WHO IS MALIK HAMPTON?

Paul Roy's birthday party

The Roy estate gleamed, resembling a palace crafted from gold and spun silk. Towering chandeliers flickered like stardust above a sea of couture and custom tailored tuxedos. Outside, valet attendants shuffled beneath a sky thick with drones capturing every inch of glamour. The indoor fountain was decorated with sculpted orchid and iris peacocks, a blatant symbol of the family hosting the extravagant event.

Paul Roy’s sixty-fifth birthday was no mere celebration. It was a display of dominance, legacy, and power. Dignitaries, royals, and tech moguls maneuvered in the ballroom, akin to chess pieces on a bejeweled board, all striving to get closer to the Roy empire.

Michelle DeWitt arrived flanked by his parents, all three dressed like the cover of a billionaire lifestyle magazine. His father, Arnold DeWitt, clasped Paul Roy’s hand like an equal, whispering something that made the old man laugh with rare warmth. Elisabeth DeWitt greeted Sarah with a practiced kiss on the cheek—the kind that looked affectionate but felt cold as a banker’s handshake.

The DeWitts presented their gift with a quiet ceremony: a rare Faberge egg encased in velvet, followed by coinage from the Qing Dynasty, gleaming under the lights like ancient treasure.

Scanning their gift, a total amount of $2.5 million dollars was displayed.

“$2.5 million….” An audible gasp rolled through the crowd as the estimated value was murmured from guest to guest, each more astounded than the last.

Janet hovered near Michelle, dressed in a sapphire gown that matched his tie a little too conveniently. She clung to his every word, giggling and complimenting his "leadership" and his "noble interest in Sarah."

Michelle, amused, turned toward Sarah with a teasing smirk. "No sight of your husband?"

Sarah stiffened. "He'll be here," she said, forcing composure, straightening her spine even as her pulse quickened.

"I hope so. It would be a shame to leave you unaccompanied tonight," Michelle said smoothly, his tone veiled with implications.

Sarah didn’t give him more than a polite nod before excusing herself, desperate to escape the intensifying attention.

Whispers gathered like storm clouds around her, curling at the edges of the ballroom like smoke.

"Where is Malik?" someone said.

"Did she really come alone?" another voice whispered behind a jeweled fan.

"Even the staff looks confused," a man in a sleek black suit muttered.

Sarah kept smiling. A perfect mask. Until a butler whispered into her grandfather’s ear. Paul Roy’s amused expression soured, his gaze scanning the room until it landed on her with razor-edged curiosity.

Panic fluttered in Sarah's chest. She stepped back quietly and left the ballroom for a side hallway. She handed a maid the wrapped gift box she had brought. "Please hold this for me. I’ll present it soon," she said, masking urgency with grace.

Once out of sight, Sarah fished out her phone with trembling fingers and dialed Malik’s number. Once. Twice. Again. Still no answer.

"Pick up, Malik. Don’t do this now,” she hissed through gritted teeth, voice low and furious.

The screen dimmed as the call failed. She stood there, paralyzed for a beat, trying to push back the tide of emotion rising in her chest. Embarrassment, frustration, a flicker of fear.

She inhaled sharply, squared her shoulders, and returned to the ballroom, her stride purposeful, her eyes blazing with unspoken fury and shame.

People noticed. Her absence. Her gift-less hands. The whispers resumed, louder, meaner.

Sarah’s mother, Evelyn Roy, stood near Paul’s cousin—a woman who never missed a chance to sting. The woman took the microphone with an exaggerated smile.

"Let’s not let unnecessary absences ruin the evening. The celebration must go on."

Laughter followed, clipped and polite.

Then the presentations resumed.

One by one, gifts lined the long mahogany table—an antique carriage clock from John, a gold encrusted chessboard from David, and paintings from obscure European masters worth enough to buy a villa.

Oliver, the hopeful manager of a mid-tier food brand, presented a sleek box containing a rare watch and whispered to Paul about his ambitions of partnership. Paul nodded, his gaze measured but not cold. Oliver exhaled.

Janet stepped up next. Cameras clicked. She unveiled a handcrafted sculpture of solid emerald and jade—a family crest merged with Paul's favorite animal, the lion. Estimated worth: $2.8 million. Guests clapped politely. Some gasped. Janet basked in it. Quietly, she remembered the late night arguments, the loan applications, the meetings with antique dealers. It had cost her everything short of her dignity.

David’s gift was next. Not as extravagant, but heavy with weight and prestige. A rare manuscript signed by Winston Churchill himself. Paul gave a tight nod of approval.

And yet, Sarah’s spot on the table remained glaringly empty.

"She hasn’t presented yet," someone whispered.

"Maybe she forgot," a woman in pearls chuckled maliciously.

Janet sauntered over with a glass in her hand, her voice dipped in false concern. "Sarah, dear, is everything alright? You look... tense."

Sarah scanned the crowd, searching for the maid she had trusted with her gift. But the maid was nowhere to be found.

"You didn’t forget your gift, did you?" Janet added sweetly. "That would be... unfortunate."

Sarah clenched her jaw. Her eyes darted toward her grandfather. He was watching her now, not with curiosity but with the stony disappointment of a man who had already made up his mind.

Michelle appeared at her side again, gently taking her hand. His touch was warm but calculated.

"If you ever need someone strong beside you, I'm right here,” he said softly.

Sarah didn’t answer. She pulled her hand back with dignity. "I’m fine. Thank you."

Paul Roy’s voice suddenly boomed through the hall.

"Sarah!"

Silence fell like a guillotine. Every head turned.

Sarah froze. She wished, not for the first time that night, that the marble floor would simply crack open and swallow her whole.

She had been the apple of her grandfather's eye. She had never disappointed him. Until now.

Her mind spiraled. The gift. Where was it? How could she recover from this humiliation?

Just then, a flurry of motion at the edge of the room caught her eye.

The maid she had given the gift to finally emerged from a side hallway, breathless and apologetic. She clutched the box to her chest and hurried over.

"Miss Roy, I'm so sorry. The security scanner delayed me when I followed you out looking for you and they insisted on verifying the contents."

Sarah took the gift, nodded tightly, and turned toward the stage.

She walked up to Paul slowly but confidently, every eye in the room watching her. She placed the box before him and unwrapped it with practiced poise.

“What's this?” Paul Roy exclaimed.