chapter 33

The mood in Wellington Holdings had altered. The tension from Amelia's coup persisted, but fixed as that tempest was, there was something else simmering beneath the surface—tangible but undeniable.

Ronald Wellington sat in his office, tapping his fingers lightly against the glass surface of the table. His mind should have been on the firm, on the new battle Amelia had initiated against him. And yet, his mind had failed him. Again.

Her voice.

Her eyes.

The way she stood before the board, unwavering.

Four years had gone by, but it was as if she had never left.

And here she was now—his opponent, his equal. And for the first time in his entire life, Ronald felt something foreign. Something dangerous.

A chink in his armor.

A flaw he should not possess.

His jaw flexed as he released the breath, dispersing the illusion. He was master of every emotion, every impulse, every weakness. Amelia would not be the one to break that.

Not again.

Not ever.

The rap on the door snapped him back to consciousness.

"Enter," he ordered, his voice back to usual chill command.

The door opened, and there she stood.

Amelia Rodriguez.

Graceful…Confident…A presence he could no longer deny.

But he could tell by her eyes that she wasn't here on business only.

"I need a minute of your time," she said, coming in.

Ronald leaned back in his chair, looking at her silently. "A demand already?" He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You don't mess around, Amelia."

She didn't respond to his jibe. She put a folder on his desk instead. "These are the new policies I'm putting in place as president. You'll want to review them."

He didn't even glance at the folder. Instead, his gaze remained locked on hers, as if he was trying to decipher the woman she'd become.

"You've changed," he whispered. "Or perhaps. you were always like this, just waiting for the right moment to strike."

Her lips curled into a faint smirk. "Does that scare you, Ronald?"

He chuckled lowly, shaking his head. "No. It intrigues me."

Their eyes met—blue against brown, cold against fire.

For a brief second, the past threatened to creep in.

The nights spent together. The whispered promises. The betrayals.

But before either could linger, Amelia straightened. "I’ll expect your feedback by the end of the day."

She turned her back on departing, but halfway to the door, Ronald stopped her.

"You astound me, Amelia."

She paused but didn't turn around.

"You always did," he continued, sounding even more gentle than was his custom.

She swallowed, had a moment to locate herself, and moved on out.

But neither could pretend an ignorance of the tension just generated.

After she exited Ronald's office, Amelia made her way to the private lounge that was set aside for the company's highest executives. She needed a few minutes to regain her breath, to compose herself. But as she entered, she stopped dead in her tracks.

Seated on one of the leather couches was her father, Rodriguez.

He looked up, his weathered, sharp eyes scanning her with the same analytical gaze he'd always possessed. Amelia felt a surge of nostalgia and anger.

"It looks like you made quite an entrance," he said, setting down his coffee. "I should have known you'd arrive in style."

Amelia drew a deep breath, advancing. "I didn't come back for theatrics. I came back for what belongs to me."

Rodriguez stared at her, his expression stern. "Jake must have been important to you."

She tightened. "He was the only one who ever believed in me when no one else would."

Her father's head nodded, slowly. "And yet you went back to the people who betrayed you."

Amelia's jaw hardened. "Not for them. For me."

There was a moment of silence.

Then, Rodriguez leaned forward. "You've changed, Amelia."

She glared back at him, unmoving. "I had to."

He let out a low chuckle. "Good. Because this world doesn’t forgive the weak."

Amelia straightened. "I’m not weak, Father. Not anymore."

Rodriguez smirked. "We’ll see."

She knew that was the closest thing to approval she would get from him.

********

Amelia strode through the halls of Wellington Holdings, shaking off the strange tension that Ronald’s words had left behind.

She had bigger concerns.

As she turned a corner, she froze.

Catherine Rodriguez was at the end of the hallway, grasping the hand of a little boy.

A boy.

Amelia's eyes scanned over the group, catching sight of the child's face—the soft brown ringlets, the sparkling blue eyes. He hadn't been more than three.

A chill crept up her spine.

The resemblance was striking.

Catherine saw her and bristled, but rather than turning her back, she lifted her chin and walked towards Amelia, her heels clicking on the shiny floor.

"Well, well," Catherine muttered to herself, her grip on the boy's hand tightening. "The queen of Wellington Holdings graces me with her presence at last."

Amelia's gaze shifted from Catherine to the child. "Who is he?"

Catherine's smile became wider, but there was something in her eyes—a glint of something she was trying to hide.

"My son," she said too readily.

The words hit Amelia harder than she had expected.

She looked at the child again, trying to learn more, but Catherine cut her off, standing over her.

"Do you have something to say to me?" she taunted. "Or are you just finding out how much you've missed?"

Amelia's lips compressed. "I didn't think you were the maternal type."

Catherine smiled. "There's a great deal you don't know about me, Amelia."

Something in the tone she used caused a shiver of apprehension to course through Amelia's system.

For the length of a heartbeat, Amelia's wind was cut off in her throat.

The little girl could not have been more than four years old like her son. Dark ringlets framed a heart-shaped face, and while her features still had echoes of the beauty of Catherine, something else—something appallingly familiar in the tilt of her small jaw and the way her eyes appeared to hold an intelligent sheen.

Amelia's gaze went back to Catherine, whose sneer was tainted with triumph.

"Surprised?" Catherine drawled, leaning forward an inch, her hand closing tighter around the child's as if presenting her as fact.

Amelia set her face into cold disinterest. "No. I knew you'd try to use everything at your disposal against me."

Catherine's smile widened. "And still, you don't get it, do you?" She spoke in sweet tones, almost laughing. "You're fighting for a firm. I'm fighting for my child."

There was a heaviness to her words, a threat unspoken that hung in the air like an axe ready to fall.

Amelia's expression didn't shift, but deep within her, something cold and sharp wedged itself in her chest.

Catherine was playing with fire.

And she was employing a child as a shield.

Amelia let her gaze drift back to the small boy. She remained transfixed on her, her small fingers grasped around Catherine's dress, as if wondering if she should be scared or just curious.

Slowly, Amelia knelt down, coming down to the child's level.

"What is your name?" Her voice lowered, losing its edge.

The small boy hesitated, casting a nervous look up at Catherine before answering softly, "Axel."

Amelia's lips curved into a small smile, but her eyes held an unreadable glint. "Axel. It's a nice name."

Axel blinked at her, fingers tightening slightly on her mother's hand. There was something tentative in her position, but she didn't step back.

Amelia gazed at her for another moment before rising to her full height, standing elegantly. Her eyes were locked on Catherine's, and whatever warmth had been in her tone when she addressed the child was now absent.

"This has nothing to do with you, Catherine," Amelia said her voice taut and unyielding. "It never has."

Catherine's sneer faltered for an instant.

A flicker of something—something almost dangerously close to uncertainty marred her face.

But it was gone in an instant.

She straightened her shoulders, lifting her chin as her grip on Isla’s hand tightened. "We’ll see about that," she said coolly.

Amelia didn’t bother responding.

She simply turned and walked away, her heels clicking against the marble floor, each step an unspoken declaration that this battle wasn’t one Catherine was going to win.

Catherine remained standing there, her expression unreadable.

And for the first time, a foreign sensation crept into her chest.

Doubt….

Catherine was hiding something from her.

And Amelia was going to find out what.

Amelia sat at her desk, her fingers tightening on the edges of the armrest as she attempted to process all that had happened. The takeover had been the easy part. The real war was only just beginning now.

Her thoughts kept going back to Catherine and that child.

The likeness was too striking to deny.

The blue eyes of the boy—bright, steely, the same cold look she had seen many times. The slope of his jaw, the dimples as he took hold of his mother's hand.

Her stomach knotted.

Was it possible?

No. Not a chance.

Could it?

There was a knock on the door that shattered her trance.

Marson stepped inside, his professional facade still very much in place, but his face carrying a shadow of worry. "Ma'am, I wanted to advise you—there have been staff rumors. Catherine never said who the father of her child was. Some believe it was an international businessman, but…"

"But what?" Amelia's voice was sharper than she intended.

Marson hesitated, then exhaled. "But some believe the child could be a Wellington."

Amelia's breath was caught for a second.

Her heart pounded.

If that was Ronald's……

No. She refused to even think that.

Her fists curled. "Find out everything you can. Every piece of information. Who Catherine has been with, where she's been the past four years, medical background, birth certificates—everything. I want it all."

Marson nodded.

Just as he was about to walk away, her phone rang on the desk.

She answered it, expecting another corporate report.

But her chest tightened as she gazed at the sender.

Ronald Wellington.

The message was brief, to the point.

Dinner tonight. My office. We must talk.

Her fingers hesitated on the screen.

There was no emotion in the words. No hint of what he wanted.

But Amelia knew Ronald.

This was a tactic. A calculated move in whatever game he had decided to play with her.

She breathed slowly out.

If war was what he wanted….

Then war he would have.

She typed her response.

“8 PM. I’ll be there!”.

She set the phone down, staring at the city skyline beyond her window.

The past wasn’t just knocking on her door anymore.

It had forced its way in.

And Amelia had no choice but to face it head-on….