Chapter 2 - THE APOLOGY AND THE TRAP
Rya’s gaze lingered on the edge of the manila paper for a fraction of a second before her face instantly melted back into a mask of pure sorrow.
“Please, Dela,” Rya murmured, her voice trembling with manufactured emotion as she took a timid step into my living room. “Can we sit down? I haven't slept in three days. I feel sick about what happened at the wedding.”
Felix walked in behind her, his hand placed protectively on her lower back. He looked at me with a mix of defiance and desperate hope, wanting desperately to believe that his mother and his new bride could patch up the shattered pieces.
“Mom,” Felix said, his tone heavy. “Rya was overwhelmed on the wedding day. Her nerves got the better of her, and the champagne went to her head. She realizes how horrible it looked.”
“It didn't just look horrible, Felix,” I said calmly, gesturing toward the sofa while remaining standing myself. “It was a deliberate, public humiliation.”
Rya sank onto the leather cushion, lowering her head into her hands. “I was angry, Dela! I grew up watching Felix ache for a mother who was always at work. When I saw you sitting there looking so detached, I snapped. I thought you were just an unsupportive mother who didn't care about his big day. I had no idea who you really were.”
“And does knowing who I really am change how you treat people, Rya?” I asked softly.
Felix frowned, taking a seat beside his wife. “Mom, don't be like that. She’s here to make amends. She even brought a letter of apology to post on social media to clear your name.”
I walked over to the dining table, casually picking up the magazine—and the manila folders underneath it—and holding them against my side. I noticed Rya’s eyes follow the documents with intense focus.
“A social media post won't undo thirty years of calculated assumptions,” I noted. “Or the fact that you spoke about my late husband’s debts in front of two hundred people.”
Rya reached into her designer handbag and pulled out a clean white envelope, laying it on the glass coffee table. “I want to prove to you that I don't care about your money, Dela. Felix and I don't want a single penny of your fortune. We just want peace.”
I looked at the envelope. Then I looked at Rya.
“If you don't care about the money,” I said, “then you won't mind signing a standard family non-disclosure and financial waiver agreement. It simply states that neither you nor any future children will have claim to the Morrison Commercial Trust, and all pre-existing personal assets remain separate.”
The air in the room instantly turned cold.
Felix sat up straight, his face darkening. “A waiver? Mom, we’ve been married for less than a week! Are you seriously bringing lawyers into this now?”
“It’s standard procedure for a high-net-worth estate, Felix,” I replied smoothly. “If Rya is truly sincere about not wanting my money, signing it shouldn't be an issue.”
Rya’s smile faltered, a tiny muscle near her jaw twitching violently. “Of course... if that’s what it takes to earn your trust, Dela. Have your lawyers send it over.”
She was playing the long game. She thought she could outsmart a woman who had navigated cutthroat real-estate boardrooms for three decades.
“I’ll have Marcus draft it today,” I said.
After Felix led his tearful bride out of my apartment, I sat down at my desk and pulled out the first manila folder Marcus Chen had compiled.
I opened the tab labeled Rya Vance: Financial History.
What I saw inside made my blood run colder than the winter rain outside my window.
Rya hadn't learned about my three-billion-dollar net worth at the wedding reception.
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Three months before she ever met my son at a coffee shop in downtown Chicago, she had paid a private investigator $15,000 to trace the ownership records of Morrison Holdings.
She knew exactly who I was before she ever said hello to Felix.
