MasukSerena pushed herself upright from the couch, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain as she pulled it back just enough to see outside.The street was still swarming.Hundreds of fans pressed against metal barricades, their signs flashing under the streetlamps. Phones glittered like a constellation of artificial stars, pointed toward Serena’s window as if waiting for her to appear. The noise—shouting, chanting, camera shutters, security radios crackling—merged into a suffocating wall of sound.At least the worst of the frenzy had died down; security had begun pushing the crowd back meter by meter. For the first time all afternoon, people inside the building could actually step outside safely.“Ms. Morales,” Marilyn called softly, her voice breaking the heavy moment, “it’s seven. We really do need to leave now.”Serena pressed her lips together, drawing in a slow breath before turning. Whitney was curled on the bed, still pale, still shaken.“Get some sleep,” she whispered. “I’ll be b
The next morning, Serena woke to the soft pale light slipping through her curtains—and the cold, empty silence of her phone screen. No messages. No calls. No “good morning” from Alexander.She exhaled, expression unreadable, and pushed herself out of bed.At the office, she dove straight into work. The conference room lights glowed brightly overhead, and the long oval table was lined with executives sitting upright, notebooks open, eyes fixed on her. The moment she began speaking, the room quieted completely.Serena went through the agenda one point at a time, clear and precise. “Listen carefully—our promotional push this quarter cannot afford any slip-ups. The PR department needs to monitor every piece of online chatter. I have a feeling Ruiz Star Entertainment won’t sit on their hands—they might try stirring something up again.”The executives murmured in agreement.One of them raised a hand. “Ms. Morales, Whitney’s new drama aired this morning. The response is excellent. Her follow
Sitting on the velvet sofa beneath the soft glow of the Reinaldi penthouse chandeliers, Dorian scrolled through the photos one last time. Then, with a few taps, he forwarded them to his private network—whisper channels embedded deep within New York’s high-society circles.Beside him, Chiara lounged like a cat in the sun, draped across the chaise in a silk robe the color of crushed pearls. A bowl of glistening grapes rested on her lap. She plucked another one with lazy elegance, her eyelids half-lowered as though the entire world bored her.When Dorian finished, he straightened.“Ms. Reinaldi,” he said with quiet precision, “it’s done. Within minutes, everyone in the New York circle will know Serena’s parents rushed here to find her—and that she had them thrown out of her company.”Chiara hummed approvingly.In New York’s elite world, social ranks were carved in stone. Those born into old money looked down on the women who clawed their way in through marriage. It didn’t matter how beau
Serena halted abruptly, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor as she turned to face Quinn and Elliot. Her gaze was cool, cutting straight through them. “I don’t care who sent you,” she said flatly. “I don’t have time for this right now. We’ll wait for the results.”Quinn’s face went pale. She stood frozen, her lips parting as if to say something, but no words came out. The silence between them stretched taut, filled with unspoken desperation.Without another glance, Serena turned and walked away. The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and this time, neither Quinn nor Elliot dared to stop her.As the metallic doors slid shut, Elliot exhaled heavily, running a hand through his thinning hair. “You shouldn’t have said that,” he muttered, turning to his wife. “We just found her, Quinn. You could’ve been gentler. The way you talked—it sounded like you only cared about money. How could she not be upset?”Quinn’s voice quivered with frustration. “She is our daughter, Ellio
The man and woman who entered were plainly dressed, their clothes worn but neat—evidence of long travel. The woman’s hair was tied back in a messy bun, and her eyes darted nervously around the elegant office before settling on Serena.“Serena,” the woman breathed, her voice trembling with something between awe and desperation.Serena frowned slightly, her posture instinctively straightening behind her desk. “Let’s talk over there,” she said, motioning toward the leather couch by the window.The woman—Quinn Ferguson—nodded, tugging lightly at the sleeve of the man beside her, Elliot Dundley. They both followed her lead, their footsteps hesitant on the marble floor.When Serena sat down, Quinn immediately pulled a folded envelope from her worn handbag and handed it over with both hands. “Serena, we were notified a few days ago that our daughter was in New York City,” she said quickly. “So we took the bus all the way from Charleston to find you.”Inside the envelope was a paternity test.
Marilyn was sprawled across the couch, her head heavy and body drenched in a feverish sweat. The air in her apartment was thick, the curtains half-drawn so that only faint streaks of afternoon light slanted across the floor. Her mind drifted in and out of awareness until she heard the faint click of the door unlocking.“Marilyn?”The familiar voice stirred her.Serena stepped inside, worry etched into her delicate features. She was still in her work attire—sleek black trousers, a silk blouse tucked neatly in, her hair slightly tousled from the cold wind outside. Setting her handbag aside, she crossed the room in quick strides and knelt beside the couch.“I sent you a dozen messages,” she said, her tone laced with concern. “When you didn’t reply, I got the spare key from the housekeeper. You’re burning up—I’ve already called my doctor to come take a look.”Marilyn blinked sluggishly, her dry lips parting as if to respond, but her throat burned with every breath. She wanted to thank Ser







