The murmurs in the ballroom grew louder.
Until—
A deep, commanding voice cut through the noise.
"You're late."
The words were spoken calmly, but their weight was undeniable.
Because they came from him.
The head of the Blackwood family.
The King of Mafias.
Vincent's father.
The moment the words were spoken, the atmosphere in the ballroom shifted.
The heads of the top families subtly straightened in their seats.
Their eyes flickered between father and son, trying to gauge the relationship between them.
Was it strained?Was it hostile?Or was Vincent here as an heir, reclaiming his place?
But Vincent…
He simply smiled.
It was a slow, deliberate smile, one that held no warmth—only amusement.
"You knew I'd come, didn't you?" Vincent's voice was smooth, unhurried. "Even though I said I wouldn't."
His father chuckled.
A deep, resonant sound.
"I did," he admitted, his sharp green eyes gleaming with undisguised pride. "Because no matter how much you run, you are still my son."
Silence.
A silence so thick, so absolute, that it felt as if the air itself had been stolen from the room.
Because this was it.
The confirmation the world had been waiting for.
For years, the world had speculated about Vincent's origins.
For years, they had questioned his past.
And now—before billions—it was undeniable.
Vincent Blackwood was not just a celebrity.
He was the phantom prince of the Blackwood family.
The true heir—the one who had walked away.