Going to have a girl, we need an heir, he said, and walked out. Twentyfive years later his firm went bust, and my daughter bought it out.
A tiny pink bundle let out a squeak in the hospital cot, soft as a kittens.
Victor Andrew Peters didnt even turn his head. He stared out the big window of the maternity ward at the grey, rainslicked Oxford Street.
Youve had a girl, he announced, his voice flat as a market report. No emotion, just the kind of tone you hear when a stock moves.
Emma swallowed. The pain from the birth still throbbed, mingling with a cold, stiff shock.
We need an heir, he added, still watching the street.
It wasnt a rebuke, it felt like a verdictfinal, unappealable, handed down by a board that consisted of just one man.
He finally turned. His suit was immaculate, not a crease in sight. His gaze flicked over Emma, then the baby, and moved onempty, detached.
Ill sort everything. The maintenance will be generous. You can give her my surname.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
Emma looked at her daughterlittle, freckled, a tuft of dark hair. She didnt cry; tears were a luxury she couldnt afford in PetersCapital. She would raise the child on her own.
Twentyfive years passed.
In those years Victor built his empire with glass and steel towers bearing his name. Hed already secured his heirstwo boys, James and Oliver, from his new, perfectly suitable wife. They grew up where a whim could be fulfilled with a snap of the fingers, and the word no didnt exist.
Emma Ormond had learned to survive on four hours of sleep a night. First she worked double shifts to pay for a rented flat, then she started a tiny seamstress business that grew from sleepless nights at a sewing machine into a modest but successful designerclothing factory.
She never spoke badly of Victor. When her daughtereveryone called her Mabelasked why, she answered calmly:
Your father had other plans. We didnt fit them.
Mabel understood. Shed seen Victor on magazine coverscold, confident, pictureperfect. She carried his surname, but kept her mothers name, Ormond.
When Mabel was seventeen, they ran into each other in a theatre lobby. Victor was there with his porcelainperfect wife and two bored sons, trailing a scent of expensive cologne. He passed right by them, not even noticing. A hollow space where recognition should have been.
That evening Mabel said nothing, but Emma saw something change in her daughters eyessomething that resembled Victors.
Mabel graduated with top marks in economics, then earned an MBA in London. Emma sold her share of the business to fund the studies, not a moments hesitation.
The daughter returned, sharpened like a hawk. She spoke three languages, could read market data better than most analysts, and had her fathers iron gripplus a heart and a purpose he never had.
She joined a major banks analysis team, starting at the bottom. Her mind was too keen to stay hidden. Within a year she warned the board about a housing bubble everyone thought was solid. They laughed, but six months later the market crashed, dragging several big funds down. The bank pulled out just in time and made a tidy profit.
Her reputation grew. She began advising private investors tired of sluggish giants like PetersCapital. She spotted undervalued assets, predicted bankruptcies, acted ahead of the curve. Mabel Ormond became synonymous with bold, meticulously planned strategies.
Meanwhile, PetersCapital was rotting from within.
Victor was getting older. His grip weakened, but his pride stayed. He ignored the digital revolution, dismissing tech startups as childish games. He poured billions into outdated sectorssteel, raw materials, luxury property that no one wanted any more.
His latest project, the massive Peters Plaza office block, turned out to be useless in the age of remote work. Empty floors were bleeding money.
His sons wasted cash in clubs, unable to tell debit from credit.
The empire was sinking, slowly but inexorably.
One evening Mabel walked into the kitchen with her laptop open, graphs and numbers filling the screen.
Mum, I want to buy the controlling stake in PetersCapital. Its at rock bottom. Ive gathered a pool of investors for this.
Emma stared at her daughters determined face.
Why? Revenge? she asked.
Mabel smiled. Revenge is an emotion. Im offering a business solution. The asset is toxic, but it can be cleaned, reshaped, and made profitable again.
She looked straight at Emma. He built all this for an heir. Looks like the heir finally showed up.
The purchase offer, under the banner of a newly created Phoenix Group, landed on Victors desk like a grenade with a pulled pin. He read it once, then twice, and tossed the papers across his mahoganypaneled office.
Who are they? he barked into his phone. Where did they come from?
Security scrambled, lawyers stayed up all night. The answer was simple: a small, aggressive investment fund with a spotless reputation, headed by a certain Mabel Ormond.
The name meant nothing to him.
In the boardroom panic erupted. The price was insulting, but it was real. No other bids. Banks refused credit, partners walked away.
This is a hostile takeover! shouted the senior deputy. We must fight!
Victor raised his hand and the room fell silent.
Ill meet her. Personally. Lets see what kind of bird this is.
The meeting was set in a glass conference room on the top floor of a bank.
Mabel arrived exactly on time, poised, wearing a sharp trouser suit that fit like a second skin. Two robotlike lawyers flanked her.
Victor sat at the head of the table, expecting some seasoned businesswoman or a brash young man, but instead he saw a young, striking woman with grey eyes that seemed eerily familiar.
Victor Andrew, she said, offering a firm handshake. Mabel Ormond.
He tried to break her composure with a patronising tone, using her fathers middle name. She didnt flinch.
The proposal is brave, Mabel Victorson, he said. What are you counting on?
On your insight, she replied, her voice as steady as his had been in that maternity ward years ago.
We both know your position is precarious. Were not offering the highest price, but were offering it now. In a month, no one will be interested.
She placed a tablet on the table. Numbers, charts, forecastsdry facts that struck like blows. Every figure was a nail in the coffin of his empire. She knew every mistake, every failing project, every debt. She dissected his business with surgical precision.
Where did you get this data? he asked, losing some of his confidence.
My sources are part of my job, she said with a faint smile. Your security system, like much of your company, is outdated. You built a fortress but forgot to change the locks.
He tried to leverage his connections, threaten with administrative power, demand the names of her investors. She parried each move with calm certainty.
Your connections are now busy keeping themselves away from you. The only resource against you is the market itself. Youll learn the names of my backers when you sign the papers.
It was a crushing defeat. Victor, who had spent a quarter of a century building that empire, sat opposite a woman who was dismantling it piece by piece.
That night he called his head of security. I need everything on her. Every detailwhere she was born, where she studied, who shes with. Flip her life upside down. I want to know whos behind her.
The search lasted two days. In that time PetersCapitals shares fell another ten percent.
The security chief entered Victors office, pale, and placed a thin file on the desk.
Victor Andrew theres something here
Victor snatched the file. It read:
Ormond, Mabel Victordaughter. Date of birth: 12 April. Place of birth: Maternity Ward No5. Mother: Ormond, EmmaIan().
Below was a photocopy of the birth certificate. In the Father linea dash.
Victor stared at the date, 12April. He remembered that dayrain, the grey street outside the window, the words hed spoken.
He looked up at his security chief. Whos her mother?
We havent found much. She ran a small tailoring business, sold her share a few years ago.
Victor reclined, and for a moment he saw the young, exhausted face of Emma after the birththe same face hed tried to erase twentyfive years ago.
All this time hed been hunting for the puppetmaster behind his heir. The answer turned out to be a woman he never knewEmma Ormond. And the daughterhis own.
The realization didnt bring remorse, only a cold fury and a calculation.
Hed lost the battle as a businessman, but he could still try to win the war as a father. The title hed never used suddenly seemed his trump card.
He got Emmas private number from his assistant and called.
Mabel, he said, for the first time using her name, his voice softer, almost warm. We need to talk. Not as rivals, but as father and daughter.
Silence answered the line.
I dont have a father, Victor Andrew. All the business matters are settled. My lawyers are waiting for your decision.
This isnt just about business. Its about family. Our family.
He didnt believe his own words, but he knew which levers to pull.
She agreed.
They met in a pricey, almost empty restaurant. Victor arrived first and ordered her favourite flowerswhite freesias, the ones her mother loved. He remembered that detail.
Mabel walked in, didnt even glance at the bouquet, sat opposite him.
Im listening, she said.
He began, I made a mistakean awful, ruinous mistake twentyfive years ago. I was young, ambitious, foolish. I thought I was building a dynasty, but I was destroying the only thing that mattered.
His words were smooth, a polished lie wrapped in a fine suit.
The heir you need isnt the one you can point at. An heir is someone you raise, believe in, lovenot a name on a balance sheet.
Mabels eyes narrowed. Youre not offering a legacy; youre looking for a lifeline. You see me as an asset to pull your sinking ships out of water. You havent changed, just your tactics.
Victors mask cracked.
Ungrateful, he snapped. Im offering you an empire!
Its a tower on clay legs, Mabel replied. You built it on pride, not a solid foundation. I dont want it as a gift. Ill buy it at its true worth.
She stood. By the way, my mum liked wild daisies, not freesias. You never paid attention to that.
His final move was desperate. He turned up at Emmas house unannounced, his black limo looking like a foreign monster in the quiet garden.
Emma opened the door, stunned. She hadnt seen Victor that close in twentyfive years. He looked olderwrinkles at the corners of his eyes, silver in his hairbut his gaze was the same, assessing.
Emma he began.
Go on, Victor, she said calmly, as if it were a fact.
Listen, our daughter shes making a mistake! Shes ruining everything! Talk to her! Youre her mother, you should stop her!
Emma smiled bitterly. I am her mother. I carried her for forty weeks, sleepless nights while she screamed. I walked her to school, cried at her graduation. I sold everything to give her the best education. And you where were you all those years, Victor?
He was silent.
You cant call her our daughter. Shes only mine. Im proud of who shes become. Now, go.
She shut the door on him.
A week later the paperwork was signed in the very tower where Victors office used to be. The sign at the entrance now read: Phoenix Group European Headquarters.
Victor walked back into his former office. It was emptyno heavy furniture, no paintings, just a desk.
Mabel sat there, documents spread before her. He took a pen, signed the last page, and everything ended.
He looked up at her, the anger and power gone, leaving only emptiness and one question.
Why?
Mabel stared at him, the same way hed once looked at the newborn.
Twentyfive years ago you came into that delivery room and decided I was a defective asset, unfit as an heir.
She rose, walked to the floortoceiling window overlooking the city.
I didnt seek revenge. I just reevaluated the assets. Both your company and your sons failed the stress test. I passed.
She turned back. You were right about one thing, Dad. You needed an heir. You just couldnt see her.
Leaving the building that no longer bore his name, Victor felt lost for the first time in decades. The driver opened the limo doors, but he waved them off and walked away on foot.
He drifted through the streets, strangers eyes no longer feeding his ego but offering a mix of pity and amusement. He was yesterdays headline.
He got home late. The huge living room was filled with his wife and two sonsJames and Oliver.
Whats up? his wife asked, not putting her phone down. Did you sort that tramp?
He bought it all, Victor muttered.
How? What about our money? My accounts are frozen! Do you even realise what youve done?! his wife shouted.
Dad, they promised me a new car, Oliver interjected, eyes glued to his game console. Is it still on?
James stared at Victor with thinlyveiled contempt.
I knew youd mess it up, he said quietly.
The family that had been a showcase of success turned out to be just a consumer base for the brand PetersCapital. The brand vanished, and their true faces emerged.
That night Victor realised he was bankrupt not just financially, but as a person.
The first board meeting of the new company, Ormond Industries, began with Mabel addressing the executives.
From today were called Ormond Industries, she announced. Were shedding everything that drags us into a toxic past. Our strategy is sustainable growth and innovation. People, not profit, are our main asset.
She didnt fire anyone en masse. Instead she launched a full audit, exposing the inefficient schemes and grey money streams her father had built. The old system was ruthless; the new one was fair.
That evening she drove back to her mothers house in her modest old sedan. Emma was in the kitchen.
Tough day? she asked, setting down dinner.
Turning point, Mabel replied. Ive taken his name off the sign forever.
Emma nodded silently.
Dont you regret it? she asked softly.
Regret what? Mabel smiled.
About him, Emma said. Hes still your father, after all.
Mabel set her fork down. Hes my biological father. Fatherhood is yours. You taught me the biggest lesson: to create, not to take; to love, not to use. Thats how my company will run.
Six months later Ormond Industries wasnt just survivingit was thriving. New investors poured in, several startups launched, and a corporate fund was set up to support mumentrepreneurs.
Victor Peters was all but forgotten. Hed split from his wife, who kept the remnants of their luxury. His sons, unable to live independently, asked Mabel for money and were politely turned down by her secretary.
One afternoon Emma, strolling through a park, saw Victor feeding pigeons on a bench. He didnt notice her.
She walked past without looking back. There was no anger, no sweet revengejust a quiet sorrow for a man who lost everything chasing a phantom he imagined.
Later, in the penthouse that used to be his office, Mabel gazed over the glittering city. She didnt feel like a victor; she felt like a builder.
Shed achieved what Victor had dreamed for his sonsnothing of the money or power, but the right to shape the future.
Twentyfive years later, the Ormond Innovation Hub buzzed like a beehive. Hundreds of young people in casual dress roamed the glasswalled corridors, debating projects, arguing over whiteboards covered in formulas and sketches. The air crackled with creation.
Mabel walked the corridors, greeted simply, no pretence. She knew many by name, asked about their ideas, and dived into details. Shed built a company that was the opposite of her fathersinitiative over obedience, talent over nepotism.
She never married, but her personal life wasnt empty. Her partner, an architect, saw her as more than a CEOa woman. Their relationship was a partnership of respect, not a contract.
Emma also transformed her old workshop into a creative studio, not just a means to survive. She crafted exclusive pieces for a small circle of enthusiasts, finding peace and joy in the work. Twice a year she and Mabel took short tripsto Italy, to the Lake Districtjust to breathe.
One evening, on a terrace overlooking the western sea, Emma asked, Do you ever think of him?
Mabel didnt answer straight away, watching the sun dip below the horizon.
Sometimes, she finally said. Not as a father, but as an example of what not to become. He spent his whole life chasing the perfect heir, never realising a legacy isnt shares or factories, its the values you pass on. He passed nothing, and thats why he lost everything.
Victor Andrew Peters ended up living in a modest retirement home near London, hisIn the quiet of his final days, Victor finally understood that the only inheritance he truly left behind was the lesson that ambition untethered from love and humility crumbles to dust.
