Not An Heir

She smelled Tom Ford long before she saw him. It amazed her that the rich fragrance still overtook her senses, knocking her out and making her clench her teeth until her jaw turned white. Or was it the man who wore it? Jackson Craig, the stunningly handsome manager of Rides Auto, is the only son and heir to the bulk of the Craig fortune. She allowed her mind to roam through his carefully sculpted face, which had been engrafted in her heart since she was 15, dragging her eyes through his slim, straight nose and full lips. She took a careful look at each fierce jawline, smiling at how easily they dissolved into a puddle of handsomeness whenever he smiled. She moved her gaze to his rich, black hair, which was short and well cropped, and then she allowed her eyes to drop to his two unending oceans of warmth. She groaned because she was already sinking, but not for long. “Hey Daphne, get over here already!” “I can hear you even when you’re not screaming,” she muttered, struggling to insert her small feet into stiletto heels. She humped, snapped herself out of her reverie, straightened her skirt, fixed her million-dollar smile, and began her professional sashay towards the biggest day of her life. “Good morning, sir.” “What do you have for me today?” he asked, resting his upper buttocks on the table behind him. “Well, I’ve done some research on the fashion model that we’re planning to apply to the next vehicle.” “And?” This time, he stands upright, arms folded, with his left eye mid-closed, like he is trying to prevent an insect from getting in. “Sir, it seems like the market is already saturated with vehicles with similar designs, and our pricing strategy may not be competitive enough,” Daphne explained, momentarily using her hands to gesticulate her words before locking them behind her. “Well, that's what you think. Irrespective of the competition, we would proceed with the fashion model. See yourself out. Your presentation is in an hour's time.” He returned to his seat. Jackson had always been a jerk to Daphne. He was a diligent and strategic businessman. He possessed every quality of a good manager except good communication skills. Jackson was prideful and insolent, and he didn't bother to care what anyone thought of him. She wondered how the employees at his company kept up. Lukah! was a fashion and decoration company owned by GG Group, David's company. Most of the designs for Jackson's car company were inspired by Lukah! In that regard, Auto Rides and Lukah! were partners. The former made the vehicles, while the latter provided the style for the engineers to adopt. Auto Rides was in the process of producing a particular kind of minivan that could, at different times, be used to transport both people and products. Daphne's boss, David, had set up a committee to come up with a unique style for the vehicle and introduce a minivan-inspired fashion line. Daphne was made leader of the committee and was going to present the resolution arrived at by her and her team to the board in an hour's time. As she returned to her office, it was clear that she was in a state of fury. Her eyebrows were furrowed and drawn together, creating a deep crease on her forehead. Her eyes were narrowed and seemed to shoot sparks of anger, like a volcano on the brink of eruption. Her lips were pressed tightly together, forming a thin, straight line that conveyed her frustration. Every muscle in her face was tense, and her nostrils flared with each heavy breath she took. It was as if a storm was brewing within her. “He is such a jerk. Such a jerk,” she whispered as she collapsed into her chair. If she was prepared for the presentation, Jackson just changed that. “Do you feel sick, ma?” Beatrice, Daphne's office staff, asked upon realizing the irritation her boss' face wore. “I'm sorry, ma. I knocked a few times, but you weren't answering. I thought I...” “It's fine, Beatrice. I'll like a drink, please; any energy drink,” she requested, her eyes slowly roaming her desk like she was trying to locate something. *** As the woman walked along the busy street, she appeared to be lost in her thoughts. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, and she seemed oblivious to the hustle and bustle around her. The sounds of the city—the honking of horns, the chatter of passersby—were muted, as if she were submerged in a world of her own. From time to time, she would pause, and her brows would furrow in concentration. It was as if she were trying to unravel some complex puzzle, or perhaps trying to remember something important that had eluded her. She would shake her head and continue walking, her steps slow and measured. As she walked, the woman’s thoughts seemed to grow more intense. She would mutter to herself, as if trying to confirm something she had been thinking. Her hands moved restlessly, as if she were attempting to grasp something intangible. Finally, she stopped in front of a shop window and stared at her reflection for a moment. Her eyes locked onto her own, and she seemed to be searching for something deep within herself. Then, suddenly, she broke into a smile. She had remembered the name of the shoe her madam, Sofia, had asked her to pay for at her custom shoe shop. It was a Stuart Weitzman. With a spring in her step, the woman continued on her way. Her thoughts seemed to have lifted, and her face was wreathed in a contented smile. As she disappeared into the throng of people, it was clear that she had found what she was looking for—at least for now. Although Ms. Lawson was a few years ahead, she had been Sofia’s skivvy since she got married 26 years ago. Sofia, who could handle chores on her own, suddenly saw the need for an extra hand after she got married to her billionaire husband, the chairman of GG Group—Smith. Sofia was kind-hearted. She wasn’t born into wealth, nor did she get the best education. As a young girl moving between foster homes, she was always in and out of menial jobs. She met Smith when he came to buy a few clothes in the mall she used to work in 28 years ago. She helped him choose some styles after noticing he was alone and confused, and his security had no business with his shopping. He visited the mall a few more times until he got her contact information. Then he stopped visiting. Smith found interest in her, and after dating for about a year, he proposed. At first, Smith’s family disapproved of the marriage, claiming that Sofia was only interested in his wealth and wasn’t socially qualified to be his wife. When Smith remained unbothered by their opinions, they had no option but to attend his wedding and congratulate him. After they got married, Sofia, who felt she had a debt to repay, found and hired Ms. Lawson — someone who had rescued her when she was getting beat by one of her alcoholic foster dads. Over time, Sofia and Ms. Lawson became close confidants and trusted friends, and the two women frequently engaged in deep conversations about their respective journeys. For Sofia, Ms. Lawson was the mother she never had, although there were only seven years between them. As she walked into the shoe shop, her eyes immediately beheld the beauty of the Stuart Weitzman her madam had asked her to buy. It was neatly placed in the row above the counter. As she approached the cash register, she reached into her purse to grab the debit card Sofia had given her, but it wasn’t there. She quickly rifled through her wallet, searching for any sign of the card, but it was nowhere to be found. Her heart skipped two beats. “Dear God,” she muttered in a calm but shaky voice.