These flowers are worth more than your entire family

The silence in the grand ballroom grew so dense that the ticking of a grandfather clock in the foyer sounded like a series of heavy hammer blows.

Beatrice Sterling remained on her knees, her hands still resting on the little girl’s shoulders. The warmth had completely drained from her face, replaced by a dark, terrifying storm. She slowly turned her head, her obsidian eyes fixing entirely on Evelyn Vance.

"Evelyn," Beatrice said. Her voice was not raised. It was quiet, dead, and heavy as an iron anchor. "Come here."

Evelyn swallowed hard, her manicured fingers clawing nervously at the emerald fabric of her dress. She forced an unconvincing, brittle laugh, attempting to rally her social armor. "Mother Sterling, you cannot possibly believe the ramblings of a street child. She’s been coached. Someone put her up to this to ruin our family’s reputation—"

"I said, come here," Beatrice repeated, standing up with surprising agility for her seventy-five years. She didn't use her cane. She walked toward her daughter-in-law with slow, measured strides, her gaze never breaking contact.

Evelyn had nowhere to run. Julian Vance, her husband and Beatrice’s eldest son, stood frozen a few feet away, entirely paralyzed by the sudden collapse of his wife's carefully constructed world. He knew his mother too well; he knew that look in Beatrice's eyes meant someone was about to be utterly destroyed.

Beatrice stopped two inches from Evelyn.

"Twenty-five years ago," Beatrice said, her voice dropping into a lethal whisper, "my daughter, Chloe, was driven out of this house. You told me she packed her bags in the middle of the night and fled because she was ashamed of her pregnancy out of wedlock. You showed me a letter—supposedly in her handwriting—stating she was moving to Europe and never wanted to see me again."

Evelyn’s lower lip trembled. "She... she did. You saw the letter."

"The letter was typed on a machine we hadn't used in a decade, and the signature was forged with a shaky hand," Beatrice stated, her voice hardening. "I was blind with grief and pride, Evelyn. I let you handle the estate affairs because I trusted your cold, calculated efficiency."

Beatrice reached out with lightning speed. Her hand clamped around Evelyn’s wrist, gripping her so tightly that the emerald bracelets dug painfully into her skin.

"Where is my daughter?" Beatrice demanded.

"I don't know!" Evelyn shrieked, tears of genuine panic springing to her eyes. "She left! She went to Chicago, or Boston, or—I don't know where she went!"

"Mother," Julian finally intervened, stepping forward with his hands raised. "Please, let's not make a spectacle of this in front of the entire city. We can take this into the study, we can investigate—"

"Quiet, Julian!" Beatrice snapped, turning her furious gaze on her son. "You were too busy counting your inheritance and playing golf to notice that your own sister was erased from this family. And you," she turned back to Evelyn, "you had her thrown out into the winter snow while I was away at a summit in Geneva."

The little girl, sensing the danger, quietly walked over and tugged on Beatrice’s velvet skirt. Beatrice instantly softened, looking down at her granddaughter. She scooped the child into her arms, holding her close against her chest.

"What is your name, sweetheart?" Beatrice asked softly.

"Maya," the girl whispered. "Mommy’s name is Chloe."

Hearing her lost daughter's name spoken aloud in the ballroom caused Beatrice’s eyes to fill with fresh tears. "Chloe... my little bird." She looked back at Evelyn, pure venom returning to her voice. "Where is she living, Evelyn? Give me the address right now, or I swear to you, I will strip Julian of his CEO title, disinherit both of you, and have you spending the rest of your natural days in a federal penitentiary for fraud and unlawful abandonment."

Evelyn staggered backward, hitting a marble pillar. The threat was not an empty one; Beatrice Sterling held absolute control over the family trust and the board of directors. A single word from her, and Julian and Evelyn would be penniless overnight.

"She... she lives in the industrial district," Evelyn sobbed, her aristocratic composure completely shattered. "On Maple Street. Number 412, above the auto repair shop. She works the night shift at the commercial laundry."

Beatrice didn't waste another second. She clutched Maya tightly against her chest and turned toward the private elevator at the back of the hall.

"Thomas!" Beatrice called out to her head of security.