteen years. Much like every cliché about swapped or lost daughters, Paisley's return wasn't met with joy but with hostility. The family had grown so attached to Brittany that they wished Paisley had never come back at all. After one too many heated confrontations, Paisley cut ties with them completely. It was during that turbulent time that she met Dominick. He'd promised to give her the family she'd always longed for. ***** Meanwhile, back at Sullivan Villa, Brittany sprawled on the plush couch in the living room, her phone in hand. She was scrolling through Instagram, grinning ear to ear as she came across the production team's official announcement. She quickly hit the like button, shared the post, and added a gleeful comment. "Mom, it's official. I'm finally going to star in this drama. Once it airs, I'll be famous for sure," Brittany chirped, snuggling into the arms of Christina Sullivan, who sat beside her. Christina wrapped an arm around Brittany, her face alight with pride and satisfaction. "This is wonderful news, sweetheart." Brittany's lips curled into a sly smirk as she toyed with her phone. Her tone was dripping with triumph, her eyes gleaming as she reveled in her victory. "I don't know what Nion Vaire's problem is. "She's always had it out for me. Every single one of her projects? Not even a bit part. But guess what? None of that matters now. I'm still the one who landed the lead." Christina gently stroked Brittany's silky hair, her smile deepening with satisfaction. "Speaking of which, you should really thank Mr. Vanderbilt for this role. I told you, he's always been so generous to our family. The moment you asked him for help, I knew he'd come through." At the mention of the dashing and poised Dominick, a delicate blush spread across Brittany's cheeks, softening her voice to a coy murmur. "Mr. Vanderbilt has indeed been very kind to me." Three months ago, a man claiming to be Dominick's assistant had approached Brittany, inquiring about her connection to the Sullivan family. He had handed her a business card and assured her that she could reach out if she ever needed assistance. Since then, Dominick's influence had worked wonders for Brittany. Opportunities that once seemed out of reach were suddenly handed to her on a silver platter. Even the Sullivan family's business ventures had benefited significantly, riding the coattails of Dominick's power and connections. "Such a pity he's about to get married," Christina sighed, her eyes lingering on her daughter's beautiful, doll-like face. To her, Brittany was leagues above Dominick's fiancée in every way. Christina thought to herself, 'Brittany's so much better than her. If only things were different. Too bad he's marrying someone else.' Brittany, however, waved the concern away with a nonchalant flick of her hand. "Mom, you know how those marriages in high society work. Once the vows are said, they go their separate ways and live their own lives with their lovers. "It's nothing unusual. As long as Mr. Vanderbilt treats me well, I don't care about a title. Besides, those tabloids? Half of them are probably made up anyway. Mr. Vanderbilt hasn't even publicly confirmed anything." "You're right," Christina agreed after a pause, nodding thoughtfully. "If he didn't have feelings for you, why would he go out of his way to help you—and our family, no less?" Still, a trace of regret lingered in her tone. "But it's not the same as having it official." "Speaking of official..." Brittany straightened up, her curiosity piqued. "Mr. Vanderbilt has a son, doesn't he? Born from his ex-wife? I honestly can't imagine what kind of woman would walk away from such an exceptional man like him. She's probably somewhere sobbing over her regret right now." Christina let out a sharp laugh. "Some people just aren't cut out for the good life. Look at that wretch, Paisley. Always scheming, always ungrateful. It's no wonder she's spent her life destitute and alone. She deserves it." At the mention of Paisley, Brittany's expression faltered briefly, an almost imperceptible shadow crossing her face. "Mom, don't hold onto your anger toward Paisley. It's my fault. I took her place. "Back then, I was young and foolish, and I made her mad. That's why she left the family and hasn't come back in all these years—""Don't ruin a good day by bringing her up," Christina cut in, clasping Brittany's hand with affectionate reassurance. "One daughter is more than enough for me. You've done us proud, and that's all that matters." Changing the subject, Christina leaned in closer. "By the way, since Mr. Vanderbilt helped you so much this time, you really should thank him properly. Better yet, invite him over for dinner. It'd be nice to have a meal together."

Chapter 5 In the CEO's office at Vanderbilt Group, the atmosphere was thick, the air heavy with tension. The pressure hung like a storm cloud, threatening to burst at any moment. Dominick, standing by his desk, slammed a thick stack of papers onto the floor with an almost violent force. His secretary, visibly shrinking from the anger emanating from him, quickly bent to pick up the scattered papers, her hands trembling slightly as she did so. "I'll go speak to Mr. Parker right away and have his team redo it..." she stammered, not daring to linger any longer. The moment she straightened, she bolted from the room, her footsteps hurried and frantic. Julian Hale, Dominick's assistant, closed the office door behind the secretary with a quiet click, his eyes lingering on the tall, imposing figure of Dominick standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows. Dominick's posture was rigid, his brow furrowed in annoyance, and the weight of his frustration seemed to settle in the room like a dense fog. Julian sighed, leaning against the doorframe, "Mr. Vanderbilt," he began with a knowing look, "this is the sixteenth proposal you've thrown away today. Sixteen. Not one of them has caught your eye?" Dominick tugged irritably at his tie, his expression darkening. "What's your point?" His voice was sharp, but Julian wasn't intimidated. Julian's eyes flickered briefly before he spoke again, his voice lowering slightly, "Is it her return that is affecting you?""Paisley has no effect on me," Dominick snapped, his tone a little too quick, too defensive. Julian's lips quirked slightly as he took a slow step forward, unfazed. "I didn't say it was Paisley," he murmured. Dominick froze for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he caught the glint of amusement—or perhaps something deeper—in Julian's gaze. After a beat of silence, Dominick turned away, his frustration boiling over as he yanked the tie from around his neck and tossed it carelessly aside. "You got something to say, or you just want to keep playing games?" Julian straightened, his demeanor becoming more businesslike. "Actually, I do have something to say," he said, his voice lower now, tinged with a certain level of authority. "I've followed your orders. I've applied pressure on the investors. Ms. Sullivan is officially the lead for that series." Dominick's expression shifted, his usual icy demeanor slipping back into place. He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, signaling his acceptance of the news. "Okay," he said flatly, sitting back down at his desk, the weight of the conversation easing as his attention turned back to the documents in front of him. His gaze, however, was distant, clouded with thoughts that no one could read. Julian had already turned to leave, but after a brief pause, he couldn't help himself. He turned back and spoke with a slightly more probing tone, "Dom, the way you've been looking out for the Sullivan family... that's because of Paisley, isn't it?" It wasn't until recently that Julian had learned the Sullivans were Paisley's real family—something he hadn't realized before. But now, it seemed obvious. Dominick's eyes narrowed, his expression hardening as he swiftly dismissed the notion. "You're overthinking it," he said, his voice cold and distant. "Sullivan Group is a business partner of Vanderbilt Group." Julian wasn't so easily fooled. "Dom, no matter what your reasons are for going out of your way to look after the Sullivan family, one thing is clear—you and Paisley are divorced. "She made her choice, walked away without a second thought, even abandoning your son. Now she's back, and who knows what her game is?" Julian, who had been friends with Dominick since high school, knew him inside and out and had followed him every step of the way. The competition to inherit the Vanderbilt family legacy had been fierce, and the standards were impossibly high. Dominick had risen above them all. He'd started his first business in high school, expanding it rapidly throughout college, and by his sophomore year, he'd already taken his company overseas. It was inevitable that Dominick would inherit Vanderbilt Group and become the head of his family. Julian, loyal as ever, had entered the company alongside him, serving as his right-hand man. Over the years, their bond had deepened, transcending the typical employer-employee relationship. They were more like brothers—united by shared history, loyalty, and ambition. Julian, ever the persistent one, continued, "And Marissa is a good girl. Over the years, she's really—" "Julian." Dominick's voice cut through the air like a knife, sharper than usual. He turned abruptly, his eyes narrowing with a hint of annoyance. "I've told you already. There's nothing going on between me and Marissa. I see her as a sister, just like Kayla." With that, he tossed his phone toward Julian, the device skidding across the desk. On the screen, the latest tabloid headline splashed in bold letters about Dominick and Marissa's relationship scandal. Dominick's expression darkened even further, his tone frigid. "What is all this nonsense? Contact the PR department, and have them clean this up." His voice was thick with disdain, like he couldn't even be bothered to engage with the garbage the press was feeding the public. ***** The first day of kindergarten was supposed to be a milestone, a step toward growing up. But for little Serena, it felt more like a punishment. She had spent her entire life in the safety of Paisley's arms, and now, for the first time, she was expected to spend an entire day without her mother or Maria. Serena's emotions were a tangled mess. She wanted to cry. The lump in her throat was hard to swallow, but Paisley's words echoed in her mind, "You're a big girl now, Serena. Big girls don't cry. If you do, the other kids will laugh." Serena tried to be strong and hold back the tears, just like Paisley had taught her. But it was so hard. The absence of her mother and Maria made everything feel cold and empty, and she missed them. The other kids seemed confident, laughing and playing while she just sat there, feeling out of place. She didn't want to play. She didn't want to do anything but go home and curl up next to her mom. But just as the tears began to well up again, something shifted in Serena's gaze. Her big doe eyes suddenly locked onto a spot where the older children from the elementary section were playing. "My brother..." Serena whispered, her voice barely audible but filled with wonder and longing. She didn't have to think about it—her heart just knew. ***** In the first-grade PE class, Grayson was happily running around the playground, kicking the ball with carefree energy, when suddenly he felt someone tug at the back of his shirt. He turned sharply, irritated, ready to snap at whoever dared disturb him. But what he saw made him pause. A little girl, her eyes wide and shimmering with innocent excitement, stood there, beaming up at him. "Who are you? What are you doing grabbing my shirt?" Grayson's voice was sharp, a little defensive. He wasn't one for playing with girls, and the only exception was Marissa's niece, Stella—but that was only because he'd promised Marissa he'd look out for her. But there was something strange about this cheeky little girl in front of him. Despite his usual dislike for distractions, she didn't bother him that much. "I'm your little sister, Rena," Serena said, her voice bubbling with excitement as she looked at him like she had just met her long-lost hero. "Sister?" Grayson's brow furrowed, confusion flooding his thoughts. "I'm not your brother. You've got the wrong guy." He scratched his head, unsure of what was going on. Serena wasn't fazed. "I know who you are and what you look like. You're my brother. I'm sure of it," she smiled, the same bright, unwavering smile that seemed to shine through even her nervousness. Serena remembered the portrait in Paisley's art studio—the one that showed a young boy who looked exactly like him. She had asked Paisley who it was, and Paisley had told her that it was Serena's big brother. She remembered it clearly. Sure, Grayson looked a little older than the picture, but his features hadn't changed. She could tell, without a doubt, this was him. "You are my brother," Serena said again, her voice full of confidence. Grayson studied her closely, his gaze softening as he tried to make sense of this strange little girl who seemed so certain. There was no doubt that he had never met her. Before he could say anything more, a voice interrupted them, "Sonny, what are you doing?" Stella approached them, her eyes narrowing in suspicion as she saw Grayson talking to a little girl from the kindergarten. "Sonny? Who is this kid? Do you know her?" Stella asked in a voice of inexplicable fear. Looking at Serena, she couldn't help but step closer to Grayson, her small hand instinctively reaching for his. Grayson shook his head, his brows drawn together in confusion and irritation. "I don't know her. She says I'm her brother, but I have no idea who she is." Stella, who had been watching the scene unfold with a growing sense of territorial protectiveness, stepped forward. Her voice was loud enough for everyone nearby to hear. "You can't just go around calling random people your brother. I'm Sonny's best friend and you're just a nobody." Serena, her cheeks flushed with the heat of frustration, glared at Stella. Her little chest heaved as she stomped her foot and shouted, "But I'm his sister." She was stubborn and wouldn't back down. She also wanted to hold hands with Grayson and reached her tiny hand toward him, her fingers trembling slightly, her eyes locked onto his as if she wanted him to believe her. "Hold my hand." And then, something inexplicable happened. Grayson, for reasons he couldn't explain, found himself reaching out to her, unable to say no to her. His hand closed around hers without hesitation, as if something in him softened at the sight of her innocent determination. But the moment was short-lived. With a sharp smack, Stella slapped Serena's outstretched hand away, her face twisted with irritation. "Go away, you bad little girl, trying to call him your brother." Serena winced, her hand recoiling, stinging with the force of Stella's slap. She let out a small cry, holding the back of her hand to her chest, the hurt from both the slap and the harsh words sinking deep. Stella huffed, her tone dripping with disdain, "Sonny, let's go back to the classroom. Don't pay attention to this brat. Aunt Marissa always says there are bad kids at school who try to get close to us for no good reason. "She just came here, calling you her brother right away? She has ulterior motives, for sure." Grayson's heart sank. It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. He knew firsthand how some families, especially wealthy ones, tried to attach themselves to the Vanderbilt name. If they couldn't reach Dominick, they'd try to get to Grayson, seeing him as the next best thing. The most common method they employed was sending their kids to the same school, hoping to get close to him and, through him, to Dominick. And, more often than not, it was the girls who were pushed forward. The idea of childhood sweethearts—romanticized, idealized—made it a common strategy to build alliances. At first, Grayson believed these kids genuinely wanted to be his friends, but over time, he saw through the facade. He realized they were only there because their parents pushed them to be. The more this happened, the more Grayson grew disillusioned. He hated all the fake smiles and forced kindness, especially from girls who thought that being around him would bring them closer to his family's wealth and power. After Stella's warning, Grayson turned back to Serena, his expression hardening. His eyes, once neutral, now held an unmistakable coldness—guarded, suspicious, even a little disgusted. "I'm not your brother. Don't come near me again." The words were sharp and final, leaving no room for argument. Without another glance, he turned and grabbed Stella's hand, leading her back toward the classroom, his back straight and unyielding. Serena stood frozen, her small body trembling with shock and hurt. Her eyes were wide, the sting of rejection raw and bitter in her chest. She blinked rapidly, but it was too late—her tears were already spilling over, the weight of his words sinking in.

Chapter 6 The Golden Dome was the crown jewel of Harrowfell's fine dining scene—a restaurant where understated luxury met impeccable taste. Every corner radiated elegance, from the soft, golden lighting to the discreet hum of classical music. Inside one of the private rooms, Gary raised his glass, his expression brimming with guilt. "Ms. Vaire, I owe you an apology regarding the lead actress role. I promised you but couldn't deliver. I'm deeply sorry." Paisley knew Gary well enough. This wasn't their first collaboration, and she understood his character. To Gary, the sanctity of art outweighed everything. If it hadn't been unavoidable, he would never have agreed to let Brittany into the project. "Mr. Anderson, there's no need for apologies. I understand your hands were tied. It's not your fault," Paisley replied calmly, her tone devoid of blame. After all, even the most resolute director couldn't stand firm under the crushing weight of capital and influence. Gary sighed with relief, but his guilt lingered. Without waiting for a response, he downed another glass of wine, the flush of alcohol creeping across his face. "Ms. Vaire, thank you for your understanding," he murmured, almost to himself. In the industry, Paisley worked under the pseudonym Nion Vaire—a name that had garnered respect for her compelling scripts. Gary had always admired her and hoped to collaborate with her again. His regret over breaking their agreement gnawed at him, and it showed in the way he nervously nursed his drink. As a man in his fifties with a low tolerance for alcohol, Gary quickly began showing the telltale signs of intoxication. His face turned beet red, and his words grew slightly slurred. "Ms. Vaire, I swear to you, I'll give this my all. I won't let your work be tarnished." Paisley offered him a faint, polite smile, but her thoughts remained elsewhere. This situation had long outgrown Gary's control. "Mr. Anderson, do you have any idea who's behind Brittany's sudden rise?" she asked after a pause. Her voice was calm but deliberate, her sharp intuition zeroing in on the real key—the mysterious figure behind Brittany. Gary's face scrunched with uncertainty. "I don't know," he admitted as he shook his head. Paisley wasn't surprised. She figured that whoever was backing Brittany was someone powerful enough to keep their involvement concealed. They didn't step into the spotlight—they merely issued orders and had others execute their will. Paisley nodded slightly, choosing not to press further. The conversation was momentarily interrupted as the door slid open, revealing a waiter carrying artfully plated dishes. As the door moved, a figure passed outside, briefly glancing into the room. Elsewhere, Marissa stepped into another private room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Dominick was already there, lounging with an air of unbothered elegance. His tall frame was angled toward the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glimmering faintly beyond the glass. One long, slender finger tapped idly against the table, a rhythm that betrayed his distracted mind. Marissa snapped out of her daze. Her lips curved into a smile as she approached, her voice warm and slightly playful. "Sorry to keep you waiting." Interrupted, Dominick glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. "I haven't been waiting long," he replied, his tone distant, almost detached. Marissa slid into the chair across from him, motioning for a waiter to bring the menu. "Anything you'd like to eat? Or any preferences I should know about?" she asked with a practiced ease, her smile remaining bright and unwavering. Dominick, clearly absent-minded, didn't immediately respond. His gaze drifted for a few moments as if her question had only just registered. "Anything's fine," he said eventually, his voice indifferent. If Marissa was bothered by his lack of enthusiasm, she didn't show it. Her smile only seemed to brighten. "Alright then, I'll take care of it," she said cheerfully. "Sure," Dominick replied with a slight nod, his attention already slipping back to whatever thoughts had occupied him before she arrived. After placing their orders, Marissa handed the menu back to the waiter. Only when the door closed behind him did she allow herself a playful sigh. "Honestly, Kayla's something else. She's the one inviting us and the one bailing on us.""It's fine. Without her, it's quieter," Dominick remarked calmly, his tone betraying no annoyance. Kayla Vanderbilt, Dominick's younger sister, had been coddled her entire life, which made her a spoiled, headstrong woman with little sense of boundaries and a penchant for making noise wherever she went. Marissa chuckled softly, covering her mouth in a polished manner, "Careful, Dom. If she hears that, she'll throw a tantrum." She leaned in slightly, her tone casual, but her sharp eyes carefully studied Dominick's expression, trying to catch any flicker of reaction. "By the way, Dom, have you seen the entertainment headlines these past few days?" A subtle shift crossed Dominick's features, a flicker of something unreadable. "Yes, I've seen them.""And?" Marissa prodded gently, clearly fishing for his reaction. "You don't need to concern yourself with that gossip. I've already instructed Julian to handle it. By now, it should be scrubbed clean," Dominick replied, lifting his glass of sparkling water and sipping it with unhurried grace. Marissa's fingers twitched ever so slightly, though her expression remained composed. She picked up her phone and opened a few apps, only to confirm his words. The scandalous stories about her and Dominick had indeed vanished without a trace. Her smile faltered momentarily but quickly returned. "It doesn't bother me. As long as it doesn't cause you any trouble, that's what matters." Dominick's tone stayed even, though there was a faint undertone of dismissal and rejection. "I've already spoken to the PR team. Such incidents won't happen again." Marissa's sharp instincts picked up on the subtle rebuff hidden in his words. Her smile stiffened at the edges, but she masked it well. A quiet unease settled over the private room, the atmosphere growing heavy. It was a relief when the waiter knocked and entered with their meals, breaking the silence. Marissa glanced up at the intrusion, and as the waiter set down the plates, she spoke in a casual, almost offhand manner, "Oh, that reminds me. I think I saw Ms. Sutton earlier." Dominick's face remained as composed as ever, betraying no reaction. Marissa observed him closely before continuing, her tone light and conversational. "She seems to have a new boyfriend. This one is a bit older—unlike that young guy picking her up from the hospital last time." She paused to delicately cut into her steak, savoring a bite before adding, "Well, it makes sense. A woman as beautiful as Ms. Sutton is bound to have men vying for her attention. It's only natural for her to have a few admirers.""I'm going to the restroom. Take your time," Dominick said abruptly, rising from his seat. His face remained impassive, offering no clues to his thoughts as he left the room. The moment the door closed behind him, Marissa's elegant facade crumbled. She put down her knife and fork, her smile fading into a blank stare. Any trace of her earlier nonchalance was gone, replaced by a shadowed intensity in her eyes. She signaled the waiter. "Pack me a dessert to go," she ordered, her tone clipped yet restrained. ***** Gary, like many middle-aged men, had a predictable flaw. Once the alcohol kicked in, he became a relentless talker. His gripes were typical, a litany of woes about how the entertainment industry had become a playground for capitalists, making it increasingly difficult to create good films. He lamented having to grovel before investors at his age, complained about younger actors who couldn't handle hard work, and grumbled about older ones who rested on their laurels. Audiences, he said, were impossibly picky these days, ready to pounce on even the tiniest mistake. "Mr. Anderson, Lucy's been in the restroom for ages. I'd better check on her to make sure everything is okay," Paisley said, cutting him off as politely as she could. Her head was pounding from his drunken monologue, and she desperately needed an excuse to escape. As soon as she stepped out of the private room, however, she found herself locking eyes with someone she hadn't expected to see—Dominick. Her breath caught. His soulful, fathomless gaze still carried that magnetic pull, the same one that could unravel her composure in a heartbeat. No matter how much time passed, Dominick remained the kind of man whose mere presence could command her full attention, leaving her teetering on the edge of her self-control. Behind her, Gary's drunken voice bellowed through the door, loud and unfiltered, "Don't take too long. I've got so much more to say to you. I'll wait for you to come back. You're the only one who gets me." The timing couldn't have been worse. With that kind of line hanging in the air, anyone would misinterpret the situation. Dominick's lips curled into a cold, disdainful smirk. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept over Paisley like she was something unpleasant stuck to his shoe. "So this is what you've sunk to?" he sneered with contempt. "Not picky at all, are you? Is money really that important to you?" Paisley stiffened, her fists clenching at her sides. This wasn't the time or place for an argument—too many people were milling about. Deciding it was better to avoid the confrontation, she turned to leave, but before she could take a step, Dominick's hand shot out, grabbing her arm. Before she could protest, she found herself yanked forward, colliding with his solid chest. The impact was sharp enough to sting her nose, leaving her momentarily dazed by the mixture of pain and his intoxicating scent, a mix of cedarwood and something unmistakably Dominick. As he leaned in, his breath brushed against her ear, his voice filled with disdain and venom. "How much does it pay to be an old man's sugar baby? 200 grand? 300 grand?" His tone was laced with scorn, every word designed to sting. Paisley's voice was icy. "Let go of me, Dominick. And stop projecting your filthy thoughts onto me.""Filthy thoughts?" he shot back, his grip tightening on her shoulders. A mocking glint flickered in his eyes, cutting through her like a blade. "Why don't we talk about your filthy actions? "If it's money you want, just ask. Beg me properly, and who knows—I might even be more generous." The slap came swiftly, her hand connecting with his cheek in a sharp, resounding crack that seemed to echo in the corridor. "What the hell is wrong with you, Dominick?" she spat, her voice trembling with a mix of rage and disbelief.

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You were married to Dominick Vanderbilt—the billionaire who treated you like a ghost in your own home. Four years ago, you walked out on your wedding day, leaving behind a divorce agreement and a son who called you a witch. You vanished without a trace.

Now, you're back in Harrowfell. Your screenplay is being filmed here, and your daughter starts kindergarten at the same elite school as your son.

Tonight, you're at The Golden Dome for dinner with director Gary Anderson. He’s drunk, rambling about investors and casting drama. You step into the hallway to escape the noise—only to collide with the one person you swore you’d never face again.

Dominick stands before you, taller, sharper, his eyes like storm clouds. He grabs your arm, pulling you close. 'So this is what you've sunk to?' he sneers. 'An old man's sugar baby?'

You slap him. The sound echoes down the hall.

'What the hell is wrong with you?' you hiss.

He doesn’t let go. His voice drops, raw and dangerous. 'You left me, Paisley. You left our son. And now you're back, playing the victim?'

Before you can respond, a waiter rushes past, nearly dropping a dessert box. Inside, you catch a glimpse of a note: 'For Ms. Sutton. From Mr. Vanderbilt.'

Your pulse spikes. This isn’t coincidence. He’s been watching you.

He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. 'You think you’re untouchable. But you’re not. I know where you live. I know your schedule. I know about the girl.'

Your blood runs cold.

'Why are you really back?' he whispers.

You pull away, your voice steady. 'To live my life. Something you never let me do.'

He smirks. 'Then let’s see how long you last.'

Your phone buzzes. A message from Emery: 'Serena’s missing. She ran into the school looking for her brother.'