Chapter 452

The car's interior was dim, the leather seats creaking as Oliver Thompson clutched the stolen jade pendant. Silent tears carved paths through the dirt on his cheeks.

Margaret Sinclair's knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the glint of green stone. With a swift motion, she snatched it from Oliver's grasp. The jade felt unnaturally cold against her palm. "Where the hell did you get this?" she demanded.

Oliver's lips curled into a vindictive smile. "Took it from that bitch back there." His street-honed fingers had moved with practiced ease, though he'd never expected to use those skills today. "She had it coming," he added, cracking his knuckles. "Making me apologize like some beggar."

Margaret studied the boy's face, her expression unreadable. Instead of scolding him, she merely warned, "We're staying far away from her from now on. Women like that have power we can't touch."

Oliver wiped his face with his sleeve, but his greedy gaze remained fixed on the pendant. "Margaret, that's gotta be worth something, right? Saw similar pieces at the antique market going for twenty grand easy!"

Margaret turned the jade over, examining its flawless surface. "With this quality? At least triple that."

Oliver practically vibrated with excitement. "Give it back! I know a guy at the market who'll give us cash no questions asked!" He reached for it desperately.

Margaret jerked the pendant away, her voice turning glacial. "This stays with me. You're too young to be dealing with this kind of money. And if I hear you breathed a word about this to anyone..." She let the threat hang in the air.

Oliver's fists clenched so tight his nails drew blood. He'd risked everything for that damn pendant. Who was she to decide? But he swallowed his rage - the orphanage was worse than this. One day, he vowed silently, they'd all pay for treating him like dirt.

As Margaret turned her attention back to the road, Oliver's smoldering glare burned into her profile.

The moment they arrived, a swarm of children descended upon Margaret, tugging at her sleeves and begging for treats.

"Get off me!" she snapped, shoving them away. "Can't you see I'm busy?"

The children scattered like frightened mice.

Margaret stormed into her office and froze. An elderly man sat in her chair, eyes closed, exuding an aura of quiet power. If Olivia Sinclair had been present, she would have recognized him immediately - Alistair Kensington.

Margaret crossed her arms, her lips twisting into a mocking smile. "Remember who you are yet? Or is your memory as useless as the rest of you? If not for those expensive clothes, I wouldn't have bothered picking you up."

She circled him like a vulture, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "You've been living off my generosity - eating my food, wearing clothes I paid for. Nothing in this world comes free, old man."

Alistair remained motionless, his face an impassive mask.

Margaret was accustomed to his silence, but something dark flickered in her eyes. She'd found him weeks ago during an auction in Crestwood, collapsed by the roadside.

His tailored suit had told her everything she needed to know - this was no ordinary vagrant. She'd brought him home, not to help him, but because she recognized opportunity.

She'd never bothered searching for his family. Instead, she'd hoped with time he might grow attached, perhaps even name her his heir.

But Alistair had remained as unreadable as stone, giving nothing away.