The Exiled Heiress Returns For Her Son

Chloe POV:

The international arrivals hall at O'Hare was a bustling stream of travelers and rolling suitcases.

I spotted Declan Garrison almost immediately. He was standing near the exit barricade in an ostentatious Versace suit with a massive gold tie clip, checking his Patek Philippe watch with theatrical impatience while his stressed assistant, Mr. Thompson, hovered nearby.

In Declan's hands was a large, arrogant sign printed in bold black letters: CHLOE PARRISH - GARRISON HOLDINGS.

"Where the hell is she?" Declan barked loudly at Thompson, not caring who heard. "I've been standing here for twenty minutes! If I knew Chloe Parrish was going to drag her pathetic self back looking like a charity case, I wouldn't have bothered coming in person!"

Mr. Thompson wiped sweat from his brow. "Mr. Garrison, please, people are watching."

"Let them watch!" Declan scoffed, sneering with disgust. "Five years ago, she was a frumpy, dowdy nerd who hid behind thick glasses and oversized wool sweaters! A complete wallflower! Now she crawls back from Paris as an abandoned single mother with a bastard child, and she thinks she can keep me waiting? She should be on her knees begging for my mercy!"

I stopped five paces away, crossing my arms in cold amusement.

Sophie glanced at the large sign, then tugged my trench coat. Her crystal-clear voice rang out brightly across the terminal:

"Mommy, look! That rude man is holding your name! Is he the tacky uncle you're going to fire today?"

Declan’s jaw snapped shut. He whipped around with flared nostrils, ready to lash out at the child, but the moment his eyes traveled up to my face, he froze entirely.

His eyes bulged. His mouth fell open so wide he looked like a beached fish.

He didn't see the dowdy, plain girl he remembered from five years ago.

Standing before him was a breathtaking woman with sculpted cheekbones, waist-length waves of dark hair, and flawless porcelain skin. My tailored black dress accentuated curves that demanded attention, and my lips were painted in a lethal crimson.

Declan’s gaze crawled up and down my body, an oily, undisguised hunger instantly replacing his arrogance.

"Well, well..." Declan purred, stepping forward with an unctuous grin. "I have to admit, Chloe... Paris did wonders for you. You actually look stunning."

He puffed out his chest, adjusting his gold tie clip with smug condescension. "Tell you what. I'm a generous man. I'm still willing to marry you and give that kid of yours a respectable name. All you have to do is sign over your shares in Alistair BioTech to me today, and I won't even mind that you're damaged goods."

A dry, mocking laugh escaped my lips.

I took a step forward, my stilettos clicking sharply against the marble floor. "Marry me, Declan? You must be dreaming."

Declan’s greasy smile faltered. "What did you say?"

I leaned in, my voice dropping to a razor-sharp whisper: "Our engagement died five years ago the night you helped Richard push me out. Alistair BioTech will never belong to you, and if you ever dare approach my daughter again, the next thing I release won't be a rejection—it'll be the offshore fraud records Solo pulled from your dummy accounts."

Declan turned pale as a corpse, stumbling back half a step.

"Have a nice life, Mr. Garrison," I said smoothly.

Taking Sophie's hand, I walked straight past him into the crisp Chicago morning, leaving Declan standing in humiliated shock.

My phone vibrated in my coat pocket.

I pulled it out and glanced at the glowing screen: Richard Parrish.

My biological father rarely ever reached out on his own initiative, and whenever he did, it was never out of fatherly care—it was always because he wanted something or had an agenda to push. Declan had probably run straight to him to complain, and Richard was undoubtedly calling to interrogate me and demand an explanation for humiliating his golden boy.

A cold smile touched my lips as the screen flashed in my palm.