5

POV: Michael

The champagne burned going down my throat. That was new.

I adjusted my cufflinks for the third time and scanned the grand marble ballroom. Everything was spotless; the music, the lighting, the polished smiles of men who wore wealth like armor. I should’ve felt at home. These were my people. Old money, new power.

But tonight, I couldn’t shake the discomfort sitting like a stone in my chest. I just lost the Hope Jewel necklace, the most sought after favorite piece, the one I almost got for my wife. Except the wrong woman bought it. Not wrong, exactly. Just... unexpected. Although, my interest wasn't for Vivian getting the necklace, but to use it as a business strategy.

But then, Emerald Hugo.

The name had caused a stir even before the auction. CEO of Imperial Holdings. Mysterious, poised, rarely seen in public but always the subject of speculation.

I have never met with the CEO of Imperial Holdings before.

But when she outbid him and stepped forward, with a calm, clear voice, something inside him buckled. Not recognition—something stranger. Something deeper.

She’d walked past him like a shadow with too much gravity, in her dress that clung like poured silk. Her hair was pulled back in soft waves, her lips painted the color of deep wine.

And she came with a child.

A boy, maybe four, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and looks exactly like me.

That resemblance... It shook me.

I had frozen. Frozen through the entire closing of the auction, through the applause, through the fake smiles of my competitors patting my back like I hadn’t just been outplayed.

And now here I am, drink in hand, trying to compose myself while the woman who beat me out for the most important auction was working the room with the grace of royalty.

I caught sight of her again across the ballroom, laughing lightly at something a senator said. She moved like someone who never feared the floor falling out from under her.

And me?

I suddenly felt like I was standing in an earthquake.

I moved before I could stop myself. Pushed through a cluster of suits and stepped up beside her, feigning coolness that I didn’t feel.

“Mrs. Hugo,” I said smoothly. “Congratulations. You made quite the entrance tonight.”

She turned to me slowly. Her eyes; sharp, sea-glass green, met mine without hesitation.

No flicker of surprise.

No hesitation at all at all.

No warmth.

“Mr. Michael,” she said, giving me a polite nod. “Thank you. The auction was thrilling.”

That voice.

It was hers. Softer than I remembered, but firm and measured. As if every syllable passed through a filter before it ever reached the air.

I stared at her.

She stared back.

Nothing in her expression changed. Not a single crack in the flawless mask she wore. No memory. No anger. No sorrow.

Just...nothing.

The world tilted.

“I don’t believe we’ve met formally,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “But something about you seems...familiar.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “I’ve been told I have one of those faces.”

“Your son,” I said abruptly. “He looks like someone I know.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “Does he?”

“He has my eyes.”

A soft shrug. “Lots of people have brown eyes, Mr. Michael.”

I swallowed. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, hidden in the folds of my tuxedo. “May I ask... who the father is?”

Her brows lifted, just a fraction. “I don’t see how that’s your business.”

Something snapped.

Michael leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You can pretend all you want. But I know who you are.”

“Do you?” Her voice never lost its even tone.

“I know,” he said. “Five years ago. I remember everything.”

Now, finally, a flicker.

In her eyes.

Pain.

Or rage.

Or something close to both.

She took a sip of her champagne and said softly, “What a luxury to be able to say that now.”

Michael’s chest tightened.

“Vanessa...”

“My name,” she said, gently but with steel, “is Emerald.”

Silence. The clink of glasses. The faint rise of a string quartet.

I stared at her, words piling behind my teeth. Apologies. Explanations. Regrets I’d never voiced.

But the woman in front of me wasn’t broken. She wasn’t begging. She wasn’t the girl I thought I could throw away.

She was untouchable.

And she was done with me.

“I wish you a good evening, Mr. Michael,” she said, brushing past me.

I turned as she walked away.

The boy turned too, curious.

And for just a second, our eyes met.

My heart stopped.

Because I knew.

That child... was mine because of the resemblance.

And she wasn’t going to give me the chance to say a damn word about it.

A waiter passed with a tray and I grabbed a second glass of champagne.

It still burned.

So I lifted it high.

“To karma,” I muttered to myself, and drained it all.

POV: Michael

I was still reeling from the cocktail encounter when the internet exploded.

I'd barely slept since the auction. Since she appeared. Since I saw the child.

My child.

I'd gone over it in my head a thousand times. The eyes. The mouth. The way the boy tilted his head—same way I did when annoyed or confused. Same furrowed brow. Same smirk when things didn’t go my way.

It had been five years, and she hadn’t said a word. Not one. Not a warning. Not a phone call. Not a clue.

And now she was Emerald Hugo.

The name felt like a slap every time it was printed.

I sat at the breakfast counter, nursing black coffee and ignoring the bitter taste. My phone buzzed again. A flurry of alerts, pings, email flags.

Then my secretary, Mark, called.

“You need to look at this,” he said breathlessly.

“I’m looking at emails.”

“Not emails. Everywhere. T*****r. LinkedIn. Business Daily. It’s—oh God, sir. It’s viral.”

I opened T*****r.

The top trending tag: #EmeraldReturns

Second trending: #VanessaToVictor

My blood ran cold. I clicked. And there it was. A split-screen photo. One side: Vanessa, five years ago, in soft makeup and a shy smile, standing beside me at some fundraising gala I barely remembered. On the other: Emerald Hugo, storming into the auction in her emerald silk dress, with the Hope Jewel necklace in one hand and a diamond-crusted clutch in the other.

And beneath the photos, the caption:

“From abandoned wife to empire queen: Vanessa resurfaces as Emerald Hugo, CEO of Imperial Holdings. Oh, and she has a son. 👀”

My heart stopped.

My hands went clammy. I clicked the article attached.

Five years after a quiet divorce from heir Michael Michaelson, Vanessa Michaelson has reemerged on the global stage under a new identity: Emerald Hugo, the adopted heiress of the Hugo Dynasty and acting CEO of Imperial Holdings—the very company currently outpacing M&M company in luxury investments.

Sources confirm that Hugo was removed from public record shortly after her divorce, and reintroduced into elite society as the foster daughter of Donovan Hugo, following a private adoption that stunned insiders.

Her surprise appearance at the Hope Jewel auction confirmed not only her elevated status but introduced a young son with a striking resemblance to her ex-husband.

Neither party has confirmed paternity, but the timelines—and the genes—speak volumes.

I dropped my phone.

The sound of it hitting the marble counter felt louder than it should’ve been.

“Jesus…” I whispered.

I stared at nothing. My pulse hammered in my ears. My mind rushed with images: Vanessa crying in the foyer. Vanessa screaming my name when the guards dragged her out. Vanessa stumbling on the marble floor, bleeding.

I hadn’t looked back.

I told myself for years that she was fine. That she’d wanted the money and nothing more. That we were a mismatch from the beginning. That she was weak. That she would disappear, and it would be better for both of us.

But she hadn’t disappeared.

She’d become bigger than I.

And now the world knew.

I opened another browser tab.

Search: Emerald Hugo child.

Hundreds of posts. Photos zoomed in on the boy’s face. Speculation. Side-by-side comparisons with old photos of me as a child. Someone even photoshopped an image of me holding a toddler and captioned it “You dropped this, king.”

I laughed bitterly.

It didn’t reach my eyes.

I scrolled farther and found something worse: videos. One clip showed Vanessa—Emerald—being pushed by Vivian years ago at the Michaelson estate gates. The footage had leaked. Her legs bloodied. The way she was dragged out by guards while Vivian laughed.

And the caption on that post:

“This is the woman you threw away, Michael. She carried your child while you handed her to wolves.”

Thousands of retweets.

Hundreds of thousands of views.

I was trending—but not in the way I'd ever dreamed.

The woman I discarded had rebuilt herself into a myth—and now everyone knew she was real. And I? I was the ghost of her past.

I thought of Vivian. How shallow she felt now. How cold. We never married after the divorce. She had drifted. She wasn’t the woman I had thought she was. Or maybe she was—I just hadn’t cared to see it.

But Vanessa? No—Emerald…

She was no longer the girl I could hurt.

She had the world now.

And a boy who looked like me.

And I… I had nothing but silence, shame, and a name no one wanted to wear anymore.

I sat back down and whispered to myself:

“I made her leave with nothing… and she came back with everything.”

Outside, the city moved. But I stayed very, very still.