THE FORGOTTEN WILSON

Chapter 3: The Next Pawn

Sophia had rehearsed a thousand different scripts on her way to Westend Street. She had memorized scathing accusations, cold corporate demands, and dignified dismissals.

But standing before him now, looking into his eyes, every single word evaporated into thin air.

A suffocating wave of shame washed over her. In the harsh light of reality, fragmented memories from that night flashed violently through her mind—her clumsy movements, her hysterical tears, and above all, his clear resistance. He had tried to push her away. He had tried to be a gentleman.

But beneath the embarrassment, what truly stole the air from Sophia's lungs was the man himself. Standing under the dim hallway bulb, he looked like a modern prince. Sophia could swear on her family's empire that she had never seen anyone even remotely as breathtakingly handsome as the stranger looking back at her.

"Please... come in," Benjamin broke the agonizing silence, his deep voice snapping her out of her daze.

Sophia followed him into the small apartment, suddenly feeling like a guilty child who had been caught red-handed. The dominant, untouchable heiress of the Whitmore Corporation was completely gone.

Her eyes immediately caught on the heavy duffel bag resting on the floor.

"It seems," Sophia began, her voice tight, "that someone was planning on leaving town."

Benjamin flinched, shifting uncomfortably. "No, it's... it's nothing like that. I... I just..." He stumbled over his tongue, his usual calm completely shattered by her sudden presence.

"It's alright, I understand," Sophia interrupted gently, offering a small, self-deprecating smile. "I mean, anyone in your position would flee. You probably thought you were about to be dragged into a massive, scandalous court battle by some ruthless rich lady looking for a scapegoat."

Benjamin stared at her, completely speechless. Seeing this woman entirely sober was a revelation. There was a striking maturity in her gaze, a sharp contrast to the broken, desperate girl he had held in his arms the night before.

"It seems you've already figured me out," Benjamin said, a soft, self-effacing chuckle escaping his lips. "But now that you are actually here, I need to apologize to you. For everything. I swear to you, I never intended to take advantage of you. It's not what you think—"

Before he could spiral into defensive panic, Sophia took a step forward and placed a single, delicate finger against his lips.

*Electric silence filled the room.* Realizing the sudden intimacy of the gesture, she quickly pulled her hand back, a faint blush creeping up her neck.

"I'm sorry for interrupting," Sophia cleared her throat, regaining her composure. "But let me make one thing absolutely clear. I may have been thoroughly intoxicated last night, but my memory isn't entirely gone. I know I threatened my own life. I know you only stayed in that room to protect me. And for that... I am genuinely grateful. Even if that night ended up leading us into... this."

She took a breath, her eyes locking onto his with absolute clarity. "We are both consenting adults. Let's just put this behind us. In fact, I didn't come here to punish you—I came here to see how I can make up for what happened. Name your price."

Benjamin's eyes widened in utter disbelief. He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Now, that would truly be taking advantage of you," Benjamin countered firmly, his pride refusing to let him accept charity. "Since we both agree that last night was a chaotic mistake born of bad timing, you don't owe me any favors, Miss Whitmore."

Sophia’s lips curved into a genuine, beautiful smile. "Okay then," she chuckled, extending her slender hand toward him. "Friends, then?"

Benjamin looked at her hand, a wave of profound relief washing over his chest. He reached out, his large hand wrapping around hers. "Friends."

"And please," Sophia added with a playful, teasing glint in her eyes as they broke the handshake, "now that we've cleared the air, don't go moving across the country."

"I won't," Benjamin promised, smiling back.

Late that evening, a serene silence hung over the Wilson estate.

Old Master Wilson sat comfortably in a wrought-iron chair in the manicured gardens, sipping a cup of perfectly brewed black coffee while meticulously scanning the evening newspaper.

"Old Master," Butler James announced, stepping out of the shadows with a deep bow. "A gentleman is here to see you. He introduced himself as Mr. John."

"Bring him out," the Old Master commanded without looking up from his paper. This was the exact informant he had been waiting for all day.

Mr. John walked into the garden, nodding respectfully before opening his leather briefcase. He pulled out a thick stack of photographs and corporate profiles, laying them onto the table.

"This is the comprehensive list of the young heiresses from the city's most successful business dynasties," Mr. John began smoothly. "Every single one of these families has officially submitted a marriage proposal alliance for Alexander."

Old Master Wilson didn't even glance at the photos. "Which family is performing the best financially?" He didn't care about beauty or personality; to him, marriage was purely a blood sport of profit.

"According to my deep-dive intelligence, it isn't just about the family's standing. One specific lady stands out far above the rest," Mr. John explained, pulling out a prominent file. "She is fiercely brilliant, independent, and incredibly hardworking. She has personally negotiated and secured massive, multi-million dollar deals across the entire country, single-handedly raising her family’s corporate status to unprecedented heights."

Old Master Wilson’s interest was finally piqued. He lowered his newspaper. "What is her name, and which family does she belong to?"

"Sophia Whitmore. Of the Whitmore Corporation," Mr. John revealed.

"The Whitmores?" Old Master Wilson muttered to himself, his voice laced with faint condescension. "The last time I checked their portfolio, they were just mediocre, run-of-the-mill business owners. How did they rise so quickly?"

"Well, it appears a massive shift has occurred beneath our noses," Mr. John added, dropping the real bombshell. "Our sources inside the tech sectors have confirmed the most shocking part: the anonymous, legendary CEO of the BAG Group has taken a personal, highly exclusive interest in making the Whitmore Corporation their official, primary partner."

*Clack.* Old Master Wilson slammed his coffee cup onto the saucer, his eyes widening. "What?! The exact same BAG Group that our board of directors has been desperately chasing for the last six months?!"

"The very one, sir," Mr. John confirmed.

A calculating, predatory look took over Old Master Wilson’s face. "Then it appears we cannot afford to waste a single second. We must lock down this alliance before any other family catches wind of it. Send an official, high-level invitation to the Whitmores immediately. Tell them the Wilson family desires to host them for an exclusive gala dinner tomorrow night."

"Understood, sir," Mr. John said, bowing low.

"And John—make it absolutely, explicitly clear to Harry Whitmore that he must bring his daughter with him. What was her name again?"

"Sophia Whitmore," Mr. John repeated, turning on his heel to exit the estate.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the city, a brutal thunderstorm of rage was still brewing inside Alexander Wilson. Needing to drown out the humiliating echo of his grandfather's voice, he had crashed into a high-end lounge, drinking heavily to numb his wounded pride.

"What can I get started for you, sir?" a calm, professional voice asked from across the bar.

Alexander lazily shifted his gaze upward, prepared to snap at the employee—but the moment his eyes locked onto the bartender, his entire body froze into solid ice.

The alcohol in his system instantly evaporated. Alexander stared, completely paralyzed with shock. The man standing before him looked so violently, undeniably identical to his own biological father that it felt like looking at a ghost.

"Sir?" Benjamin called out gently, noting the customer's pale face and catatonic stare. He figured the wealthy man was just lost in thought.

The snapped silence ignited something ugly inside Alexander. The sheer shock transformed into immediate, visceral hostility.

"You lowlife scum!" Alexander barked suddenly, his voice echoing over the lounge music. "Will you keep your mouth shut, be patient, and let me decide?!"

The unprovoked, venomous words cut deep into Benjamin’s chest, causing his jaw to tighten. He was a human being, and nobody deserved to be spoken to like garbage. But looking at the man's expensive designer suit and the corporate security detail standing near the entrance, Benjamin knew he had to swallow his pride. This was his livelihood.

"Sir, I apologize. I was simply attempting to take your order," Benjamin replied, his voice a forced, perfectly controlled mask of calm.

"Oh, so now a filthy servant thinks he has the right to talk back to me?!" Alexander roared, slamming his fist onto the bar top. "Manager! Get over here right now! I will see to it that you are fired and blacklisted from this city!"

Alexander was breathing heavily, his chest heaving with an unexplainable, primitive rage. There was something deep inside Benjamin's posture—an effortless dignity, an underlying power, and that terrifyingly familiar face—that made Alexander feel completely stripped of his authority.

Looking at this mere bartender, the wealthy Wilson heir felt profoundly, dangerously threatened.