Chapter 2
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Arthur Carter stood beside me holding my ruined sketch.
Vanessa stared at him with her mouth slightly open.
The room that had been filled with laughter was now so quiet I could hear the fountain near the glass entrance.
Then Vanessa spoke.
"Your granddaughter?"
Her voice cracked.
Arthur looked directly at her.
"That is what I said."
Vanessa shook her head.
"There must be a misunderstanding."
I slowly stood.
My knees hurt.
One of my palms was scraped.
My scalp still burned where she'd pulled my braid.
Arthur noticed my hand.
His expression hardened.
"Did someone hurt you?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came out.
I hadn't spoken to my grandfather in fifteen years.
I'd spent those years believing he hated my father.
And because I was my father's daughter, I assumed he hated me too.
Now he was looking at me with genuine concern.
Vanessa forced a laugh.
"Mr. Carter, she's exaggerating."
Arthur turned.
"I didn't ask you."
Her smile disappeared.
One of the security officers stepped forward.
"Sir, would you like us to remove the guest?"
Arthur looked at my scattered drawings.
Then at the people watching.
"First, preserve the security footage. Nobody deletes anything."
Vanessa's eyes widened.
I felt my stomach tighten.
There were cameras everywhere.
Above the entrance.
Beside the elevators.
Near the decorative columns.
For the first time, I realized the humiliation might have been recorded.
Vanessa stepped forward.
"Mr. Carter, surely we can handle this privately."
Arthur's voice was cold.
"You made it public."
A murmur spread through the guests.
The woman in green quietly moved away.
The woman in orange followed.
Vanessa looked around, searching for someone to support her.
Nobody moved.
Arthur turned back toward me.
"Maya, sweetheart, are you injured?"
The word sweetheart nearly broke me.
Dad used to call me that.
Not in the fake, sugary voice Vanessa had used.
In the gentle way people speak when they truly care.
I swallowed.
"My hand hurts."
Arthur immediately signaled to one of his staff.
"Please get our medical attendant."
Then he removed a clean handkerchief from his jacket pocket.
He offered it to me.
I took it with trembling fingers.
"Thank you."
His eyes filled.
"You shouldn't be thanking me."
I stared at him.
He looked away for a moment.
Then whispered, "I should have been here."
I didn't understand.
Before I could ask, Vanessa raised her voice.
"This girl came here without permission!"
I turned sharply.
"That's not true."
Vanessa pointed at me.
"She was trying to push her drawings onto important guests."
My cheeks burned.
"I was invited."
She laughed.
"By whom?"
I reached into my portfolio.
My invitation was tucked inside a plastic sleeve.
Fortunately, the sleeve had protected it from the spilled drink.
I handed it to Arthur.
He read the printed card.
Then looked at Vanessa.
"Her application was approved by our emerging designer committee."
Vanessa frowned.
"That doesn't mean she belongs in the VIP area."
Arthur looked around the room.
"This entire event exists to support emerging designers."
His voice grew sharper.
"She belongs here more than someone who attacks an invited participant."
Several guests lowered their eyes.
I felt tears rising again.
But this time, they weren't only tears of humiliation.
Someone had finally said I belonged.
Arthur turned toward his security chief.
"Escort Ms. Whitmore to a private waiting room. Ask her to remain available while we document what happened."
Vanessa gasped.
"You can't do this!"
Arthur's expression didn't change.
"This is my event."
She looked at me.
Her face twisted with anger.
"You little liar."
I stepped backward.
Arthur immediately moved between us.
"Enough."
Security guided Vanessa away.
She continued protesting until the elevator doors closed.
The crowd began whispering.
I wanted to disappear.
Arthur seemed to understand.
He asked the event coordinator to clear the immediate area and arrange a quiet room.
Then he helped me gather my sketches.
That shocked me almost as much as his arrival.
A billionaire in a white suit kneeling beside me on a marble floor.
Picking up stained drawings.
Carefully placing them inside a broken portfolio.
"Sir, you don't have to do that."
He looked at me.
"Please don't call me sir."
I swallowed.
"What should I call you?"
His eyes filled.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he whispered, "Whatever feels comfortable."
I looked down.
I couldn't call him Grandpa.
Not yet.
He had disappeared from my life when I was eight.
Dad never spoke about him unless I asked.
And whenever I asked why we never visited, Dad's expression changed.
"He made his choice, baby."
That was all he would say.
I thought about those words as Arthur carefully lifted my ruined blue-gown sketch.
He studied it again.
"This design is extraordinary."
I laughed bitterly.
"It's destroyed."
He shook his head.
"The paper is damaged. The idea isn't."
My throat tightened.
Dad used to say things like that.
Arthur noticed my expression.
"What is it?"
I looked away.
"Nothing."
He didn't press.
Instead, he guided me toward a quiet lounge overlooking Atlanta.
A medical attendant cleaned my scraped palm.
I sat on a cream-colored couch while Arthur waited nearby.
When the attendant finished, he thanked her.
Then he turned toward me.
"Maya, may I ask you something?"
I nodded.
"How is your father?"
My entire body went cold.
He didn't know.
I stared at him.
"What?"
Arthur's expression became uncertain.
"Daniel. Is he well?"
I felt my throat close.
My father had been dead for two years.
My grandfather didn't even know.
I tried to answer.
But the words wouldn't come.
Arthur leaned forward.
"Maya?"
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
"My dad died."
His face changed.
For several seconds, he simply stared at me.
Then his lips parted.
"No."
I nodded.
"Two years ago."
He slowly lowered himself into the chair opposite mine.
His hands began trembling.
"Daniel is gone?"
I covered my mouth.
"Yes."
Arthur closed his eyes.
A broken sound escaped his throat.
I watched a powerful man who had just silenced an entire ballroom begin to cry.
He whispered my father's name.
Again.
And again.
Then he looked at me.
"Why didn't anyone tell me?"
I didn't have an answer.
Because according to everything Dad believed, Arthur had stopped caring about us fifteen years earlier.
And suddenly, I wondered whether the story I'd grown up with was missing something important.
Arthur reached into his jacket.
He pulled out an old photograph.
It showed a younger version of him standing beside my father.
Dad was smiling.
Arthur had one arm around his shoulders.
On the back was a handwritten date.
The day before my eighth birthday.
I stared at the photograph.
Arthur's voice trembled.
"I've carried this for fifteen years."
Then he whispered something I would never forget.
"Maya, I've been trying to find you and Daniel for all that time."
I stopped breathing.
Because that was impossible.
May you like
Dad had always told me that his father didn't want us.
And now I was beginning to wonder who had been lying.
