She continued to visit me. Not in my huge house, but in that little café, Sweet Nostalgia. We would sit at my table in the corner and talk for hours. She would tell me about her heroes, and I would tell her stories from my life – the real ones this time, without sparing the ugly details. She became not just the daughter I never had, but my confessor and friend.
And Deyan… Deyan took the envelope.
After a few weeks of silence, I got an email from him. It was short. “I accept. But I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Grandpa.”
He went back to university and graduated with full honours. He refused to study abroad. He wanted to stay here. After graduation, he came to my office. He was changed. The anger in his eyes was replaced by determination.
“I’m ready,” he said.
We founded the new company. We named it “Helios,” in honor of that first project of Naum’s. I provided the financing and remained in the shadows, as a silent partner. Deyan was the driving force. He had inherited his grandfather’s genius, but combined it with my business acumen, which he had learned by watching my mistakes.
Helios did not become the new Empire. And it didn’t have to be. It was something different. A company with ethical principles that invested in young talent and created technologies that helped people. Deyan had built something that his grandfather would have been proud of.
Our relationship with him remained complicated. There was respect, but no warmth. The wound was too deep to heal completely. But there was understanding. He understood that I was not a monster, but simply a person who had made a terrible mistake. And I understood that the real legacy is not money and buildings, but the opportunities you create for others.
I sold my remaining shares in Imperia. Simeon never managed to take it over. Instead, I used the money to create a foundation in Naum’s name to fund the education of talented, underprivileged youth.
My life was no longer quiet. It was filled with meaning. I was no longer alone. I had Liliya, who was like family to me. I had Deyan, with whom we shared a common goal. I had the memory of Naum, who was no longer a nightmare, but a reminder of the cost of mistakes and the power of redemption.
One afternoon, as I sat with Lilia at Sweet Nostalgia, she looked at me and smiled that warm smile I had seen for the first time so long ago.
“You know,” she said, “sometimes the worst things in life lead to the best.”
I looked at her, this young woman who had been through so much pain and had come out of it stronger and wiser. I thought of her brother, who was turning his anger into a constructive force. I thought of her grandfather, who found peace in forgiveness.
And for the first time in thirty years I felt completely and unreservedly in agreement. I had lost everything to find what was most important. And the silence was finally replaced by music.
