IN THE WAKE OF THE SILENT TYCOON

4

The sprawling Moretti family mansion was bathed in warm sunlight, yet to Callie, every white marble wall radiated nothing but coldness and imprisonment.

She walked down the long corridor, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. Two guards in black suits stood motionless on either side of the dining room door as she passed. They weren’t just guards—they were a reminder that every move and breath she took in this house was watched.

At the large dining table, Frans Moretti, her father, sat upright, his face as rigid as the tone in his voice whenever he spoke. Callie lowered her gaze and took the chair designated for her. In front of her, the meal was neatly arranged, yet her tongue felt numb.

“Eat. Why are you just sitting there?” Frans asked sharply.

Callie picked up a piece of bread and placed it on her plate, her expression sullen enough to make Frans dab at his face with a napkin and shake his head.

“What’s on your mind, Callie?”

“Nothing, just bored. Can I skip the meeting? I’d rather spend time at the bar, watch people, and maybe hunt down some rich guy who could get me out of here.”

Callie’s reply made Frans chuckle, slapping his hand on the table as if satisfied with his only child’s audacity.

“Don’t be foolish, Callie. You’ve embarrassed me enough by constantly mingling with people clearly beneath our level,” Frans said.

Callie smirked, raising one eyebrow. “They’ve never known the real me, have they? You hid me since I was little because I was born a girl, not the son you wanted.”

Frans’s face darkened; Callie’s words were true. He had never expected a daughter, considering one weak.

Callie had indeed been hidden ‘specially,’ until Frans realized she was clever and capable of handling business. He started to relent, especially after his wife passed away five years ago.

“Ah, I’ll just take my breakfast with me to the salon. I want some me time,” Callie said.

“Sit down, Callie, and don’t leave until your meal is finished!” Frans barked.

Callie shook her head and stood. “Nobody can stop me, Daddy! I told you—your regret for acknowledging me is too late. Don’t forbid me from trivial things. Look at last night—I made thousands from a customer at the bar, isn’t that impressive?”

Frans clenched his fists, watching Callie wave and leave the dining table. He couldn’t interfere, having promised his late wife not to pressure her too much. Besides, day by day, Frans feared more and more that Callie was his true vulnerability.

He summoned a bodyguard to his side and whispered, “As usual, watch her. Force her home if she’s still out past midnight. Make sure no filthy, disgusting men get near my daughter.”

---

Exactly at eleven in the morning, Callie arrived at Salon Lumière on the third floor of PiCon Elite Mall. The lavender-scented room allowed her to immerse herself in light gossip and the monotonous hum of hairdryers—far preferable to listening to Frans micromanage her life.

She sat in the white leather chair, fingers scrolling through her phone, a faint smile appearing occasionally at a message. A stylist was busy arranging her blonde hair that fell neatly over her shoulders.

“Miss Callie, would you like a new color? Platinum would suit the season perfectly,” the stylist suggested.

“No need. I’m not looking for another way to attract men. I already have plenty,” Callie replied coldly, leaving the stylist with an awkward smile.

Once her hair was done, Callie stood, grabbed her small Chanel bag, and stepped out of the salon. She walked briskly, her heels tapping against the mall’s marble floor. The afternoon mall was bustling with wealthy shoppers, arms full of luxury bags. Callie descended the escalator, heading toward another boutique.

Unaware, a man pushing a mop cart in a dark blue cleaning service uniform approached from the opposite direction. A black baseball cap obscured part of his face, but his eyes could not lie.

Callie collided with him, her bag nearly slipping.

“Watch where you’re going!” she snapped, reflexively straightening herself.

The man held his breath, hands quick to steady her. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he said curtly.

Callie turned, ready to protest again. But when her hazel eyes met the dark gaze of the man, time seemed to pause. Something was off—his face was unfamiliar, yet felt oddly known.

Jaxon met her gaze evenly, face unreadable. Yet his heart pounded. He hadn’t expected to see Callie in a public place like this. The worn uniform now felt like a fragile disguise.

“Move,” Callie finally said, raising her chin to hide a flicker of unease.

Jaxon stepped aside, pushing the cart gently. But before fully passing, his lips moved, almost whispering—loud enough for Callie to hear.

“Callie…”

Callie froze for a fraction of a second. She turned quickly, eyes sharp. “How do you know my name?” she said, suspiciously, voice low.

Jaxon straightened, hands still gripping the cart handle. His tone was calm, almost challenging.

“We’ve met before… at the Club.”

Callie’s eyebrows shot up. For a fleeting moment, the man’s face seemed strikingly familiar—eerily similar to the handsome, mysterious man she had helped at Club PnM that night he had fainted in a private room. But the faded blue uniform, cheap shoes, and hands smeared with cleaning solution? None of it matched her memory.

Impossible… could it really be him? her heart raced. Logic screamed no.

She narrowed her eyes, forcing herself not to question further. “You must’ve mistaken me for someone else,” she said coldly, stepping away, her heels striking the marble floor in a firm rhythm.

Jaxon remained still, eyes following Callie’s retreating figure. A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips.