SAMSON MAKES HIS ENTRANCE PART 2

SAMSON MAKES HIS ENTRANCE PART 2

The Walters estate pulsed with energy, the grand hall alive with vibrant music that echoed through the towering crystal chandeliers. The floor shimmered under the glow of golden lights, reflecting the extravagant wealth of the family. Guests swayed gracefully, their laughter and chatter blending into the rhythm of the live orchestra. The air carried a mix of expensive perfume, aged whiskey, and the faint scent of freshly polished marble.

Silver trays floated through the crowd, carried by uniformed waiters offering golden champagne, exotic wines, and delicate hors d'oeuvres—bite-sized luxuries only the elite could afford. The women were draped in shimmering gowns, diamonds catching the light with every movement, while the men exuded power in tailored suits, their expensive watches gleaming subtly under the chandeliers.

Yet, despite the outward display of celebration, not everyone was at ease. Teresa sat like a queen, watching the festivities with a self-satisfied smirk, completely unaware of the ticking bomb in the form of Denis Walters' will. The three lawyers, seated on a plush leather sofa, observed the scene with knowing glances.

"Look at Brandon," Mark muttered with a chuckle, nodding toward the drunken figure now stumbling onto the dance floor. "Maybe this is why Denis Walters didn't consider anyone from this family as his heir. Careless and arrogant as ever."

"Yeah," Xerves agreed, sipping his whiskey. "Deacon was a much better fit, but he despised anything related to business responsibilities. What a waste."

Meanwhile, on the dance floor, the music throbbed with life, and Brandon, fully drunk, staggered onto the polished marble, his glass of wine sloshing dangerously in his hand. At first, he danced alone, swinging his arms wildly, oblivious to the amused and disapproving gazes around him. But soon, he grew bored. His hazy eyes scanned the room, searching for a partner, and then he spotted her—a girl standing alone, seemingly waiting for someone.

With an unsteady smirk, he lurched forward, making his way to her. The moment she noticed him approaching, tension stiffened her posture, and her expression turned to mild alarm. Brandon was notorious for his arrogance and crude behavior—few willingly interacted with him. As he reached for her hand, she instinctively stepped back, ready to flee.

"Hey, beautiful, where do you think you're going?" he slurred, tightening his grip on her wrist. "Come on, dance with me."

The girl struggled to break free. "Let me go, you bastard!" she snapped.

Brandon only chuckled. "Why should I? It's just a dance."

Before he could pull her closer, he stumbled forward, knocking into a solid wall of muscle. Blinking up, Brandon found himself face-to-face with a towering figure. The man's broad chest and imposing height made Brandon look like a mere twig before him. His sharp, cold gaze darkened with fury.

"I suggest you let go of my girlfriend," the man said, his voice dangerously low. He clenched his fist, preparing to strike.

Brandon, in his drunken state, quickly reevaluated his situation. He let go of the girl immediately, raising his hands in surrender. "Wait—here she is! I can dance on my own now, no need for a partner," he laughed nervously before staggering back onto the dance floor, resuming his ridiculous, drunken movements.

Perhaps it was the alcohol dulling his senses, or maybe some part of him recognized that picking a fight wasn't worth it. Either way, the guests watched with mild amusement, shaking their heads at yet another display of Brandon's recklessness.

On the other side of town, Samson gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw locked with fury as he sped through the empty streets. The road stretched before him like an endless path into the unknown, but his focus remained sharp—he was heading straight for the old mansion. Something inside him told him that whatever secrets lay within those walls would change everything.

Back at the estate, the grand performance reached its breathtaking finale. The two men and women on stage moved in perfect harmony, their bodies swaying effortlessly to the rhythm. The audience was enthralled, erupting into a thunderous round of applause. Laughter and cheers echoed through the grand hall, and even Teresa, seated at the front, found herself nodding in approval.

For a woman who rarely showed emotions, her expression softened as she lifted a hand, gesturing toward one of the dancers—a young girl who had stood out the most.

The girl hesitated, uncertain at first, but then cautiously stepped off the stage and approached Teresa.

"You danced beautifully, my girl," Teresa said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "I'm truly impressed."

The girl swallowed nervously. "My name is Edith," she replied softly.

"Edith," Teresa repeated, as if tasting the name on her tongue. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. Then, as if shaking off an old thought, she smiled—a rare and unexpected expression. "That was truly wonderful. I must reward you and your team for such a performance."

Without hesitation, Teresa reached into her handbag, pulled out a checkbook, and swiftly wrote down an amount. When she handed the check to Edith, the girl's hands trembled as she took it.

Three million dollars.

The weight of the number sent a visible shock through Edith's body. "M-Madam, are you sure?" she stammered. "This is…"

Teresa chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. "Just take it. Don't worry. I always reward those who bring me joy."

As Edith struggled to find words to express her gratitude, Teresa leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting beyond the celebration. The cheers and music faded into the background as a memory surfaced—one she had buried long ago.

There was a time when she had been on that very stage. The chandeliers had cast a golden glow on her as she twirled under the gaze of a man who had once meant the world to her. His hands had been firm yet gentle, guiding her effortlessly across the dance floor. The sound of his laughter, the way he had looked at her—it had been the kind of moment people lived for.

But moments like those never lasted.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the glass on the table, as if anchoring herself to the present. The warmth that had briefly softened her features disappeared, replaced once again by the cold, unreadable mask she always wore.

From a nearby sofa, three lawyers observed the interaction with curiosity.

Mark scoffed, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd see Teresa this happy. She actually gave away three million dollars for a dance?"

Henry exhaled in disbelief. "Yeah, it's surprising. She's a woman who takes ages to smile. Always so cold-faced."

Xerves leaned back, smirking. "Even villains have moments of joy."

For a brief second, they all fell silent, watching Teresa as she gazed at the stage.

Maybe she wasn't as ruthless as people claimed. Maybe there was more to her than the cold-hearted woman everyone believed her to be.

Or maybe, just maybe, the ghosts of the past never truly left.