"He is here!?" Vivienne's voice sliced through the air like a whip, sharp and commanding.
"Yes, ma'am," the driver replied, barely finishing his sentence before Vivienne yanked the car door open herself and stepped out, her heels hitting the pavement with practiced poise and impatient urgency.
She adjusted her diamond-studded sunglasses, eyes narrowing on the building in front of her.
It was a modest but well-kept performing arts institute—"Orion Academy of Arts" carved into a stone sign above the entrance. The building stood three stories tall, its red-brick facade softened by tall glass windows, faded stage posters, and colorful banners celebrating past recitals and talent showcases. A set of steel-framed doors welcomed students from every corner of the city—aspiring dancers, vocalists, and performers who dreamed of the spotlight.
Vivienne Blackwood, however, looked like she had just walked off a red carpet.Her bodyguards, dressed in crisp black suits, followed behind her like shadows.
As she entered the building, the air inside shifted.
Music and chatter faded into stunned silence as heads turned toward her. Students in hoodies, leggings, and worn sneakers gawked openly at the regal woman who now stalked down their hallway like a queen who'd taken a wrong turn. Every step she took seemed to echo, commanding both awe and curiosity.
"Who is she?"
"She doesn't look like she belongs here…"
"She looks… rich."
As Vivienne passed, the whispers spread like wildfire. With her head held high, she ignored them all. She wasn't here for them. She had one goal—and nothing would distract her.
She stormed through the corridors like she owned the place, heels echoing against the tiled floors until she reached a glass-walled rehearsal room. Inside, clusters of students were chatting, stretching, or warming up for vocal drills. The floor was scattered with water bottles and music sheets, the mirrored walls reflecting the scattered chaos of creative minds at work.
But her eyes found him instantly.
Near the back corner of the room stood a tall figure dressed in black joggers, a loose-fitted graphic tank, and a sweat-soaked towel around his neck. His dark hair was damp, and wireless headphones hung around his neck as he moved to the beat of a track only he could hear. His posture was sharp, focused—lost in his own world, rehearsing a routine with crisp precision.
Adrian.
Her son.
He spotted her reflection in the mirror and froze mid-step. For a beat, the air between them was still. Then, with a sigh that spoke volumes, he stopped dancing and pulled the headphones off.
Vivienne stormed into the room, ignoring the instructor's confused call behind her. Her face, for once, showed real emotion—fear, frustration, and the sharp sting of betrayal. "Do you know how worried we were for you!?" she said, her voice trembling as her stilettos clicked toward him.
Adrian rolled his eyes and turned away slightly, rubbing the sweat from his brow with the towel. "I left a message in my room. Why are you making a scene?"
"A message!?" Vivienne's voice cracked, eyes glinting with disbelief. "You call that flimsy excuse of a note a message!? 'Going away. Don't worry.' That's what you left behind!?"
Adrian ignored her ,not in a mood to answer any of her questions,which made Vivienne's earlier frustration turn into anger. "Adrian! Are you even listening to me!?" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the mirrored walls.
By now, the studio had fallen completely silent. Students stood frozen, gawking. The only sound was the soft whir of the overhead fan and the buzz of whispers passing through the crowd.
Adrian turned to her, jaw clenched. "You're drawing attention. Exactly what I didn't want."
Vivienne's nostrils flared. "You think I care about attention right now? I care about you! About where you disappeared to for months! Only to find out that you've been faking your identity!?"
Gasps rippled through the room.
She fished into her designer handbag and pulled out a folder of documents, her hands shaking with rage. "You changed your last name to Steele? Enrolled here under a new identity? You thought I wouldn't find you!?"
She threw the documents at his feet. They scattered across the floor—papers bearing the name Adrian Steele, falsified address details, and forged forms.
Adrian didn't even flinch. He stared back at her, eyes cool and unreadable.
Vivienne took a deep breath and then said, in a deadly quiet voice that sliced through the murmurs like a blade, "No matter how far you run, no matter what name you forge… you are Adrian Blackwood. You are my son. And that's something your fake documents will never change."
A stunned silence followed.
Around them, jaws dropped.
Adrian Blackwood!? The name echoed like a lightning strike in every student's mind.
The Blackwood name was legendary in Country Z—associated with wealth, power, and prestige. Everyone knew of the Blackwood empire. And this... this boy who danced beside them, skipped meals with them to save money for fees, trained until he dropped—he was the second young master of that family?
The room tilted.
Adrian looked around not liking the fact that his mother broke the bubble he had created for himself, everyone was looking at him like he was someone important and that was the thing he hated .
He never wanted to be known by his parents borrowed glory, he just wants to be known by his own talent ,he wants to be a person of his own not what his parents want him to be .
______________
Outside her office building, Avery finally exhaled, a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The cool morning breeze tousled her hair, and for the first time in days, she felt... peace. No Silas smirking at her every move. No drama. Just the comforting familiarity of her work life.
Freedom. Sanity. Control.
At least for the next few hours.
Still, her thoughts couldn't help but drift to him—and not in a pleasant way. He hadn't even told his so-called parents about their wedding. The nerve of that man!
But she shook off the irritation, just as she had shaken off Silas this morning by storming out without a backward glance.
With her head held high and a confident smile gracing her lips, she walked into the building—her heels clicking authoritatively against the marble floor.
The receptionist at the front desk greeted her with a wide smile.
"Good morning, Miss—uh, I mean, Mrs. Blackwood!"
Avery blinked at the correction, her smile faltering for a second. Mrs. Blackwood? That title felt like a strange costume she hadn't meant to put on.
Trying not to react, she gave a polite nod and continued to the elevators. After greeting a few more staff members on the ground floor, she entered the lift and pressed the button for the top floor—her private office suite.
The ride up was short, but oddly nerve-wracking. Avery adjusted the strap of her bag, checked her reflection in the mirrored elevator wall, and steeled herself. She needed a calm day. She deserved one.
Ding.
As the elevator doors opened, her expression of calm turned into wide-eyed shock.
The entire floor was drenched in red flowers—roses, tulips, carnations—all bursting with vivid color. Arrangements lined the corridor, petals scattered like confetti. Her staff beamed at her as if she'd just won an award.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Blackwood!" one of her assistants chirped.
"Your husband must really love you," another said with a dreamy sigh.
Oh no… he didn't.
Avery marched forward, her heels clicking like gunfire on polished tile. Her jaw tightened with each passing compliment. By the time she reached her office, she was ready to scream.
Inside, her corner office looked like a flower shop had exploded.
Petals adorned her desk, windowsill, and even the glass coffee table. But what made her rage boil over was the massive bouquet—taller than her torso—sitting proudly on her desk like some floral throne.
Next to it sat a card, scripted in gold lettering:
"Happy First Day After Wedding, Mrs. Blackwood. —From your Loving Husband."
Avery's eye twitched.
She grabbed her phone, fingers flying across the screen as she prepared to give him a verbal smackdown. But before she could call him, her phone lit up with an incoming call.
Silas.
Of course.
With a resigned groan, she answered. "What do you want?"
"Hi, Mrs. Blackwood!" His voice oozed smugness like syrup on pancakes. "Did you like the surprise?"
Avery narrowed her eyes at the bouquet, her tone turning sharp. "What is all this, Silas?"
"Just a little something to cheer you up. You stormed out this morning like a storm cloud, and I figured flowers might bring back the sunshine," he said, far too pleased with himself.
She scoffed, pacing behind her desk. "You filled my entire floor with flowers. Half the building now thinks I'm head-over-heels for you."
"You're welcome," he quipped. "And I had them arranged in your favorite colors, by the way. Red. Passionate. Romantic."
Avery rolled her eyes so hard it nearly gave her a headache. "You're unbelievable."
But just as she was about to unleash her full fury, something shifted in her expression. Her anger twisted into a smirk, and her voice melted into dangerously sweet honey.
"Oh, Mr. Blackwood... That was so thoughtful of you," she cooed, her tone saccharine.
There was a pause on the line. "Wait… really?"
"Absolutely," she said, smiling deviously at the bouquet. "In fact, I'll make sure to prepare something very special for you tonight. Something I know you'll love."
Silas went quiet for a second too long.
"…Avy?" he said cautiously. "You're not going to poison me, are you?"
She laughed—sweet, syrupy, and filled with hidden daggers.
"Of course not, darling. Why would I do that?"
"…Because I feel like I'm about to regret something."
"You should always feel that way around me, husband." Avery clicked the call off before he could respond and tossed her phone onto the couch with a satisfied grin.
She turned back to the bouquet, narrowed her eyes, and muttered, "Let's see how smug you are after my surprise."