The next morning, Milan Vanquez stepped out of her mansion, every inch of her posture carved from composure. Her black suit caught the light like oil, her hair bound in a low knot that declared control. Behind her, the mansion gates whispered shut, sealing away the echo of the boy who hadn't met her eyes since breakfast.
"Mistress," Dario greeted, opening the rear door. His voice was even, respectful. He never pried, though his eyes caught too much.
Milan slid into the car . The car roared to life. The city vibrant and beautiful. For a long moment she watched the skyline—the same skyline she had once fled, the same one she had conquered from afar.
"Agenda?" she asked.
"Meeting with Valcrest Holdings. Adrian Keane himself," Dario replied, scrolling through his tablet. "He's expecting you in thirty minutes."
"Good. Let's not keep him waiting."
Her tone could have cut glass. But her reflection in the window betrayed her. Her eyes were softer than her words, mind drifting to the child she had left behind. Liam hadn't spoken after she had told him to stay home. He simply nodded and turned away, as if she were another stranger in her own house.
She clenched her hands which was on her lap, a habit she hadn't indulged in years. He's seven. Seven, and already slipping away.
The car rolled to a stop before a skyscraper in mirrored panels. The Valcrest logo—two intersecting wings—gleamed above the entrance. She adjusted her blazer, mask of command snapping back into place.
They entered into the building and met Adrian Keane already waiting in the private boardroom, the city sprawling behind him in the floor-to-ceiling glass. He was in his mid-forties, sharply dressed, he exuded the kind of calm demeanor that came from wielding quiet power.
"Lady Vanquez," he said, offering a hand. "An honor, finally."
"The honor is yours," she returned smoothly, taking the seat opposite him. Dario remained by the wall—silent, unmovable.
Adrian smiled faintly, unoffended. "Straight to business, then. Your new shipping line is drawing interest. Valcrest is prepared to invest—if we understand your terms."
"My terms are simple," Milan said. "You keep your capital clean, and your curiosity cleaner."
That earned a short laugh from Adrian. "Direct. I appreciate that. But transparency—at least in paper—is important to my shareholders."
Milan leaned forward, her voice calm yet steady. "Transparency is a Myth, Mr. Keane. What matters is perception. You need someone who can make your numbers sing while your hands stay white. I can do that."
Silence ensued. Adrian's eyes measured her. Dario's phone vibrated once—barely audible—but he didn't move.
"Tell me," Adrian said finally, "why rebuild here? After all that history?"
For a femtosecond, Milan's mask flickered. "Because ashes are a good foundation, Mr. Keane. They remind you what happens when you burn the wrong bridges."
Dario's gaze flickered toward her, yet he said nothing. The conversation continued—contracts, routes, shares—but her words moved automatically now. Her mind had already drifted back to the mansion, to the quiet boy with his mother's temper and his father's eyes.
Meanwhile,
Back at the Vanquez estate, Liam sat before a sleek silver laptop, his legs folded on the chair. A half-eaten sandwich lay on the table completely forgotten beside him.
"Okay!!" he murmured, chewing his lip. "Dad's headquarters… firewall, version fourteen. Same pattern. He didn't change it."
Lines of code rained across the screen, reflected in his bright eyes. His small fingers moved with focus far too precise for his age—his mother's precision, his father's logic.
He missed a trace route. He adjusted his codes, then rerouted through a public server, hid behind three dummy IPs.
The system blinked red, then green. Access granted.
He exhaled, grinning. "Told you, old man."
Inside Milwaukee Enterprises, a silent alarm flagged the breach, redirecting it straight to Ryan Varun Milwaukee's system.
Ryan stared at the alert.
His eyes squinted dangerously, Unauthorized access: internal firewall breached. Source—unknown. Pattern signature: 0xL-7A.
He's brain searched who it could be then...
He froze. That tag—the childish code of numbers and letters— L-7A… Liam, age seven.
Air left his lungs. For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the glowing screen. Then a small chat window appeared—minimalist, untraceable.
Liam: "Long time Dad"
Ryan could hear the obvious mockery in his son voice.
Liam; "Let's meet, I'll wait by the old intersection."
Ryan's fingers trembled once before stilling. His reflection in the monitor looked older than he remembered—lined, tired, haunted by mistakes he couldn't undo.
He typed back, carefully.
Liam, is this really you?
"Tsk....tsk...this old man," Liam clicked his tongue. "Who else old man."
Ryan closed his eyes briefly. The weight in his chest shifted—pain, relief, fear, all at once. "Okay." He stated simply
"See you soon, old man." Liam sent and deleted everything closing his system.
Ryan rose from his chair, every movement deliberate. His assistant looked up as he passed.
"Cancel my next meeting," he said quietly. "Something's come up."
He took the elevator down, his pulse steady but fast. "After all these years....." He muttered under his breath.
Liam sneaked out of the house bypassing all the security system and hailed a taxi.
The intersection lay just beyond the city's old district. Late afternoon light filtered through the overpass, turning the air gold.
Liam waited near a rusted bench, hoodie drawn up. He looked impossibly small against the vast concrete arches. Every passing car made him glance up hopefully.
A black SUV slowed, stopped across the street.
The door opened. Ryan stepped out.
For a moment, neither moved. Seven years of silence stretched between them like a fault line. Liam then....walked towards Ryan, his step slow yet deliberately.
Ryan's throat tightened. As he studied the child's face—the sharp jaw, the stubborn eyes. Milan's son, he thought, and mine.
"Let's get into the car," Liam said curtly.
Ryan looked at his son in admiration.
For a moment, they simply stood there—two shadows framed by golden light, the world beyond them fading. "Does Mom know?" Ryan asked finally.
Liam's face fell. "No. She'll be mad.
Ryan exhaled slowly, torn between pride and guilt. "She had her reasons, Liam. Your mom's stronger than you think."
"I know," the boy said quietly. "She's just… sad."
The words struck deeper than he expected. Ryan placed his hand on Liam shoulder, "You shouldn't have done this, but… thank you for finding me."
Liam frowned, removing his arm, "Don't get too excited." Let's go somewhere more private.
Ryan hesitated. Every instinct screamed yes, but another voice—Milan's—echoed in his head. You've done enough damage.
"Not today," he said finally. "You go home. I'll talk to your mother soon. The right way this time."
Liam frowned. "If you say so, he shrugged casually but lemme state this clear, "Don't you ever try to sabotage my Mom business or else...."
"No arguments, hacker." Ryan smiled faintly. "Get in. I'll drive you close enough that no one sees."
They drove in silence through the city, past the districts where towers met the hum of life. Ryan glanced at the boy through the rearview mirror. Liam was watching the city like someone half-in it, half-dreaming.
"Tell me about her," Ryan said quietly.
"She works a lot. People listen when she talks. But… she doesn't smile much anymore."
Ryan swallowed hard. "She used to. Once."
When they reached the outer edge of the Vanquez district, Ryan pulled over. "From here," he said softly, "you can walk. Dario's men will spot you soon."
Liam nodded, already knowing. Alighting from the car.
Ryan reached into his coat and pulled out a small data chip. "Next time you break into my system, use this key. It'll open the secure channel. No one else will see it."
Liam's eyes squinted . " I don't need it," he refused coldly
Ryan smiled. "I know—just want you to have it."
Liam pocketed it carefully, then opened the door. Before stepping out, he turned back. "Dad?"
"Yes?"
"I think Mom still cares. She just doesn't remember how."
Ryan didn't answer. He watched his son disappear down the quiet road, small figure framed against the fading light.
The mansion was too quiet that evening when Milan arrived. Milan didn't need anyone to tell her where her son had been.
The scent of city air clung faintly to his jacket, and the small scuff on his shoes wasn't from any hall within their estate. A mother knew these things—not through evidence, but through pulse. She caught the butler glancing at her when she entered the foyer, his throat tight with the weight of something unsaid. It was enough.
Her eyes swept the marble floor, every movement composed. "Is Liam asleep?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied too quickly.
Milan gave a small nod. No anger. No tremor.
The storm stayed behind her ribs, where it belonged. She dismissed the butler with a gesture and ascended the grand staircase alone, her heels whispering against the steps.