WHO IS MALIK HAMPTON?

The Measure of a Man

The ballroom was a battlefield in silk and stone, every breath held like a blade waiting to be unsheathed. Just as the appraisers leaned forward, their hands hovering above the first artifact, Sarah raised her voice.

"Wait!" she said.

The room gasped, the sharpness of her tone cutting through the sterile hum of machines and flickering camera lights. Everyone turned to her, expecting hesitation, fear, a breakdown perhaps.

What they saw instead was a woman battling reason and ruin.

Grandfather Roy stood slowly from his seat, leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes narrowing like a falcon locking onto prey. “You dare delay this again? Haven’t you humiliated this family enough for one night, Sarah?” he thundered.

Sarah stiffened.

“Every time you speak, you confirm what I’ve feared. That you were never ready to lead.”

Gasps rippled. Sarah’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

Her grandfather’s voice turned colder. “Tonight, I make a decree. The one whose gift is valued the highest be it friend or foe will be the next heir to Roy Enterprises. This is final.”

Sarah’s breath left her lungs like glass shattering. All the power, all the dreams she’d once clung to, now dangled by a thread.

Janet’s smile stretched unnaturally wide. Her eyes gleamed with venomous satisfaction. Finally, she thought. Finally, no one can protect her now.

She took a deep breath and muttered under her breath, “Just hold on a little longer. The loan will be paid. I’ll lead the top.”

Across the ballroom, Oliver leaned against the marble pillar with a smug tilt of his lips. The way he stared at Sarah, it was as if he was watching a princess stripped of her crown.

Without her grandfather, he mused, Sarah is just a shadow. And with her fall, Olivia tumbles too. Malik? A speck. A man with no name.

Grandfather Roy waved his hand. “Proceed.”

With a nod from the chief appraiser, the scans resumed.

First came the artifacts. Obsidian carvings, ancient yet pristine. The appraisers murmured to themselves as scanners whirred and lights flickered.

Then the scrolls—written in a forgotten tongue older than any known dialect. One of the linguists gasped. “This is pre-Carthaginian… untouched. Never opened. Could hold lost treaties.”

Coins were next. They shimmered like molten stars under the ballroom lights. Some bore the face of long-forgotten kings. Others had never been seen in any museum or private collection.

A bottle of liquor followed. The seal unbroken. The glass embedded with jeweled emblems from a dynasty that no longer existed. One expert choked on his breath.

“This is... royal. Only a dozen of these were ever made. The last one was auctioned at $800 million.”

Then came the final item.

A lock made of pure obsidian. No inscription, no hinge. Just a seamless block. The appraiser tapped it, then blinked as readings went haywire.

“It’s... measuring itself,” he whispered.

A sudden electric buzz filled the space. The machine sputtered, then collapsed into sparks. The screen blinked before crashing entirely.

“What the hell?” a technician muttered.

“Did we overload it?”

“No,” the head appraiser replied. “It’s not the machine. It’s the valuation. It exceeded the software’s upper range.”

People whispered. Disbelief scattered across their faces like shattered porcelain.

He turned to the room. “The entire collection is conservatively valued at over four billion dollars.”

Silence. Then… chaos.

Voices erupted. Glasses slipped from fingers. Chairs scraped violently.

Even Grandfather Roy remained frozen in his seat, his mouth wide open with an unreadable expression.

“I…” he started, but couldn’t finish. He looked at the items again, almost reverently now.

For a man who lived through wars and built empires, very little left him speechless. This did.

Malik stood still.

It wasn’t triumph in his eyes. It wasn’t vengeance. It was silence and power.

Oliver’s face turned red. He tried to laugh. “Must be a lucky flea market find.”

Malik turned to him, calm as a winter sea. “Acquired legally through auction,” he said coolly. “Luck’s not my thing.”

Michelle, who had been sipping from her glass with calculated detachment, fumbled. The liquid splashed over her fingers.

Beside her, her mother, Elisabeth DeWitt, stepped forward, but Michelle halted her with a sharp gesture. “Not now. Speaking could ruin us,” she whispered.

Sarah stood frozen, her heart still catching up to the moment. The value, the validation and who brought it all seemed odd.

She leaned slightly to the side, signaling her secretary without drawing attention.

“Where... where did he get all that?” she whispered.

The secretary shook her head, then murmured into her earpiece. A moment later, she leaned back in.

“Malik came with them himself,” she responded.

Sarah turned to him slowly. “You didn’t buy those, but where did you get them?”

“No…” Malik said softly. The words weighed heavily in his mouth.

“Then who.. ? If you didn't buy them, who did?” The word echoed in Sarah's mind. His gestures shifted swiftly to Michelle.

Sarah followed his gaze. And the realization slammed into her.

“Michelle DeWitt!”

He was the only person who could’ve done it all to impress her. He had sworn to help. Sworn to protect Sarah. And he had done it quietly, subtly, by gifting Malik what Sarah herself couldn’t have afforded or even found.

“All thanks to him… He did what I couldn't. I’ll never forget this.” Sarah whispered to herself.

Tears pooled at the edges of her eyes, but she blinked them away. Now wasn’t the time for weakness. It was time for reckoning.

Malik stepped forward.

His voice was no longer soft. It carried the weight of every insult, every side glance, every mockery thrown at Sarah tonight.

“Now, let’s settle the other part of our agreement,” he said, looking directly at Janet, then sweeping his gaze across Oliver, Michelle, Evelyn Roy, and the others who had cheered Sarah’s downfall.

“I ask… no, I demand you apologize. To Sarah. For every humiliation. Every sneer. Every plan to see her fail.”

No one spoke.

Then Grandfather Roy stood slowly. His eyes bore into Janet’s.

“You promised, Janet. On your knees, if I recall,” he said quietly.

Janet’s face drained of color. Her lips parted, but no sound escaped. Beside her, Michelle’s jaw clenched. Oliver looked down at his shoes.

And Sarah? Sarah finally smiled. It wasn’t smug. It wasn’t cruel. But simply earned. She turned to Malik, her voice low but certain.

“You carried me tonight,” she whispered.

But Malik didn’t look at her. His hand brushed against hers briefly.

“Next time, we rise together,” he said.

Grandfather’s eyes darkened now toward everyone who had broken their promises. His fury focused especially on Janet and Evelyn, who started it all.

“Apologize now or I’ll order every one of you disowned from the Roy bloodline,” Paul screamed.

The room turned taut with tension as his voice echoed like a thunderstorm. No one dared to speak, but Janet, knowing she’d lose everything, clutched herself.

“Think… think… think!” she muttered desperately.

Then she looked up.

Her voice cut the air like a blade, sudden and sharp.

“No! You all think this is over? It’s not. Not even close!” Janet shouted, catching everyone’s attention.

All eyes snapped to her. The room stilled. Everyone waited for what's about to happen.