Chapter 16: Parent-child royalty.

The air in the hospital room was stale, too clean, too sterile. Arielle stood at the door, her fingers tightening on the strap of her worn leather bag, the one her mother patched up three times. The irony wasn't lost on her.

She had no business in a private hospital wing that cost more per night than her mom's yearly income.

And yet—there she was.

Inside, Marcus Grant lay propped against plush white pillows, a man once powerful, now pale and shrunken beneath layers of wealth.

"You came," he said, voice dry as parchment.

Arielle stepped forward. "You called."

There was a silence. Heavy. Not uncomfortable—but loaded. Like the air between two royal houses at a peace negotiation.

"I wasn't sure you would," he admitted.

"I almost didn't." Her eyes scanned the room. Mahogany furniture. Designer flowers. Silver-framed family portraits—none of which included her.

He noticed.

Marcus followed her gaze. "There should've been a place for you among them."

"Should've doesn't count for much, does it?"

He flinched, just slightly. Then gestured to the chair beside his bed.

"Sit. Please."

She hesitated, then lowered herself slowly, her posture guarded.

For a moment, he studied her—like he was trying to map a daughter into features he had ignored for over two decades.

"You look like your mother."

Arielle smiled without warmth. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not," he said quickly. "Lucille… was stronger than anyone I knew. And smarter. I—" He looked down at his hands. "I was a coward."

"You were more than that. You were royalty. You ruled your world, wore your crown of wealth and influence, and never once thought to share the throne."

His gaze met hers. "And you think I'm here now to do what? Pass on the scepter?"

"A little late for that, isn't it?"

He nodded. "Maybe. But not too late to acknowledge what I built—what you came from. You may hate the name Grant, but it's yours."

"I don't want your name," she said. "I want answers. And maybe—maybe closure."

Marcus shifted, the weight of his years pressing into his spine.

"I grew up being told the world belonged to men like me," he began. "That women like your mother were a phase, a detour—not destiny."

Arielle's jaw clenched.

"And you bought into it," she said. "Even when she told you about me. Even when you could've changed everything for her—for us."

"I was afraid," he whispered. "Afraid of ruining my image. Of losing my seat at the royal table. I didn't realize I was already rotting from the inside."

She blinked. A truth she hadn't expected.

"I watched you from afar," he confessed. "You didn't just survive—you grew. You challenged Damien in meetings. You held your head high in rooms that would've chewed you up. You have my fire. But your mother's compass."

Arielle stayed quiet.

Then: "Why tell me all this now?"

"Because I don't have long. And because there's something I want you to have."

He reached into the drawer beside him and pulled out a small box.

Her heart beat faster. Warily, she took it and opened it.

Inside was a simple, elegant ring. Not gaudy. Not branded. It was… meaningful.

"It was my mother's," Marcus said. "She gave it to me when I became CEO at 27. Told me royalty wasn't about crowns. It was about what you left behind when the titles faded."

Arielle stared at it.

"Give it to someone else," she said.

"I'm giving it to my daughter."

"And what if I don't want to be your daughter?"

His voice didn't shake. "Then you'll still be the strongest person I've ever known. But I hope you'll accept it. Not for me. But as a symbol. You don't need my name. You never did. But take this, and let the world know you wear the crown now—not because of bloodlines, but because you earned your own throne."

Arielle swallowed hard.

The ring was light in her palm.

But the meaning? It weighed like gold.

---

Later that evening, she returned home. Lucille sat at the kitchen table, her hands around a chipped coffee mug.

"He looked like a ghost," Arielle said, setting the ring box on the table.

Lucille stared at it, eyes unreadable.

"I told him I didn't want the name," Arielle said softly. "I just wanted truth."

Lucille took a long sip. Then: "And did you get it?"

"Some of it."

Lucille nodded. "Truth doesn't always come in one piece. Sometimes it drips over years, like an old faucet."

Arielle opened the box again.

Lucille blinked. "That's his mother's ring."

"Yeah."

"You took it?"

"I did."

Lucille looked at her daughter then, long and deep.

"You don't need it," she said.

"I know."

"But you deserve it."

Arielle closed the box.

In her veins flowed both poverty and privilege. Both silence and legacy.

And maybe—just maybe—being royalty wasn't about crowns or blood.

It was about the choice to rise.