Chapter 14
Grace's POV
"The Wilsons have always understood that power isn't just inherited, it's earned," Charles said, gesturing toward the cloud-scattered landscape below us. "Your father knew that better than anyone."
I nodded, trying to absorb the deluge of information Charles had shared during our flight to Aetheria. The Wilson family's holdings in Aetheria alone would take a month to fully understand—luxury hotel chains, shipping companies, tech startups.
"Elizabeth and Andrew didn't want you representing the family at this charity gala," Charles continued, swirling his scotch. "They claimed a 'natural-born daughter with no training' would embarrass the Wilson name."
"Is that why you insisted on accompanying me?" I asked, meeting his gaze.
Charles smiled, crow's feet deepening around his eyes. "Partially. But mostly because I remember how Robert's face showed guilt whenever he talked about his daughter." He leaned forward. "In the Wilson family, bloodline is your ticket in, but capability is your crown. Elizabeth knows you have the first part. She's terrified you might have the second too."
The sleek private jet began its descent. Through the window, I could see the ancient city sprawling beneath us, its historic architecture mingling with modern buildings. My heart raced with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
I was entering a new battlefield.
The limousine glided to a stop before the historic façade of Windsor Grand Hotel, its centuries-old stone gleaming in the afternoon sun. As the driver opened my door, I spotted a striking brunette in a midnight-blue gown waiting on the steps.
"Dad, Grace!" she called, waving elegantly.
"That's Sophia, my daughter," Charles said, smiling warmly. "Your cousin."
Sophia Wilson radiated effortless grace as she descended the stairs to greet us. Tall and willowy with intelligent blue eyes, she exuded the confident aura of someone born to navigate high society.
"You must be exhausted," she embraced me like we'd known each other for years rather than seconds. "The media are circling like vultures. They've caught wind of the mysterious Wilson heiress."
As if on cue, several photographers near the entrance raised their cameras. Without hesitation, Sophia linked her arm through mine, positioning us for a perfect photo opportunity.
"Smile," she whispered. "Confidence is half the battle in this world."
The cameras flashed as we walked arm-in-arm into the hotel. In that moment, I felt something I hadn't experienced since discovering my true heritage—a sense of belonging.
"The Duke of Westmoreland is a Morgan family ally, but his wife despises Elizabeth, so that's complicated," Sophia explained, pacing the luxurious suite. "Lady Harrington will try to extract Wilson family gossip—avoid her entirely."
Charles had departed for the cigar lounge to meet with Aetheria business associates, leaving Sophia to prepare me for tomorrow's gala. She moved with practiced precision, transforming our preparation into a tactical briefing.
"You have a natural poise," Sophia observed, adjusting the emerald brooch on my blazer. "That's good. These people can smell insecurity."
"Why are you helping me?" I asked directly. "Won't Elizabeth be upset?"
Sophia's expression hardened momentarily. "Elizabeth has been trying to edge my father out of the company for years. Andrew is her puppet." She softened. "Besides, blood matters. You're family, Grace."
The sincerity in her voice caught me off guard. After a week of navigating Richard's deceptions and the Harrison family's cruelty, Sophia's straightforward acceptance felt almost foreign.
"Hold the elevator, please," Sophia called as we approached the closing doors.
A hand shot out, stopping the ascent. As the doors reopened, we stepped inside to find a tall man with chestnut hair and sharp features, as handsome as Alex. He nodded curtly to Sophia, his eyes sliding dismissively over me before returning to his phone.
"Oliver," Sophia acknowledged coolly. "I didn't know you were in Aetheria."
"Clearly," he responded, his cultured voice tinged with sarcasm. He glanced up again, studying me more deliberately this time. "Sophia, are you now consorting with social climbers hoping to marry their way up the ladder?"
His casual cruelty made me uncomfortable, but before I could respond, Sophia's posture stiffened.
"Oliver, stow your arrogance," she snapped. "This is my cousin Grace Wilson, Robert Wilson's daughter and a Wilson heir."
The change in his expression was subtle—a slight widening of eyes, a momentary parting of lips—but unmistakable. Surprise, followed by reassessment.
"My apologies," he said, though his tone remained aloof. "I wasn't aware Robert Wilson had acknowledged any... additional heirs."
The elevator doors opened, and Sophia pulled me out without another word, leaving a tense silence in her wake.
"What an ass," I muttered once we were alone in the corridor.
"Oliver Davidson," Sophia explained, her irritation evident. "Adopted son of the Davidson family. Brilliant business mind, but prickly personality. He's been fighting for respect in his family since childhood."
"Davidson?" The name triggered a memory. "I met a Davidson woman in Starport. Samantha Davidson. She tried to outbid me on a property."
Sophia winced. "Samantha is Oliver's sister. The biological Davidson daughter and far more problematic than Oliver. She'll be at the gala tomorrow night, unfortunately."
Rather than feeling intimidated, I felt a surge of determination. This wasn't Richard's petty household politics anymore. This was the real arena where fortunes and futures were determined.
"Good," I said firmly. "I've dealt with her type before."
Sophia studied me with newfound respect. "You know, cousin, I think you might actually be a Wilson after all."
Sleep eluded me despite the luxurious king-sized bed. Jet lag had my internal clock completely scrambled. I stepped onto the suite's private terrace, the cool night air prickling my skin as I scrolled through financial news on my phone.
A headline caught my attention: "Morgan International Acquires Schlesinger Bank in Surprise Move." The article featured a photo of Alexander Morgan leaving the bank's headquarters, his expression inscrutable.
It had been nearly a week since our dinner. We hadn't contacted each other once.
I opened my messaging app and found Alexander's contact information. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard momentarily, considering what to write.
"Mr. Morgan, are you awake?"
I hit send before I could second-guess myself. His status showed "online," but no response came.
My phone rang just after midnight. Richard's name flashed on the screen. After a moment's hesitation, I answered.
"Grace," his voice sounded weary, conciliatory. "I hope I didn't wake you."
"You did," I lied. "What do you want?"
"Mother and Jason understand they were wrong. They're prepared to apologize properly again when you return."
I cut him off before he could continue his placating routine. "Richard, I don't need cheap apologies. If you want to restart the project, I need 50% ownership of the company."
The shocked silence on the other end was almost palpable.
"Are you serious?" he finally gasped.
"Of course. I've been thinking about it—they disrespect me because I'm insignificant to the company. If I become the primary shareholder, they'll recognize me more," I lied. As if I needed their recognition.