Silent Heir

Chapter 2 Battle

Vincent Ashford, my second uncle, headed the real estate division of the Ashford Group and controlled three major subsidiaries. He was one of the most powerful shareholders on the board.

His son, Nathan, was two years older than me. By the time he was seven, he was already giving business speeches in a second foreign language, and at every family gathering, the adults fawned over him like he was the center of the universe.

Third Uncle Damien Ashford oversaw overseas investments. He had secured two massive projects in Singapore the previous year, and his voice carried more weight in board meetings with every passing month.

The way those two looked at me whenever our paths crossed always reminded me of the predatory short-selling firms from my previous life, staring at their next target.

How long could a mute kid realistically hold onto the heir position?

That day was the Christmas banquet.

The entire extended family had gathered for dinner at the old family estate. I sat tucked away in the corner, quietly eating.

"Julian?" Vincent's wife set down her fork with a soft clink and looked at me with a sugary smile.

"You're five years old this year. How come you still haven't said a single word? Your cousin Nathan could recite poems when he was three, and now he's winning awards for public speaking. Why don't you learn from him?"

I kept my head down and continued eating, ignoring her completely.

Nathan sat across the table in a tiny tailored suit, his hair perfectly combed. He set down his utensils and looked at me with that rehearsed, polite expression only children drilled by adults could manage.

"Julian just doesn't like talking. Dad says late talkers are often wise men."

"Late talker?" Elena snickered.

She was Damien's daughter, three years older than me and spoiled like a little princess. She never thought before she spoke. "One of my classmates had a 'late talker who turned out wise,' remember? Turns out he was autistic. Julian, maybe you should get checked out too?"

The whole table burst into laughter. The servants standing nearby lowered their heads, shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles.

I lifted my head from my plate and gave them a single bored glance.

It was the same look I would give a flock of noisy sparrows hopping around my feet, begging for crumbs.

Pointless.

And ridiculously childish.

Mom sat right next to me, her knuckles white as she gripped her fork.

She opened her mouth to speak, but Vincent's wife cut her off.

"Oh, don't take it to heart, Sophia. Julian is just a late bloomer. He'll grow out of it in a couple of years. As his elders, we're happy to cut him some slack."

That sickly sweet, reasonable tone hurt worse than any direct insult.

Mom didn't respond. She simply picked up a sparerib with her fork and placed it in my bowl.

The rest of the dinner dragged on in awkward silence. When we finally got home that night, she held me tight in the dark for a long time.

"Julian?"

Her voice was soft, almost a whisper.

"Say something to Mom, okay? Even just one word. Do you know what people are saying about you? Do you know how much pressure your dad is under in board meetings? Your grandpa told me last week that if you still can't talk by the end of this year..."

She trailed off. A hot tear landed on the back of my hand with a soft plip.

I wasn't made of stone, after all.

That night, I almost opened my mouth to speak.

But the last bit of hesitation I had was completely crushed by what happened the very next day.