“Brandon Marsh is a notorious ass, and Hunt…” Maurice poured the champagne carefully. “Hunt’s different. Cold. They say he’s brilliant but ruthless. Built his fortune by never letting emotions get in the way of profit.”
Sophie thought of her mother at home, probably still awake despite needing rest, likely worrying about bills they couldn’t pay. Men like Alexander Hunt lived in a universe so far removed from her reality they might as well be a different species. She delivered the champagne without incident, grateful when they ignored her completely. For the next hour, she served their table in silence, refilling drinks, clearing plates, existing merely as background noise to their important conversations about mergers and markets.
Then, Alexander Hunt rolled up his sleeve.
Sophie was clearing away dessert plates when she saw it—the tattoo on his wrist partially visible beneath his Patek Philippe watch. Her breath caught in her throat. No, it can’t be. The compass rose, the intricate detail, the date underneath. It was identical to her mother’s. Sophie’s mind raced. Her mother never talked about her father. Never. When Sophie was young and asked, Elena would get a distant look in her eyes and say, “He was someone I loved once, but life took us in different directions.”
As Sophie got older and pushed harder, her mother finally admitted, “He was at Columbia. We got matching tattoos. I got pregnant. He… he didn’t want it. He gave me money and told me to take care of it. I couldn’t do it, Sophie. I couldn’t. But I also couldn’t tell him. So I told him I’d miscarried, and then I left. I couldn’t stay in a city where I might run into him, where he might find out I’d lied.”
Sophie had been furious. “You should have made him pay child support! We’ve been struggling my entire life!”
But Elena had shaken her head. “I made my choice. I chose you. And I’ve never regretted it for a single second.”
Now, staring at that tattoo, Sophie felt the world tilt on its axis. June 14, 2000. The same date. The exact same tattoo. Her mother had been at Columbia. This man would have been there twenty-five years ago. He was the right age. The timeline matched perfectly. Sophie’s heart hammered against her ribcage. This couldn’t be a coincidence. Could it?
She thought of her mother lying in that apartment, sick and getting sicker, unable to afford the treatment that might save her life. She thought of all the nights she’d gone to bed hungry so her mom could eat. All the dreams she’d given up. All the years of struggling and scraping by. And this man—this billionaire who spent more on a single bottle of champagne than Sophie made in a month—might be the reason for all of it.
Rage bubbled up in her chest, hot and overwhelming. But beneath it was something else. Something desperate. What if he’s my father? What if he could help Mom?
Sophie knew she should walk away. Keep quiet. What were the odds, really? Lots of people had tattoos. It was probably nothing. But her mother’s cough echoed in her memory. The medical bills stacked on their kitchen counter. The crushing weight of watching the person she loved most in the world slowly dying because they couldn’t afford basic healthcare. She had to know.
Sophie approached the table, her legs feeling like they might give out beneath her. The men were laughing about something, cigars now lit despite the no-smoking policy that apparently didn’t apply to billionaires. “Excuse me, sir?” Her voice came out barely above a whisper.
Alexander didn’t respond, still focused on his phone.
“Sir?” She tried again, louder this time.
He looked up, irritation flashing across his face. “Yes?”
Sophie swallowed hard. Point of no return. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I noticed your tattoo.”
The table went quiet. Brandon smirked. “Oh, this should be good. You getting hit on by the help, Alex?”
But Alexander’s expression had changed. He looked down at his wrist, then back at Sophie with those calculating eyes. “What about it?”
“My mother.” Sophie’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “My mother has the exact same one. Same design, same date. She got it when she was in college.”
The color drained from Alexander’s face. His eyes went wide, then narrow, then wide again—a rapid succession of emotions Sophie couldn’t read. “What did you just say?” The words came out slowly, dangerously quiet.
Sophie’s hands shook as she held her serving tray. “The tattoo. My mom. Her name is Elena Carter. She said she got it with someone she loved at Columbia University. But he disappeared and…”
The champagne flute slipped from Alexander’s hand. The crash echoed through the entire restaurant. Glass exploded across the marble; golden liquid spread in a widening pool. Every conversation stopped. Every head turned. But Sophie only saw Alexander’s face, watching it cycle through shock, disbelief, pain, and something that looked almost like hope.
“That’s impossible,” he breathed, his voice breaking. “Elena… Elena had a miscarriage. She told me. Twenty-five years ago, she told me.”
Sophie felt tears burning in her eyes. “Sir, I am twenty-five years old.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Brandon leaned back, his eyes going wide. “Holy shit.”
Alexander stood up so fast his chair toppled backward. He grabbed Sophie’s arm—not hard, but desperate. “What’s your name?”
“Sophie. Sophie Carter.”
“Elena Carter’s daughter.” He said it like he was testing the words, seeing if they could possibly be real. “Elena had a daughter. Elena had a…” His legs seemed to give out. He sat back down heavily, staring at Sophie like she was a ghost. “I need… How is she? Where is she? I looked for her. After graduation, I looked everywhere.”
“She’s sick.” The words burst out of Sophie before she could stop them. “She’s really sick and we can’t afford the treatment and I work seventy hours a week but it’s never enough and she’s dying and I don’t know what to do!” Sophie’s professional composure shattered. Tears streamed down her face. All the exhaustion, all the fear, all the rage of the last two years came pouring out.
Alexander stood again, his hand reaching toward her but stopping short. “What’s wrong with her? What does she need?”
“Tests, scans. The doctor thinks it might be cancer but we can’t afford the screening. Our insurance… we don’t have insurance. We can barely afford rent.”
“I’ll pay for it.” The words came out fast and firm. “All of it. Whatever she needs. The best doctors. The best.”
“Why?” Sophie’s voice turned sharp through her tears. “Because you feel guilty? Because you realize you might have a daughter you abandoned twenty-five years ago?”
The VIP section had become a theater with every guest and server watching the drama unfold. Alexander flinched like she’d slapped him. “I didn’t abandon her. She told me she miscarried. She told me you were gone.”
“If I had known? Would you have cared?” Sophie shot back. “My mom said you gave her money to get rid of me. That you didn’t want me.”
“I was twenty years old and terrified!” Alexander’s voice rose, drawing even more attention. “My father threatened to disown me. I panicked. I made the worst decision of my life, and I have regretted it every single day since. Every. Single. Day.” He looked at her with such raw pain that Sophie took a step back.
“I looked for her,” Alexander continued, his voice dropping. “When she said she lost the baby, I was devastated. And I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. So I looked for her. For months. But she disappeared. Changed her number. Left school. Gone.”
“She left New York,” Sophie whispered. “Moved to Philadelphia. Worked three jobs while pregnant with me. Then we came back here when I was ten because she thought enough time had passed that she wouldn’t run into you.”
Alexander’s jaw clenched. “Twenty-five years. You’ve been in this city for fifteen years and I never knew. Elena never told me. I have a daughter and I never knew.”
“You have a maybe daughter,” Brandon interjected, trying to sound reasonable. “Alex, come on. This could be a scam. You’re a billionaire. You think this is the first time someone’s tried to…?”
“Shut up, Brandon.” Alexander’s voice was ice. He looked at Sophie. “You said your mother is sick?”
Sophie nodded, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
“Give me the address. I’m coming with you. Right now.”
“What? No, I’m working. I can’t just…”
“You’re done working for tonight.” Alexander pulled out his wallet and handed Carol, who had materialized at the edge of the scene, five one-hundred-dollar bills.
“Mr. Hunt, that’s really not…” Carol stammered.
“Keep it.” He turned back to Sophie. “Please. I need to see her. I need to know if…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Sophie’s mind spun. This was insane. This morning she’d woken up in her tiny apartment, and now a billionaire who might be her father wanted to come home with her to see her dying mother. But looking at his face, at the desperate hope and fear warring in his eyes, she saw something real. Something human beneath the expensive suit and cold reputation.
“Washington Heights,” Sophie heard herself say. “But I’m warning you, it’s not like this.” She gestured at the opulent restaurant. “It’s small and cramped and…”
“I don’t care.” Alexander was already moving toward the exit. “Let’s go.”
As they left the Azure Room together, Sophie caught sight of their reflection in the glass doors: a billionaire in a five-thousand-dollar suit and a waitress in a cheap polyester uniform walking side by side into the night. Somewhere in the city, Elena Carter was about to face the ghost of her past.
The ride to Washington Heights was suffocating in its silence. Alexander’s driver had pulled up in a black Mercedes S-Class that probably cost more than Sophie’s entire building. She had hesitated at the door, suddenly hyper-aware of her scuffed shoes and the smell of kitchen grease that clung to her hair. “Get in,” Alexander had said softly, and she did.
Now they sat in the back seat as the city lights blurred past, neither speaking. Sophie kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap to stop them from shaking. Alexander stared out the window, his jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle twitching. Finally, as they crossed into her neighborhood, he spoke.
“What’s she like? Elena? What’s she like now?”
Sophie turned to look at him. In the dim light of the car, he looked younger, vulnerable. “She’s strong. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. She worked three jobs when I was little, made sure I never went hungry even when she did. She taught me to read before I started school, helped me with homework even after twelve-hour shifts.” Sophie’s voice softened. “She’s the best person I know.”
Alexander’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. “She was like that back then, too. Brilliant. Kind. She used to tutor other students for free just because she wanted to help. I was failing Economics before I met her. She spent hours teaching me, never making me feel stupid.” He paused. “I loved her. I really loved her.”…
