Victor, youve just had a girl. We need an heir, he said, then walked out. Twentyfive years later his firm went bust, and my daughter bought it.
A tiny pink bundle in the hospitals linen hissed, as delicate as a kitten.
Victor Andrew Peterson didnt even turn his head. He stared out of the large maternity ward window at the grey, rainslicked Oxford Street.
Youve just had a girl, he announced, his voice flat, the kind of tone you hear when a stock exchange trembles or a boardroom meeting is postponed. Pure fact, no emotion.
Emma swallowed. The pain of childbirth still throbbed, mingling with a cold numbness.
We need an heir, he added, never blinking from the window.
It wasnt a rebuke so much as a verdictan unappealable decision from a board that consisted of a single man.
At last he turned. His immaculate suit was without a crease. His gaze swept over Emma, then the infant, and lingered on nothing. Empty.
Ill take care of everything. The maintenance will be generous. You can give her my name.
The door shut behind him with a soft click, the kind of hardware you hear in a hotel.
Emma looked at her daughtertiny, wrinkled, a dark tuft of hair on her head. She didnt cry; tears were a luxury she could not afford in the world of PetersonCapital, where weakness was unforgiven.
She would raise her alone.
Twentyfive years passed.
In those twentyfive years Victor Peterson turned his empire into a series of mergers, takeovers and relentless growth. He built the glassandsteel towers that bore his surname on their façades.
He finally had heirstwo boys, Harry and George, from his new, proper wife. They grew up in a world where any whim could be satisfied with a snap of the fingers, where the word no simply did not exist.
Emma Perry had learned to sleep only four hours a night. She started on the night shift to pay for a rented flat, then turned her sleepless evenings at a sewing machine into a modest fashion label, which grew into a small yet successful designerwear factory.
She never spoke ill of Victor. When her daughter Blythe asked why, she answered calmly:
Your father had other goals. We didnt fit them.
Blythe understood. She had seen Victor on magazine coverscold, confident, flawless. She carried his surname, but kept her mothers name, Perry.
When Blythe turned seventeen, they ran into each other in a theatre lobby.
Victor walked with his porcelainwalled wife and two bored sons, leaving a trail of expensive cologne behind him. He didnt even recognise them. The space where his son should have been was empty.
That night Blythe said nothing, but Emma saw a change in her daughters eyesthose same eyes that mirrored Victors.
Blythe graduated with a firstclass economics degree, then earned an MBA in London. Emma sold her share of the business to fund her daughters studies, never hesitating for a moment.
Blythe returned as a driven, predatory force. She spoke three languages, outanalysed market analysts, and wielded a steel grip like her fathers.
But she possessed something he never hada heart and a purpose.
She started in the analyst department of a large bank, working her way up from the bottom. Within a year her sharp mind could not stay hidden. She warned the board of a looming propertymarket bubble that everyone assumed was stable. They laughed. Six months later the market collapsed, dragging several big funds down. The bank she worked for had already offloaded the risky assets and profited from the crash.
Her reputation surged. She began consulting for private investors tired of sluggish giants like PetersonCapital. Blythe spotted undervalued assets, predicted bankruptcies and moved ahead of the curve. Her name, Blythe Perry, became synonymous with bold yet meticulously planned strategies.
Meanwhile, PetersonCapital rotted from within.
Victor grew older. His onceiron grip slackened, but his arrogance remained. He dismissed the digital revolution as a childrens game, pouring billions into outdated sectorssteel, raw materials, luxury realestate that no longer sold.
His flagship project, the massive office complex Peterson Plaza, proved useless in an era of remote work, its empty floors bleeding money. His sons squandered cash in nightclubs, unable to tell debit from credit. The empire was sinking, slowly but inevitably.
One evening Blythe walked into the kitchen with her laptop open, charts and reports filling the screen.
Mother, I want to buy a controlling stake in PetersonCapital. Its at rock bottom. Ive assembled a group of investors for the job, she said.
Emma stared at her daughters determined face.
Why? Revenge? she asked.
Revenge is an emotion. Im offering a business solution. Its assets are toxic, but they can be cleansed, reshaped, and made profitable again, Blythe replied, meeting Emmas eyes.
The founder built this for an heir. Looks like the heir finally arrived, she added.
The offer, made under the newly created Phoenix Group, landed on Victors desk like a bomb.
He read it once, then twice, before tossing the papers across his mahoganypanelled office.
What is this? Who are they? he barked into the intercom. Where did they come from?
Security swarmed, lawyers stayed up all night. The answer was simple: a small, aggressive investment fund with a spotless reputation, headed by a certain Blythe Perry.
The name meant nothing to him.
In the boardroom panic erupted. The price was laughably low, but it was the only offer. Banks refused credit, partners turned away.
Its 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.
Negotiations were set in a glass conference room on the top floor of a city bank.
Blythe entered precisely on time, neither early nor late, calm and composed in a sharp trousers suit, flanked by two robotlike lawyers.
Victor sat at the head of the table, expecting a seasoned businesswoman or a brash youngster, not her. She was young, beautiful, and her grey eyes held a painful familiarity.
Victor Andrew Peterson, she said, extending a firm handshake. Blythe Perry.
He tried to pierce her professional veneer, but she did not flinch.
Bold proposal, Miss Perry Peterson, he punctuated her surname, attempting to belittle her. What do you expect?
Your insight, she replied, her voice as level as his had been in the delivery room.
You understand your position is precarious. Were not offering top price, but well take it now. In a month no one will want it, she said, laying a tablet on the table. Numbers, graphs, forecastscold facts.
Each figure was a slap, each chart 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? Victor asked, a hint of doubt breaking through.
My sources are part of my job, she smiled thinly. Your security is as outdated as the rest of your company. 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 icy confidence.
Your connections are now busy avoiding you. The only resource against you is the market itself. Youll learn the names of my backers when you sign.
It was a total defeat, unequivocal. Victor, who had spent a quartercentury building the 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 detail. Where she was born, where she studied, who she sleeps with. Turn her life upside down. I want to know whos behind her.
Two days of digging saw PetersonCapitals share price fall another ten percent.
The security chief entered the office, pale, and placed a thin dossier on the desk.
Victor Andrew Peterson theres something here
Peterson snatched the file.
Birth certificate: Blythe Perry, born 12 April, Hospital No5, mother: Emma Perry. Father: (blank).
He stared at the date12April. He remembered that rainy day, the grey street outside the window, the words he had spoken.
He looked up at his security chief.
Who is her mother?
We found little about her. She ran a small sewing business, sold her share years ago, the chief replied.
Victor leaned back. A fleeting image of a young, exhausted woman after childbirth flashed before his eyesthe same face he had tried to erase twentyfive years earlier.
All this time he had been searching for the hand that pulled the strings, the male force behind the puppet. The truth was a woman he never saw: Emma Perry, his exwife. And their daughterhis daughter.
The rightful heir he had cast aside.
The realization did not bring remorse, only cold fury and a calculated plan.
He had lost the battle as a businessman, but he could still try to win as a father. The title he never used suddenly seemed his trump card.
He called Blythe on the private number his assistant had found.
Blythe, he said, for the first time without the formal address. His voice was softer, almost warm. We need to talk. Not as rivals, but as father and daughter.
Silence answered the line.
I have no father, Victor Andrew, she replied. Weve already discussed the business. My lawyers await your decision.
This is about more than business. Its about family. Our family.
He didnt believe his own words, but he was a master negotiator and knew which strings to tug.
She agreed to meet.
They chose a highend, nearly empty restaurant. Victor arrived first and ordered her favourite flowerswhite freesia, the ones her mother loved. Memory had been generous.
Blythe entered without glancing at the bouquet, sat opposite him.
Im listening, she said.
He began, I made a terrible mistake twentyfive years ago. I was young, ambitious, foolish. I thought I was building a dynasty, but I was destroying the only thing that truly mattered.
His words were smooth, a blend of regret and selfjustification, as polished as his suit.
I want to fix it. Withdraw your offer. Ill make you the full heirCEO, owner, everything, legally. My sons arent ready. Youre my blood. Youre the true Peterson.
He extended his hand across the table.
Blythe pulled away.
A heir is someone who is raised, believed in, loved. Not someone mentioned when the business falters, she said softly, each word striking like a whip. Youre not offering a legacy; youre looking for a lifeline. You havent changed, only your tactics.
His mask cracked.
Ungrateful, he hissed. Im giving you an empire!
The empire you built is a tower on fragile legs. I wont take it as a gift. Ill buy it at its true worth, she replied.
She rose. And about the flowers My mother liked daisies, not freesia. You never bothered to notice.
Victor, desperate, drove to Emmas house in a black limousine, an alien monster in a quiet suburban culdesac.
Emma opened the door, stunned. She saw the man she hadnt faced in twentyfive years, older, with wrinkles and silver hair, but the same evaluating gaze.
Emma he began.
Leave, Victor, she said calmly, with no anger, just 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, watched her graduate, watched her marry, watched her fight. Where were you all those years, Victor?
He fell silent.
You have no right to call her our daughter. She is mine alone. Im proud of who she has become. Now, go.
She shut the door.
A week later the signing took place in the very skyscraper that once housed Victors office. The plaque at the entrance now read Phoenix Group European Headquarters.
Victor entered his former office. It was empty. The heavy furniture, paintings, personal trinkets were gone, leaving only a desk.
Blythe sat at that desk, documents spread before her. He sat down, took a pen, and signed the final page. It was over.
He looked at her. No fury, no powerjust emptiness and a single question.
Why?
Blythe stared at him, the same steady gaze he once had at the newborn.
Twentyfive years ago you walked into a delivery room and decided I was an unsuitable asseta defective product that didnt meet your heir criteria.
She rose, walked to the panoramic window overlooking the city.
I didnt seek revenge. I simply reassessed the assets. Your company, your sons, even you failed the durability test. I passed.
She turned back.
You were right about one thing, Father. 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 world that had revolved around his ego was shattered. The driver opened the limo doors, but Victor walked away on foot.
He wandered the streets, strangers recognising him, whispering behind his back. Once those glances had fed his ego; now they seemed pitying, mocking, fleeting. He became yesterdays headline.
He got home late. The massive lounge was occupied by his wife and two sonsHarry and George.
So? his wife asked, tearing herself from a phone call, irritation in her tone. Did you sort that opportunist?
She bought everything, Victor replied hoarsely.
How? What about our money? My accounts are frozen! Do you realise what youve done?!
My dad promised me a new car, interjected the younger son, George, not looking up from his game console. Is it still on?
The older brother, Harry, stared at his father with contempt.
I knew youd fail, he said quietly.
The family that had been a showroom for Victors success turned out to be just consumers of the brand PetersonCapital. The brand vanished, and they showed their true faces.
That night Victor realised he was bankrupt not only financially but as a human being.
The first board meeting of the rebranded company, now Perry Industries, began with Blythes announcement.
From today we are Perry Industries, she told the executives. We will shed everything that drags us into a toxic past. Our strategy is sustainable growth and innovation. Our main asset is people, not expendable material.
She did not fire masses. Instead she launched a full audit, exposing the inefficient schemes and greymoney streams her father had erected. The old system was ruthless; the new one was fair.
That evening she drove to her mothers house in her modest sedan, not a chauffeurdriven car.
Hard day? Emma asked, setting dinner on the table.
Turning point, Blythe replied. Ive taken his name off the sign forever.
Emma nodded silently.
Dont you regret? she asked softly.
Regret what?
That him, Emma said. Hes still your father.
Blythe put down her fork.
Hes my biological father. Fatherhood is a choice. You taught me the main thing: to create, not to take; to love, not to use. Thats how my company will be.
Six months later Perry Industries not only survivedit thrived. Blythe attracted new investors, launched several successful startups, and set up a corporate fund supporting motherentrepreneurs.
Victor Peterson was almost forgotten. He divorced his wife, who kept the remnants of his luxury. His sons, unable to fend for themselves, begged Blythe for money and were politely refused by her secretary.
One day Emma, strolling in the park, saw Victor sitting alone on a bench, an ordinary elderly man in a worn coat feeding pigeons.
He didnt notice her.
She walked past without looking back. No rage, no sweet revengejust a quiet sorrow for a man who lost everything chasing a phantom he had imagined.
Later, in the penthouse that once was his office, Blythe gazed at the glittering city. She didnt feel like a victor; she felt like a builder.
She had achieved what Victor had dreamed for his sonsnot wealth or power, but the right to shape the future.
The heir finally claimed her rights.
Five years later the innovation hub of Perry Industries buzzed like a busy beehive. Hundreds of young people in casual wear roamed glasswalled corridors, arguing passionately over projects, charts, and prototypes.
The air hummed with creation.
Blythe walked the corridors, greeted simply, without pretence.
She knew many by name, asked about their ideas, and cared for details. She had built a company that was the antithesis of her fathersinitiative was prized over blind obedience, talent over family ties.
She never married, but her personal life was not empty. A reliable architect partner stood beside her, seeing her not only as a CEO but as a woman. Their union was partnership, not a transaction.
Emma also changed. She revived her old atelier, now a creative workshop rather than a survival craft. She sewed exclusive piecesAnd as the sun set over the Thames, Emma smiled, knowing that the legacy she had nurtured would outlive any empire, thriving in the hands of those who dared to love and create.
