All Chapters of Fortune's Forgotten Daughter: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The house was full of soft, quiet sounds—floorboards creaking under bare feet, the occasional hiss from the kettle on the stove, a faint wind brushing through the trees outside. It was early. Too early for the world to be so still. Anya padded softly into the kitchen, sweater wrapped tight around her, her hair braided messily over one shoulder. She hadn’t slept well. Her body had lain still, but her mind had raced all night. Playing and replaying every word. Every glance. Every time Dimitri’s voice had cracked saying their daughter’s name. Their daughter. She stopped short when she saw him. Dimitri stood at the counter, already dressed in a plain white shirt and dark slacks, sleeves rolled up. He was pouring Zoe’s cereal—milk first, of course, like a monster. But then he carefully added the rainbow loops she liked, counting a little aloud. “Four. Five. Six. One for good luck.” Zoe, sitting on a barstool with her knees drawn up and her curls still wild from sleep, giggled like

The conference room on the 42nd floor wasn’t cold exactly—but it held the sterile, calculated quiet of too many contracts signed under pressure. Anya sat at one end of the sleek glass table, her hands wrapped around a mug of untouched tea. Across from her sat Lena Harrow—veteran journalist, polished but unpretentious, eyes sharp as a scalpel and kinder than Anya expected. Dimitri stood off to the side, leaning against the windows, arms crossed but not defensive. He was watching. Not controlling. “I’m not here to spin a sob story,” Anya said, breaking the silence. Lena nodded. “That’s not what I’m after.” “No glamour shots. No close-ups of Zoe’s face. She’s not part of the circus.” “Agreed.” “I want full editorial review. Final cut approval.” Lena smiled faintly. “Even better.” Anya raised an eyebrow. “You want restrictions?” “I want trust. I don’t do smear jobs. If you’re honest, and you let me in, I’ll protect what needs protecting.” From the window, Dimitri said quietly,

The morning after Dimitri’s public declaration, the headlines didn’t scream. They whispered. They tilted. They shifted. “Volkov CEO Claims Daughter: A New Kind of Dynasty Begins” “From Illegitimacy to Legacy: Dimitri Volkov Defends His Bloodline” “Heir Apparent? Volkov Speaks Zoe’s Name” No one used the word bastard. Not anymore. Not after the way he’d said “She’s mine.” Anya read the articles curled on the sofa, coffee going cold beside her. She didn’t click the comments. Not today. Instead, she studied the photo someone had snapped—grainy, from a hallway camera. Dimitri, leaving the boardroom, jaw set, shoulders straight, like he’d walked out of fire without flinching. And he had. The living room was quiet. Zoe was at school. The staff spoke in low tones. The city rolled on beneath them like a train that no longer felt like it was dragging her behind it. She glanced across the room. Dimitri stood by the window, phone in hand, thumb scrolling slowly. He wore a black sh

Anya stood by the window, arms folded tight, watching the city shimmer beneath a morning sky that looked too soft for war. Dimitri stood behind her, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low. Clipped. Certain. “Yes. Full control. No open cameras. One room. Our script.” Pause. “No one comes unless they understand the terms.” Another pause. Then: “Thank you, Lena.” He hung up and set the phone down on the counter like it had just delivered a missile. Anya turned slowly. “That’s a risk.” “So is silence,” he said. Their eyes met. For a moment, there was nothing between them but the weight of everything they’d already survived—and the clarity of what they were about to face. “We’re not announcing us,” she said, to be sure. “No.” “We’re not doing this to smooth optics.” “No.” “Then what are we doing?” Dimitri stepped forward, hands steady, voice firm. “We’re claiming her,” he said. “Publicly. Permanently.” Anya inhaled slowly. She didn’t nod. She didn’t smile. But her

The boardroom on the top floor of the Volkov tower had hosted hundreds of high-stakes meetings.None like this.The air was tight with purpose.Dimitri sat at the head of the table. Not flanked by lawyers—with them. And beside him, not a silent shadow or a token presence—Anya.Straight-backed. Clear-eyed. No apology in her posture, no hesitation in her tone.“We proceed on three fronts,” she said, fingers resting on a legal pad. “Public narrative. Legal standing. Personal security. No gaps.”The senior counsel, a man twice her age with decades of corporate wars behind him, nodded with genuine respect. “Understood.”The new head of security, Pavel’s right hand, added: “We’re upgrading both residential and mobile coverage. Ms. Petrova and Zoe will never be unaccompanied.”Anya’s jaw set. “We’re not going into hiding.”Dimitri’s voice joined hers, calm but absolute: “Visibility is power. We stay seen. We stay strong.”The team nodded.No one questioned the dynamic.Because it was clear