Chapter 8
1090words
Frederick was already there, dressed down in a simple white shirt that softened his usual corporate sharpness, giving him an almost scholarly air.
"Order anything you like," he said, sliding the menu toward me.
I didn't hesitate, selecting several dishes I'd been craving.
As we waited for our food, he broke the silence first.
"When I was ten," he said without preamble, "my mother took my half-brother and ran off with her lover. She emptied half the family accounts on her way out."
His tone was detached, as if recounting a movie plot rather than his own life.
I was speechless.
I hadn't expected such raw honesty from this notoriously private man.
"My father never recovered. He drank himself to death within three years, leaving a global corporation in the hands of a thirteen-year-old boy."
"My uncles circled like vultures. The board plotted constantly. Everyone wanted to depose the child CEO and carve up the Foster empire for themselves."
I could barely imagine the pressure that teenage boy had faced.
"So," he said, his dark eyes meeting mine, "when I saw you at the gala, standing alone against the Shaws, I recognized something in you. Something I knew all too well."
"The difference is," he added with a faint smile, "you're luckier than I was. You have a father worth having."
I fell silent, absorbing his words.
So that's what he meant by being "cut from the same cloth."
We had both been betrayed by family, both fought our way through darkness.
In that moment, I felt a connection with him—the kind that only comes from shared suffering.
"It's behind us now," I said quietly.
"Yes, it is." Frederick raised his teacup in lieu of a wine glass. "To new beginnings."
"To new beginnings," I echoed.
The dinner was surprisingly enjoyable.
We discussed everything from business strategies to Renaissance art, from childhood memories to future ambitions.
Frederick proved to be remarkably well-read and unexpectedly funny. Conversation flowed effortlessly.
After dinner, he drove me home himself.
He pulled up to our gates but made no move to let me out.
"Vivian Johnson," he said, his tone suddenly serious, "may I court you?"
I was caught completely off guard, my pulse quickening.
I'd thought we were forming a friendship based on mutual understanding—I hadn't expected such directness.
"Why?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
"Because," he said, his gaze intense and sincere, "I want to be the person standing beside you, not hiding in shadows. I want to protect you properly—not through ridiculous gestures like hundred-million-dollar jade pieces."
I felt heat rising to my cheeks.
His words stirred something in me I hadn't expected to feel.
But I wasn't ready for a relationship—not yet.
"Frederick, I—"
"You don't need to answer now," he said gently. "Take all the time you need. I'll show you through actions, not just words, that I'm serious."
He stepped out to open my door and walked me to the entrance, then left with a simple nod.
As his car disappeared down the driveway, I found myself in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
In the following days, Frederick proved true to his word.
He sent me simple good morning and goodnight texts, never demanding responses or monopolizing my time.
He remembered tiny details I'd mentioned in passing—a favorite author, a childhood dessert I missed, a rare flower I'd once admired—and they would "coincidentally" arrive at my door.
He never took credit, never pushed for acknowledgment or gratitude.
His approach was both gentle and commanding—a persistence that never felt intrusive. Despite myself, I found it… charming.
Even my father, initially so suspicious, began to soften toward him.
"This Foster boy is certainly more thoughtful than that Gray idiot," he remarked casually over dinner one evening.
My aunt was less subtle. "Frederick is perfect for you, Vivian! Smart, successful, handsome—don't let him slip away!"
I could only shake my head at their transparent matchmaking.
Meanwhile, the Shaws faced their reckoning.
Shaw Group officially declared bankruptcy.
George and Howard were sentenced to ten years in prison on multiple fraud charges.
Mandy avoided prison but lost everything—the mansion, the cars, the jewelry—all seized and auctioned to pay creditors.
I saw her again on a rainy afternoon.
My car passed a bus stop where a woman in a cleaning uniform struggled with a heavy trash bin.
Rain plastered her hair to her face, washing away any remnant of her former elegance.
It was Mandy Lewis.
She saw me too—I caught her momentary freeze, her instinctive attempt to hide her face.
I asked my driver to stop.
I lowered my window and simply looked at her.
She met my gaze, her eyes a complex mixture of bitterness, shame, and something that might have been regret.
Neither of us spoke.
After a long moment, she lowered her eyes and resumed her work, limping away with her burden.
I raised the window. "Let's go," I said quietly.
I felt no pity, no satisfaction.
We all pay for our choices eventually.
She had earned her fate.
Victoria, identified as an accomplice who had known about the baby swap for years, received a three-year sentence, reduced because she'd been a minor when the crime began.
A twenty-year farce had finally reached its conclusion.
And my life turned to a fresh page.
I traveled with my father to Switzerland to meet my mother.
My mother was everything I'd imagined—gentle, refined, with eyes that mirrored my own. Though illness had weakened her body, the moment she saw me, her face lit up with a radiance that defied her condition.
She held my hands in hers, repeating my name through tears that wouldn't stop.
In that moment, I felt the final missing piece of my life click into place.
Back home, I joined Johnson Enterprises, insisting on starting from an entry-level position.
I refused to be a pampered princess hiding behind my father's name.
I wanted to build something of my own, to stand as their equal, not just their heir.
Frederick continued his patient courtship.
For my birthday, he rented a private island and filled the night sky with fireworks that spelled out my name.
As the final sparks faded into the darkness, he turned to me. "Vivian Johnson," he said softly, "have I earned an answer yet?"
I studied his face in the fading glow, saw the hope and genuine affection in his eyes, and finally, I smiled and nodded.
