The Heir in Disguise

Chapter Seven Acknowledgment.

 

Lucas sat at the dining table in the vacation house in Jamaica, the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore offering a peace he couldn't feel.

He had been alone here for three days now. His personal assistant wasn’t around—he was back in Velmoria—but they had stayed in contact through frequent phone calls.

The only employees available at this vacation house were the chefs, the housekeepers, and the butler. Their presence kept the estate running smoothly. Yet emotionally, Lucas may have chosen this place, but it still felt like an island—quiet, beautiful, and painfully lonely.

At exactly 8:45 AM—Jamaica being eight hours ahead of Velmoria—Lucas sipped his morning coffee, letting the warmth settle in his chest as he sat at the table. The aroma filled the open-air kitchen, rich and grounding.

He brought out his phone and placed it beside his cup, then began scrolling through Instagram—more out of habit than interest.

The heartbreak still throbbed within him, dull and steady, like a bruise that wouldn’t fade. He felt it most during quiet mornings like this.

For a second, his fingers paused. He stared blankly at the screen—no words, no scrolling—just a still moment, like his heart was waiting for something it refused to name.

But Lucas wasn’t a man who sank into weakness.

He was a Virelli.

And Virellis didn’t lose themselves over a woman.

Not in public. Not in private. Not ever.

So he exhaled and pushed the ache away, the way a man does when there's no one left to lean on but himself.

Just as he resumed scrolling, a name flashed on the screen—Isla Quinn.

His grip on the phone tightened.

She had posted something new.

He hadn’t unfollowed her. Not yet. Maybe it was laziness. Maybe it was something else he didn’t want to admit. She never followed him back, even when they were together. That should have told him everything. But love made fools out of the best of men.

Now, seeing her name again stirred something raw. His thumb hovered over the screen. The instinct to block her surged. He nearly did—almost.

But then he saw the caption.

“I have a confession!” she wrote in bold letters.

He clicked, despite himself.

The post was long. Easily over two thousand words. It was written the way she used to write him letters—soft, poetic, bleeding with false vulnerability.

Lucas read through it slowly, even as his pulse stayed steady.

Until he reached the final paragraph.

It was a public apology.

But not just any apology.

It was addressed to someone she called "Mr. Anonymous."

“I am sorry I never acknowledged you all this time and how you have been the reason my brand was succeeding. I knew this was why you terminated the donation to me. Please come back. Please continue your good works, and I hope humanity repays you someday!”

Lucas let out a soundless chuckle and leaned back in his chair, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.

This wasn’t remorse.

This was strategy.

Did she really believe the donation had stopped because she didn’t acknowledge the donor?

Had she completely forgotten she stood a man up on the altar—a man who had once given her everything?

Had she even remembered being in a relationship with a man named Lucas?

What amused him most wasn’t her blindness—it was her motive.

The real reason behind the post bled through every carefully chosen word. She wasn’t sorry. She was desperate. And when people like Isla got desperate, they turned to performance.

But Lucas wasn’t her audience anymore.

He stared at her profile picture, studied the same eyes that once told him lies sweetly disguised as promises.

For a brief second, something in him twisted. Not love. Not pain. Just a tired recognition of how close he’d come to giving everything to someone who never truly loved him.

His thumb hovered over the profile icon again.

This time, there was no hesitation.

He tapped and hit the label: Block.

***

Isla sat all night long in her single-seater couch, just by the corner of her room beside the tall lamp and the flower stand next to the curtain.

She had a jug of coffee beside her, which she kept drinking from every thirty minutes to keep her eyes open and avoid falling asleep.

She had written the public apology, addressing the anonymous donor and letting him know she was sorry—even when she wasn’t. Even when she just needed back the donation.

She waited all night long.

Her post had gained over three million views, sixty-five thousand likes, and ten thousand comments.

She knew, verily, there was no way the anonymous donor—whoever he was—wouldn’t have seen her post.

Usually, she kept her I*******m privacy settings tight to block direct messages. She knew how unpredictable people could be. But tonight, she purposely opened her DMs.

She hoped the anonymous donor would, one way or another, get in touch with her.

If he—or she—didn’t reach out via DM, her email was visible in her bio.

Still, from 12:45 AM until 8:00 AM, sitting on that couch, there was no message.

No email.

Her heart clenched. Tears welled in her eyes.

Was this the end of her ambition?

Would she not be able to launch her iconic blouse collection and etch her name into the world of fashion?

“What if...?” she whispered aloud, but the words died in her throat.

However, she finished the sentence silently in her mind.

She thought about the profit she was getting from her fashion company.

Perhaps she could use that to sponsor her iconic blouse launch?

She was about to dial her secretary’s number to ask for the total amount in the company account, when—

“Shit!” she cursed suddenly, sinking her back into the couch cushion.

Her company’s monthly revenue was $25,000.

She paid her employees’ salaries, covered the company’s expenses, and then finally paid herself. After all expenses were cleared, only $4,000 to $5,000 was left in the company’s account.

How was that going to be enough?

Her heart raced again as her mind scrambled for answers.

She placed a hand on her jaw and swept her tired eyes across the room.

She thought about standing up. Maybe by 9:00 AM, she could take a shower and head to the company—when her phone rang.

She checked the caller ID.

Micah Santiago.

She hung up immediately, not wanting to hear anything from him. His nonchalant words still vexed her. And most importantly, that she knew there was no help he could render, there was no reason to force herself to talk to him. 

She slowly rose and let out a deep, tired sigh—just as the phone rang again.

She almost picked it up to snap at Micah, thinking it was him calling back—but it wasn’t.

It was Julie, her secretary.

“Madam, our team is set to go to Italy. We need funding immediately. Please make the transfer.”

Isla’s heart pounded hard.

Perhaps she could tell Julie the truth?

But telling her team the truth—that there was no funding—would raise panic among them. Some might even begin reaching out to other companies that weren’t on the verge of bankruptcy.

She couldn’t allow that to happen.

The best thing to do... was to cover up.

“Please give me a few minutes,” she replied calmly—

even as her heart kept racing.