"Click","click", Sandra high heels echoed through the hall.
The sound cut through the grand ballroom like a knife, sharp enough to silence laughter for a moment before the violins swelled again. Perfume and champagne still lingered in the air, but all Sandra could see was him—George.
"Heyyy, how are you?" Sandra's face lit with a smile warm enough to chase away the London cold. She stretched her hand forward, delicate and eager.
"Good." George's voice was flat, clipped. He took her hand, shook it once, and let go as if it burned.
Sandra pouted playfully. "Ohhh, that's not how you reply to a damsel." A grin curled her lips.
"I'm Sandra. Sandra Dow. What about you?"
"George." His tone was the same—curt, cold.
"Awnn!" she teased, leaning closer. "George. I like your name."
"Thank you." He locked eyes with her for the briefest moment before snapping his gaze away, retreating into himself.
Too close, he thought. Don't let her in. Not here, not now. Not when everything depends on silence.
Sandra tilted her head, studying him. She wasn't used to boys brushing her off, especially not dressed in a suit that outshone the richest of them all. Something about him was… different. Not the typical polished heir of London's elite, but something raw, untamed, dangerous even. And Sandra, against all reason, found herself drawn to it.
Before she could press him further, a sharp metallic kin, kin echoed again. A spoon striking glass.
The violins died mid-note. Conversations stuttered and faded. A hush swept the room.
All eyes turned toward the man at the heart of the empire.
Mr. Williams Edward—"The Tycoon," "The King"—lifted his glass with one hand, adjusting his suit with the other. The chandeliers above seemed to bow their light toward him.
He cleared his throat. Hrmm. The single sound carried, drawing silence.
"I welcome you, men and women of honor, of prestige. Tonight, I open my home, my table, and my heart. Some of you have already eaten to your fill—" a ripple of polite laughter followed, "—but now we arrive at the reason for this gathering."
Edward's voice grew warmer, filled with pride rather than command. "I want to introduce you all to my heir, my only footprint, the one who will carry my name when I finally put my sword down. Not many of you were here when this journey began. Through valleys and peaks, we pressed on until the sky itself became our starting point. Tonight, I reveal to you not merely an heir, but the future of The Freder Empire."
He paused, letting the silence thicken before gently delivering the revelation.
"My daughter."
The ballroom erupted.
"What? A female?"
"A girl?"
"A daughter?"
The rustle of silk dresses, the tightening of bow ties, the hiss of hushed voices filled the air. The sound of shock had its own rhythm—restless, uneven.
Edward raised his hand, calm and steady. "I understand your surprise. But yes, my heir is my daughter. She has studied abroad, trained, and prepared. Tonight, she comes of age. Tonight, I have the honor of unveiling Chloe."
Then she stepped forward.
The room stilled.
Her presence was a storm wrapped in silk.
She was a paragon of beauty—if perfection ever took flesh, it walked in that moment. Her hair flowed back as a gentle night breeze slid through the hall, exposing the delicate line of her neck. A red gown draped her figure, modest in cut yet merciless in how it amplified every curve. Weak men stripped her with their eyes; stronger men only swallowed hard.
Chloe walked with unhurried grace. Each click of her heel against marble echoed like a drumbeat, commanding the rhythm of every heart in the room. The chandeliers shimmered brighter as if trying to compete with her glow.
She stopped beside the massive birthday cake, its towering layers crowned with a gleaming "21." Edward kissed her lightly on the cheek. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause.
Chloe turned, her lips parting, and when she spoke her voice melted through the air like fire into snow.
"My name is Chloe…"
And in that instant, every soul in the room knew that nothing about this night would remain ordinary.