8:03 p.m.
The apartment smelled of cabbage stew and old worry.
My mother was at the kitchen table. No food this time. Just two mugs of tea. Steam curling up between us.
She didn't stand when I walked in.
I took the chair opposite her.
Silence for a long moment.
Then she spoke.
"I went online today. Read more than the headlines."
I waited.
"You're not just publishing books," she said. "You're… taking things. Companies. People. The articles call you ruthless. Brilliant. Some call you dangerous."
I sipped the tea. Too hot.
"People talk."
"They say you bought Inkwell Press in cash. That you're sixteen and already worth millions. That you have lawyers and assistants who do whatever you say."
I set the mug down.
"That's true."
She looked at me, really looked.
"Where did it come from, Alex? The money. The power. The… coldness in your eyes."
I could tell the truth.
I didn't.
