Chapter 6

Malik Westwood opened the envelope slowly, like it might bite him. The room, already tense, tightened a notch. You could hear the paper slide from the folder, the creak of Cynthia Westwood’s leather chair, the subtle shift in Alaya’s breath.

Janelle clutched her tissue like it was a lifeline, her perfectly-lined eyes fixed on the letter in Malik’s hands.

“‘My dearest family,’” Malik began reading, his voice low and clear, “‘it is with a heavy heart that—’”

“Ugh, why don’t we just skip the formalities?” Janelle snapped, her voice sharp like broken glass.

All heads turned to her. Cynthia’s brow lifted. Mr. Westwood’s jaw clenched. Even Malik blinked, but said nothing.

Janelle quickly faked a soft laugh and added, “It’s been a long day, and we’ve all been kept waiting by this… girl,” she said, her eyes flicking to Alaya like she’d stepped in something. “Anyone who wants to read that sentimental nonsense can do so later, right?”

She smiled sweetly, like she’d just offered everyone cake and not insult.

Mr. Westwood cleared his throat. “Let’s skip to the main agenda.”

Malik didn’t argue. He flipped through the pages silently, eyes narrowing as he scanned the next section.

Then he stopped.

His face shifted. From calm to confused. From confused to stunned.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“What is it?” Cynthia asked.

“Speak, boy,” Mr. Westwood barked. “We don’t have all day.”

Malik hesitated. Then, carefully, he read:

> “To my sweet Alaya,

You mean more to me than I was ever brave enough to show in public. You were the only peace I ever had in this world of masks, and it’s my deepest regret that I couldn’t be the man you deserved while alive.

I cannot give you the world I promised — not from the grave — but I can give you what I built of it.

To you, I leave all my personal properties, including my home, my estate vehicles, and art collections.

I also leave you full ownership of Westwood Couture and all affiliated companies, holdings, and stock.

You are now the sole inheritor of my shares in Westwood Holdings.”

The room went dead silent.

Alaya blinked.

Her brain was still trying to connect words like “full ownership” and “inheritor” with her name.

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at Malik, as if waiting for him to laugh and say, Just kidding.

But he didn’t.

“That’s not possible,” Cynthia said finally, her voice cold and clipped.

Malik slid the documents across the table.

“It’s what’s written. See for yourself.”

Before his mother could grab them, Janelle snatched the pages, flipping through them like a woman possessed.

“No. No no no,” she muttered, her perfectly manicured fingers twitching with every line her eyes scanned. “This is wrong. He was under stress. He wasn’t thinking clearly—”

“There’s no mistake,” Malik said, his tone careful, but firm. “This was updated two months ago. All legally signed and notarized. It’s been validated.”

“Validated? VALIDATED?!” Janelle’s voice pitched into hysteria as she stood up. “She can’t have everything! She was nothing! Just some… some wretched thing he played with when he was bored!”

Everyone stiffened.

And finally, finally, Alaya moved.

She stood up slowly, chair legs scraping against polished floors, her face unreadable.

But her eyes burned.

“Not anymore,” she said quietly.

Janelle turned sharply. “What did you just say?”

Alaya took a step closer, her voice calm but dangerous now.

“I said: Not. Anymore.”

Janelle stared at her like she was seeing a ghost — or a rival.

“You think this makes you something?” she hissed. “You’ll always be trash. You don’t belong here.”

Alaya tilted her head. “Yet here I am. With the keys to your dream life.”

Janelle took a step forward, eyes wild. “Who the hell do you think you are?!”

Alaya didn’t flinch.

“The owner,” she said, her tone like velvet over a blade. “Of this house. This company. All of it.”

Cynthia stood slowly. “You may have a piece of paper, but you will never have our respect.”

Alaya smiled faintly. “Good. I’m not here for your respect. I came for what was mine. And I got it.”

The tension was nuclear.

And then — smack.

Janelle raised her hand, aiming to slap her across the face.

But Alaya caught her wrist midair.

The entire room gasped.

And before anyone could blink, Alaya slapped her instead.

Hard.

Janelle stumbled backward, crashing into the chair behind her. Her tissue fluttered to the floor like a white flag of defeat.

Alaya stepped forward.

Voice steady.

Eyes locked on hers.

“I want everyone out of my house by tomorrow morning.”

Janelle looked up at her, shaking with disbelief and rage.

“You bitch!” she hissed.

But Alaya didn’t even blink. She turned to Malik.

“Make sure they’re gone,” she said. “I want it emptied out before the ink dries.”

Malik looked at her — surprised, impressed, maybe even a little wary — and nodded once.

Alaya turned and walked out of the room, back straight, chin high.

The girl they thought was broken? Humiliated?

She just walked out the door as the new queen of the Westwood empire.