Who is Malik Hampton!

The Forgotten Favorite

“What? That’s right,” Sarah exclaimed, her fork hovering halfway to her mouth before she set it down with a soft clink.

Janet smirked, savoring the c***k in Sarah’s usually immaculate composure.

Grandfather’s birthday hit her like a slap. Of course she remembered it was today, at the grand estate. The media reminders alone wouldn’t let her forget.

But the gift? The one gesture that meant everything to Paul Roy, the family patriarch? That had slipped through the cracks of boardroom battles, PR interviews, and mornings so stuffed with obligations her thoughts barely had room to breathe.

Sarah’s eyes flicked back to the TV, where Michelle DeWitt’s smug face still filled the screen, but her mind had already rewound years into the past, to Grandfather’s study: shelves lined with dusty vintage Scotch bottles, mahogany cabinets brimming with curiosities from every continent, and that one quiet afternoon when he’d looked at her and said, “You have the clearest mind of them all. One day, Roy Enterprises will be yours.”

And now? It was hers. She’d been his favorite. Yes, forgetting his gift felt like betrayal, not just disrespect, but an insult carved deep into the heart of everything he’d believed about her.

Her chest tightened. For the first time in years, she felt something toward Janet that wasn’t jealousy or frustration. She felt… oddly grateful. Even if Janet’s reminder dripped with venom, it was still true.

“I almost forgot,” Sarah admitted, rising slowly. “Thank you.”

Janet blinked, thrown off by the softness in Sarah’s voice.

“You’re welcome.” She smoothed her napkin over her lap with deliberate grace. “I’m getting him something vintage, he’ll love it. You should bring wine too… if you can afford something actually vintage, that is.”

Sarah nodded, though her pride flared hot beneath her skin. She opened her mouth to retort, but Malik reappeared, silent as a shadow with a glass of warm water balanced in his hand. He set it gently before Janet without meeting anyone’s eyes.

Janet’s glare tracked him as he retreated, the air parting around him as though he weren’t meant to exist at all.

“You really should teach your kitchen manager some manners,” she muttered.

Sarah said nothing.

The rest of breakfast crumbled into ash. Janet picked at Malik’s presence like it was an open wound. “If you’d just married someone like Michael, none of this would be a problem. You’d be dripping in DeWitt Holdings diamonds instead of playing dress-up in Roy money.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “Michael’s just a walking press release with a trust fund. He’s not a man but a headline.”

“And yet,” Janet purred, dabbing her lips with a pearl embroidered napkin, “he’s a VIP at tonight’s gala. You? Just a granddaughter.”

“Because Grandfather doesn’t trust outsiders,” Sarah replied coolly.

Janet’s grin widened, sharp as a scalpel. “Oh, you think Michael’s an outsider? He’s got your grandfather’s ear. He’s donating a private collection tonight. Don’t tell me you’re showing up empty handed__ just you… and your kitchen manager. The cleaner you called a husband hadn't I reminded you.”

The words landed like a blade between the ribs.

Sarah shoved her chair back. She couldn’t endure Janet’s taunting any longer.

“I have work,” she whispered, standing quickly to escape another barb.

“Avoiding the truth doesn’t make it less true,” Janet sang after her. “Let go of the burdens, Sarah. You could still have someone like Michael. Someone serious. Someone who fits.”

But Sarah was already gone, her heels striking the marble floor like pistol shots. She didn’t look back.

Janet lingered a few more minutes, idly stirring her now cold eggs with a sigh of theatrical boredom. Then she rose, tossing one last glance toward the hallway where Malik had vanished.

“Try not to burn the house down while you’re pretending to be someone,” she called out sweet as poison before letting herself out with a self-satisfied click of the door.

Behind the kitchen wall, Malik listens to every word. He waited until the front door locked before stepping forward. Then he exhaled and a slow, controlled release, like steam from a kettle pushed too far.

He moved to the table, gathering untouched plates and the invisible shards of pride Janet had shattered with her voice. One by one, he scraped, wiped, sorted. The rhythm of cleanup usually grounded him. Calmed the storm. But today, something else simmered beneath the silence, something taut and purposeful.

He dried his hands, walked down the hall, and paused before a small, unassuming cabinet. From his pocket, he pulled out a phone. Dialed a number. One ring. Two. Then click.

“Go to the gala storage,” he said, voice low and precise. “Retrieve the vintage collection, the one sealed in the original case. Deliver it immediately.”

He hung up. No names. No pleasantries. Just the weight of certainty.

His gaze drifted to a framed photo on the shelf beside him: Sarah, younger, radiant, seated beside Paul Roy at a Roy Enterprises shareholder gala. Grandfather’s hand rested on her shoulder with unmistakable pride.

Minutes later, a knock sounded at the door.

Malik opened it to a man in a tailored suit, holding a sleek, black case.

“Package for you, sir,” the man said.

Malik took it, set it on the hall table, and lifted the lid.

Inside lay relics that seemed plucked from legend: scrolls bound in faded silk, uncut gems glowing like captured stars, ancient coins stamped with emblems long erased from history and a bottle of liquor, its wax seal imprinted with a crest no modern nation recognized. The surrounding air hummed faintly with age and secrecy.

“Is this… what you had in mind, sir?” the courier asked, eyes wide.

Malik gave a single, approving nod.

‘It’s time to let Sarah know who I truly was. I'll make her proud.”