Grandpa's Billionaire Girl

Olen’s POV The chandeliers above our marble foyer glittered like frozen fireworks, casting reflections across the polished floor as I padded down the grand staircase barefoot. My parents’ penthouse stretched across the top two floors of the building like a private kingdom — gold trim, velvet furniture, sleek glass panels that framed the New York skyline like art. They were almost ready to leave. My mother stood in front of the full-length mirror in the entry hall, sliding on a diamond tennis bracelet that probably cost more than some people’s homes then removing it. Her dress clung to her figure like it had been stitched on her body. Dad was by the elevator, talking into his earpiece, giving quiet orders that probably affected stock prices. “Please, Mom. Just this once,” I begged, trailing after her into the dressing suite where soft golden lighting cast a warm glow on silk and diamonds. “I promise I’ll be quiet. I’ll sip a Shirley Temple and pretend to care about hedge funds.” Mother, standing before her backlit mirror in a satin robe the color of champagne, didn’t glance at me. Her slender fingers were busy choosing between two Cartier earrings — one set dripping with emeralds, the other crusted with flawless diamonds. “You’re grounded, Olen,” she said flatly. “I’m not just grounded,” I muttered. “I’m imprisoned.” She raised an eyebrow in the mirror. “Would you prefer to serve your sentence at your grandfather’s estate?” I stiffened. “No, thanks. Pretty sure Grandpa hates me.” She chuckled and waved me off like I was being dramatic. “He doesn’t hate you. He just doesn’t like children.” “Which I still am,” I snapped, “in case anyone forgot.” “I’ll wear the beige Valentino!” I offered, desperate now. “The one you say makes me look like a senator’s daughter.” That earned a soft laugh, but no mercy. “You forged a signature and escaped to the Met, Olen. Forged. As in, impersonated me.” “To see a special art exhibit!” I protested. “With security. And a chaperone.” “You wore sunglasses and a fake bob,” she said, arching an eyebrow as she fastened the emerald pair. “You looked like a Russian heiress running from an arranged marriage.” I flopped dramatically onto the tufted ottoman. “He quoted Oscar Wilde. I was enchanted.” She turned at last and crossed the suite, adjusting my robe with that practiced maternal touch that always felt both gentle and powerful. “You’re fourteen. Not twenty-five. And tonight’s event isn’t a school dance. It’s politics. It’s power.” “I know how to be invisible,” I whispered. “I know which fork is for fish, I won’t even roll my eyes.” Mother smiled faintly. “That’s exactly why you’re not coming.” From the marble foyer, my father called out, “Is my empress ready?” Mom swept past me in a sea of silk and perfume. I followed, padding down the polished hallway that smelled faintly of roses and money. When she reached the landing, he stood waiting — all sharp tuxedo lines and quiet dominance. The head of our empire. “You’re sure you don’t want to sneak her in?” he asked playfully, nodding at me. “She’s grounded,” Mom replied. He smiled at me. “Be good, birdie.” “I always am,” I said, crossing my arms in fake protest. He winked. The elevator doors slid open like gates to another world, and just like that, they were gone — two titans descending into the glittering city below. I wandered back to my suite, which was bigger than most Manhattan apartments. Plush cream carpet. Crystal chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. I sat on my velvet window seat and opened my phone, half-watching , half-texting Anya, who was at a yacht party in the Hamptons. I was just about to order crème brûlée from Chef Like when the first notification came in. Then another. And another. Messages. News alerts. DMs. All coming too fast. BREAKING: Explosion on FDR Drive. Vehicle Unrecognizable. Two Confirmed Dead. My hands trembled. Photos followed. Grainy. Red and blue lights. Smoke curling into the sky. The car was ours. My father’s signature Mayba— one of only five in the world, hand-built in Italy, fitted with bulletproof glass and silk upholstery stitched with our family crest. “No,” I whispered, clutching my phone. The screen slipped from my fingers and cracked on the herringbone floor. I didn’t notice. Couldn’t hear anything except the rushing roar in my ears. I don’t remember screaming. I don’t remember falling. I only remember the door opening, staff rushing in, and my world tearing in half. I stayed in bed that night — not asleep, not awake. Just staring up at the ornate ceiling, lit softly by the Murano chandelier. The city lights flickered far below, but they couldn’t reach me. Not where I was. Not anymore. Morning came like a shadow. The penthouse was no longer ours. Lawyers arrived. Men in suits. Security I didn’t recognize. Even the building manager showed up in a state of mild panic. I sat silently on the same velvet window seat, dressed in my softest cashmere, staring out at the city that had swallowed my parents whole. No one looked me in the eye. “Have you called my grandfather?” I asked a staffer. She looked away. Then, just after three p.m., the elevator pinged. And I knew. He stepped in like he owned the building. Tall. Severe. Dressed in a black coat tailored so sharply it looked like armor. No expression. No hug. No condolences. My grandfather. The man my parents rarely mentioned. The one I remembered from distant childhood visits — always scowling, always judging, always cool and composed. He held a leather folder in his hand and offered it to one of the lawyers with a quiet efficiency that sent a chill up my spine. Custody papers. Guardianship. Power of attorney. It was all already arranged. Then he turned to me. His eyes, a cold stormy, raked over me with a mixture of calculation and something unreadable. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t curse. He didn’t shout. But his words landed lik e a dagger to the spine. “Get ready to leave this house.”