Youve given birth to 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 whined in the hospital cot, thin as a newborn kitten.
Victor Edward Peterson didnt even turn his head. He stared out the large window of the maternity ward at the grey, rainslicked Oxford Street.
Youve given birth to a girl, he said, his voice even, devoid of feeling the same tone you hear when a stock exchange trembles or a boardroom meeting is postponed. Just a statement of fact.
Olivia swallowed. The pain from the delivery still throbbed, mixing with a cold, numbing stillness.
We need an heir, he added, never blinking from the window.
The words were not a rebuke; they were a verdict, a final, irrevocable decision of a board that consisted of a single man.
At last he turned. His immaculate suit was flawless, a single crease absent. His gaze slid over Olivia, over the infant then stopped. Empty eyes.
Ill sort everything. The alimony will be respectable. You can give her my surname.
The door behind him shut silent as a whisper. A soft click.
Olivia looked at her daughter a little wrinkled face, a dark tuft of hair atop her head. She didnt cry; tears were a forbidden luxury, a sign of weakness the Peterson empire would never tolerate.
She would raise her alone.
Twentyfive years passed.
In those twentyfive years Victor Peterson turned his empire into a parade of mergers, takeovers and ruthless expansion. Glassandsteel towers bearing his name rose across the city.
He had finally secured successors two boys, Henry and George, by his new, proper wife. They grew up in a world where any whim was granted with a snap of the fingers and the word no simply did not exist.
Olivia Orton, meanwhile, 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 in the evenings, a modest workshop that grew into a small, but thriving, designerclothing factory.
She never spoke ill of Victor. When her daughter everyone called her Poppy asked why, she answered calmly and honestly:
Your father had other plans. We didnt fit them.
Poppy understood everything. She saw him on magazine covers cold, confident, flawless. She bore his first name, but kept her mothers surname Orton.
When Poppy was seventeen, fate tossed them together in a theatre foyer.
Victor Peterson entered with his porcelainperfect wife and two bored sons, a cloud of expensive cologne trailing behind him. He passed them without a second glance, his presence a hollow void.
That night Poppy said nothing, but Olivia watched something shift forever in the girls eyes eyes that mirrored his own.
Poppy graduated with top honours in economics, then earned an MBA in London. Olivia sold her share of the business to fund her daughters education, never hesitating a second.
The daughter returned, honed into a predator. She spoke three languages, read market reports better than most analysts, and possessed Victors iron grip. Yet she also carried a heart and a purpose he never had.
She took a junior analyst role at a major bank, quickly rising. Her mind was too sharp to stay in the shadows. After a year she presented the board with a report on a looming housingmarket bubble that everyone dismissed. Six months later the market crashed, dragging down several large funds. The bank, thanks to her warning, liquidated assets and profited.
Investors noticed. She began advising private backers the weary who were fed up with slowmoving giants like Peterson Capital. She uncovered undervalued assets, predicted bankruptcies, moved ahead of the curve. Her name, Poppy Orton, became synonymous with bold yet meticulously planned strategies.
Meanwhile, Peterson Capital began to rot from within.
Victor, now older, clung to his arrogance. He ignored the digital revolution, dismissing tech startups as childs play. He poured billions into outdated sectors steel, raw materials, luxury real estate that no one wanted any more.
His latest flagship the massive office complex Peterson Plaza sat halfempty in an age of remote work, bleeding money.
His sons squandered cash in nightclubs, unable to tell debit from credit.
The empire was sinking, slowly but inexorably.
One evening Poppy came to her mother with a laptop open to charts and reports.
Mother, I want to buy a controlling stake in Peterson Capital. Its at rock bottom. Ive assembled a syndicate.
Emily stared at her daughters determined face.
Why now, Poppy? Revenge?
Poppy smiled thinly.
Revenge is an emotion. Im offering a business solution. The asset is toxic, but it can be cleaned, restructured, made profitable.
She met her mothers eyes.
He built this for an heir. Looks like the heir has finally arrived.
The offer, made under the banner of a newly formed Phoenix Group, landed on Victors desk like a grenade with the pin pulled.
He read it once, then twice, and flung the papers across his mahoganypaneled office.
Who are they? he barked at his security chief. Where did they come from?
Security scrambled, lawyers stayed up all night. The answer was blunt: a small, aggressive investment fund with an immaculate reputation, led by a certain Poppy Orton. The name meant nothing to him.
The boardroom erupted in panic. The price demanded was laughably low, even insulting, but it was the only offer. Banks refused credit, partners turned away.
This is a hostile takeover! shouted the senior deputy. We must fight!
Victor raised his hand; 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 rival bank.
Poppy arrived exactly on time, neither early nor late. Calm, composed, in a sharp trouser suit that fit like a second skin. Two robotlike lawyers flanked her.
Victor sat at the head of the table, expecting a seasoned businesswoman, a brash youngster, or a pawn. Instead, he saw a young woman beautiful, with a familiar chill in her grey eyes.
Victor Edward Peterson, she said, extending a firm handshake. Poppy Orton.
He tried to pierce her composure, accustomed to people bowing or flattering him. She did not flinch.
A daring proposal, Miss Orton Peterson, he stressed, slipping his patronymic in vain. What do you expect?
Your insight, she replied, her voice as even as his had been in the delivery ward.
You understand your position is precarious. Were not offering top price, but were offering it now. In a month, no one will be interested.
She laid a tablet on the table. Numbers, graphs, forecasts cold facts. Each figure was a slap, each chart a nail in the coffin of his empire. She knew every mistake, every failed project, every debt. She dissected his business with surgical precision.
Where did you get these data? Victor asked, confidence wavering.
My sources are part of my job, she said with a faint smile. Your security, like much of your company, is outdated. You built a fortress but forgot to change the locks.
He tried to leverage his connections, threaten administrative resources, demand the names of the investors. She parried each move with icy poise.
Your connections are 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 crushing defeat. Victor, who had built an empire for a quarter of a century, 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 shes with. Turn her life upside down. I want to know whos behind her.
Two days later, the shares of Peterson Capital fell another ten percent.
The security chief entered the office, pale, and placed a thin dossier on Victors desk.
Victor Edward Peterson theres a file
Peterson snatched it up.
Orton, Poppy Edwardson. Date of birth: 12 April. Place of birth: Maternity Ward No5, London. Mother: Emily Orton.
Below, a photocopy of the birth certificate. In the Father line a dash.
Victor stared at the date 12 April. He remembered that day: rain, the grey street outside, the words he had spoken.
He looked up at his security chief.
Who is her mother?
We we found little. She ran a small sewing business, sold her share years ago.
Victor leaned back, a flash of the young, postdelivery face he had tried to erase twentyfive years before.
All this time hed searched for the hand that pulled the strings, the man behind the doll. It turned out to be a woman Emily Orton. And the daughter. His own daughter.
The realization did not bring remorse; it sparked cold fury and calculation.
Hed lost the battle as a businessman, but he could still fight the war as a father. The title he never used suddenly seemed his trump card.
He dialed the personal number his assistant had managed to find.
Poppy, he said, for the first time, using her name. 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 Edward, Poppy replied. All business matters are settled. My lawyers await your decision.
This isnt just about business. Its about family. Our family.
He didnt believe his own words, but he knew which strings to pull.
She agreed.
They met in an opulent, almost empty restaurant. Victor arrived first and ordered her favourite flowers the white freesias her mother loved. He remembered; memory, a cruel ally, handed him that detail.
Poppy entered without even glancing at the bouquet, sat opposite him.
Im listening, she said.
Victor began, I made a mistake a terrible, 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.
He spoke smoothly, about regret, about lost years, about how hed always pretended to watch her rise. The lie sounded polished, as immaculate as his suit.
I want to make it right. Withdraw your offer. Ill make you the rightful heir. Not just CEO, but owner. Everything I built will be yours, legally, officially. My sons theyre not ready. Youre my blood. Youre the true Peterson Ive been waiting for.
He reached across the table, his hand hovering over hers.
Poppy withdrew her hand.
The heir is the one whos nurtured, believed in, loved, she said quietly, each word striking like a whip. Not the one you recall when the business is collapsing.
She stared straight into his eyes.
Youre not offering a legacy. Youre looking for a lifeline. You see me as an asset to rescue your sinking holdings. You havent changed, just altered tactics.
His face went stonecold. The mask of courtesy cracked.
Ungrateful, he hissed. Im offering you an empire!
Your empire is a tower on a clay foundation. You built it on pride, not on solid ground. I wont take it as a gift. Ill buy itfor the price it truly holds today.
She stood.
About the flowers my mother liked wild daisies. You never noticed.
His final move was desperation. He drove to Emilys house without warning. His black limousine looked out of place in the quiet, leafy garden of her modest home.
Emily opened the door, frozen. She hadnt seen him that close in twentyfive years. He was older wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, silver in his hair but the gaze was the same, assessing.
Emily he began.
Go on, Victor, she said calmly, as if stating a fact.
Listen, our daughter shes making a mistake! Shes destroying everything! Talk to her! Youre her mother, you must stop her!
Emily smiled bitterly.
I am her mother. I carried her for forty weeks. I lost sleep while she cried. I walked her to her first class, wept at her graduation. I sold everything to give her the best education. And you where were you all these years, Victor?
He was silent.
You have no right to call her our daughter. Shes only mine. Im proud of who shes become. Now go.
She shut the door.
The share purchase was finalized a week later, in the very skyscraper that once housed his office. The plaque at the entrance now read Phoenix Group European Head Office.
Victor entered his former office. It was empty. Heavy furniture, paintings, personal trinkets were gone, leaving only a desk.
Poppy sat at that desk, documents spread before her. He sat down silently, picked up a pen, and signed the last page. It was over.
He lifted his eyes to her. No anger, no power only emptiness and a single question.
Why?
Poppy looked at him long, the same gaze he had once cast on her newborn.
Twentyfive years ago you walked into that maternity ward and passed judgment. You deemed me an unsuitable asset, a defective product that didnt meet your heir standards.
She rose, walked to the floortoceiling window overlooking the city.
I didnt seek revenge. I merely reevaluated the assets. Your company, your sons, even you failed the strength test. I passed.
She turned back.
You were right about one thing, father. You needed an heir. You just couldnt recognise 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 crumbled. The driver opened the limousine doors, but he waved them away and walked on foot.
He drifted through streets, strangers recognising him, whispering behind his back. Those glances once fed his ego; now they seemed pitying, mocking, haunting. He had become yesterdays headline.
He returned home late. The grand sitting room greeted him with his wife, Margaret, and two sons Harry and George.
So? Margaret asked, dropping her phone. Did you sort that tramp?
She bought everything, Victor replied flatly.
How could she buy it? What about our money? My accounts are frozen! Do you even realise what youve done?!
Dad, they promised me a new car, chattered the younger, Ethan, not looking up from his console. Is it still on?
Harry stared at his father with thinly veiled contempt.
I knew youd ruin it all, old man.
The family that had been his showroom of success turned out to be nothing more than customers of the Peterson brand. The brand vanished, and their true faces emerged.
That night he realised he was bankrupt not just financially, but as a man.
The first allhands meeting of the newly renamed Orton Industries began with a decisive announcement.
From today we are Orton Industries, Poppy told the executives in the conference hall. We are shedding the poisonous past. Our strategy is sustainable growth and innovation. Our greatest asset is people, not expendable material.
She didnt fire masses. Instead she launched a full audit, exposing the wasteful schemes and shady flows her father had built. The old system ruthless; the new fair.
That evening she drove to her mothers house in her modest, ageing sedan. Emily waited in the kitchen.
Tough day? she asked, setting down dinner.
Turning point, Poppy replied. Ive taken his name off the sign forever.
Emily nodded quietly.
Regret? she asked softly.
About what?
About him. Hes still your father.
Poppy set her fork down.
Hes my biological father. Fatherhood belongs to you. You taught me the core: to create, not to take; to love, not to use. Thats how my company will be.
Six months later Orton Industries not only survived; it thrived. Poppy attracted new investors, launched successful startups, and created a corporate fund supporting motherentrepreneurs.
Victor Peterson was all but forgotten. He divorced Margaret, who took the remnants of luxury. His sons, incapable of independence, begged Poppy for money politely denied by her secretary.
One afternoon Emily, strolling through a park, saw him. He sat alone on a bench, a tired old man in a threadbare coat feeding pigeons.
He didnt notice her.
She walked past, no anger, no sweet revenge only a quiet sorrow for a man who chased a phantom hed imagined.
That night, in the penthouse that once was his office, Poppy Orton looked over the glittering city. She didnt feel like a victor; she felt like a builder.
She had achieved what he had dreamed for his sonsnot money, not power, but the right to shape the future.
The heir had finally taken her place.
Five years later, the innovation hub of Orton Industries buzzed like a busy beehive. Hundreds of young people in casual attire roamed glass partitions, debating projects, arguing passionately overAs the sun set over the Thames, Poppy smiled, knowing the legacy shed forged would outlive any empire her father ever imagined.
