Chapter 52 52.
Chapter 52 52.
Chapter 52: Ashley’s POV
Two days later, I stood on the airport, the hot wind whipping the hem of a loose sundress against my legs as I watched the Nash and my sister walking away.
Simone and Nash were gone. Again.
Her doctors in Switzerland had called with an adjusted timeline, insisting her cancer treatments resume immediately.
Watching Nash gently guide a fragile but smiling Simone had nearly broken my heart. She had held my hands so tightly before boarding, whispering about nurseries, baby clothes, and how much she loved her "little sister."
I had choked back my tears, forcing a bright, reassuring smile onto my face while a suffocating guilt clawed at my throat.
My only saving grace right now was that they had left without a single clue.
Nash had been completely absorbed in Simone’s medical logistics, and Simone had been too weak to check local society blogs.
They had no idea that Marcus Bryson—their powerful, billionaire business partner—was currently claiming their surrogate baby as his own heir.
If Nash ever found out, the fallout would destroy everything.
But for now, they were safe in their Swiss medical bubble, completely oblivious to the ticking time bomb I was sitting on.
But with their departure came a terrifying shift in my reality.
With Nash out of the country, I wasn't just Ashley again. As far as the Philippine corporate landscape was concerned, I was the Orwell representative, again.a
Which meant I could no longer hide in my modest, secure-perimeter apartment.
The very next morning, I found myself standing in the sprawling, marble-clad lobby of the Bryson Tower. High-tech security turnstiles beeped, executives in sharp tailored suits hurried past, and the immense weight of the Bryson empire loomed over me in every glass reflection.
I smoothed down the front of my professional maternity blazer, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I approached the executive elevators.
I was here to do my job. I was here to protect the Orwells' business interests while they fought for Simone's life.
But walking into this building meant walking right into the lions' den. It meant climbing thirty-five floors straight up into the territory of the man who had completely upended my life.
Marcus Bryson.
As the elevator doors opened with a soft, expensive chime, I stepped inside and pressed the button for the penthouse executive suite.
The gears turned, lifting me higher into the sky, and I braced myself for what was waiting for me at the top. The Orwells were gone, the public was watching, and I was officially stepping onto Marcus's home turf.
The ascent to the penthouse suite was dizzying, but the true vertigo hit the moment the elevator doors slid open.
Before today, walking into Bryson Tower as the Orwell representative meant navigating a sea of sharp, assessing glances.
The executives and assistants used to look at me with a polite but coldness—evaluating whether a young woman holding Orwell’s proxy was a threat or a pushover.
Now? The atmosphere had shifted entirely.
The moment my flats clicked onto the polished marble of the executive floor, the silence was deafening.
But it wasn't the silence of dismissal.
It was the heavy, hyper-aware stillness of a room full of people trying desperately not to stare, yet failing miserably.
I was literally the talk of the tower.
"Good morning, Ms. Martin," the floor’s head receptionist said, her voice dropping an octave into something so dripping with reverence it made my skin crawl. She didn't just smile—she practically bowed, scrambling out from behind her secure desk to open the glass partition for me. "Let me get those folders for you. Please, you shouldn't be carrying heavy files in your condition."
"I'm perfectly fine, thank you," I murmured, tightening my grip on my briefcase.
But it didn't stop there.
As I walked down the wide corridor toward the boardroom, senior vice presidents—men who had previously looked right through me during our initial joint-venture meetings—abruptly stopped their conversations. They pulled to the side of the hallway, creating a wide, unobstructed path for me as if I was a royal convoy.
"A very good morning to you, Ashley," one of the board members, a notoriously ruthless corporate hawk, said with a warm, terrifyingly soft smile. He nodded toward my blazer. "We’ve adjusted the thermostat in the conference room. We noticed it was a bit chilly for you last week. We want to ensure you are entirely comfortable."
"That's... very thoughtful, sir," I stammered, my mind scrambling to adjust to the absurdity of it all.
Everyone had become extra nice.
Extravagantly, unnervingly soft.
The cutthroat corporate predators of Bryson Enterprises were suddenly treating me like a priceless, fragile porcelain doll.
The rumors had spread like wildfire.
Edward Bryson’s loose lips had done exactly what Marcus warned they would do. High society, and by extension the entire corporate world, didn't see me as a temporary proxy anymore.
They saw me as the woman bearing the next ruler of the Bryson empire. The bearer of the heir.
It was a sickening irony.
They were bowing to a legacy that actually belonged to Nash and Simone Orwell, who were currently thousands of miles away in a Swiss hospital, entirely oblivious to the fact that their business partners were treating their son like a Bryson prince.
I reached the double doors of the main boardroom, my hand trembling slightly as I rested it against the handle. I could feel the eyes of the entire floor burning into my back, waiting to see how I would be received by the man inside.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself against the suffocating weight of the lie, and pushed the doors open.
Marcus was sitting at the head of the massive mahogany table, a mountain of corporate documents spread out before him. The moment the door clicked, his dark eyes snapped up. The cold, calculating executive look he wore instantly fractured, his gaze dropping straight to my stomach before locking onto my eyes with a fierce, burning intensity.