A Journey from Bitterness to Truth

Hearing Logan’s words, Yvan couldn’t help but burst into laughter. “What do you mean by that?” Yvan stared intently at his face, “You are my son, through and through. Do I need a paternity test to prove it? Do I need paperwork to take care of my flesh and blood?”

Logan met Yvan’s gaze; the resemblance between father and son was uncanny, like a copy–and–paste job. However, Yvan’s features were more chiseled and refined, while Logan had a softer demeanor, much like that of Matilda.

He spoke softly. “Mr. Boyd, if I recall correctly, you and Mom split up five years ago. And I was born after that divorce, so naturally, Mom’s got custody. If you want a shot at raising me, well, you’ll have to work that out with her.”

Yvan’s pupils shrank as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he repeated, “What did you say?”

Why was this five–year–old so unnervingly precocious?

Logan just looked at Yvan, seemingly indifferent to his astonishment. His voice softened as he said, “Mr. Boyd, if I weren’t your son… if I were just some kid Mom had with another man, would you still treat me the same?”

Yvan felt a tightness in his chest, an irritation sweeping over him.

Would he have gone to such lengths to bring this boy home if he wasn’t his son? But the mere thought of Matilda having another man’s child sent him into a rage.

It was as if, in his mind, Matilda was forever his, only ever meant to bear his children. The mere idea of another man touching her was unthinkable!

Logan watched Yvan’s expression and suddenly let out a laugh, a sound pure and bell–like yet laced with a stinging mockery.

“Mr. Boyd, you’ll never understand the life we’ve lived these past five years, so I can’t possibly feel close to you.”

Looking up, Logan’s eyes seemed to pierce through Yvan, who felt as if he’d been shot through the heart.

A five–year–old with such power to wound.

He stated, “Mr. Boyd, I am the sole reason my mom keeps fighting in this world. Without me, she’d die.”

Without Logan, Matilda would die.

Matilda got herself ready at eight in the evening and headed to the address Yvan had given her,

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the grand entrance of club Mago.

The host greeted her promptly, “Good evening, miss.”

Matilda had styled her hair, redone her makeup, spritzed on her favorite perfume, and slipped. into a tailored dress with modest heels, exuding a casual yet sophisticated charm. She stood there, her hair half–tousled, a delicate clavicle necklace adorning her neck–the handcrafted work of Gideon, one of a kind in the world.

Just standing there, she commanded the space, her aura too noble, like that of an aristocratic heiress. With a slight downturn of her face, the long lashes, glossy lips, and the refined curve of her profile, she seemed vaguely familiar to everyone. But no one could quite place her.

Perhaps there were too many noblewomen and socialites in this city that never sleeps, so she only seemed familiar, yet no one remembered where they had seen her. Such an exquisitely beautiful face would definitely leave a lasting impression the next time.

No one knew she was once the renowned Ms. Thompson, who, after five years in prison with a mutilated hand and a shattered pride, had risen from the ashes.

Yvan parked his car in the Mago lot and walked up, only to be greeted by this scene.