Chapter 251. The Return to London

London greeted them not with suspicion, but a roar.

Anton had been aiming for a quiet return. A quiet car from the private airfield, moving into the city undetected like a covert op. Sabatine, her shoulder still matted with the latest layer of scar tissue beneath her clothes, had pushed for the quiet return.

     “We’re sitting ducks in a neon window until we track down the remainder of the Dubai operation,” she’d said, her voice knotted with the old tensions of the operation as the plane descended.

But the world had other plans too.

The story of the unraveling of the Geneva conspiracy, of rescue and rogue CFO and billionaire heir side by side with ex-operative, had spilled out like water from a broken dam during their travel time. Anton’s public-relations people, renowned for their skill in controlled leaks, had been helpless against the deluges. Before their auto could reach the gleaming pinnacle that marked the London headquarters on Bishopsgate of Rogers Industries, a throng had assembled outside.

It wasn’t a protest. It was a. celebration.

The employees, hundreds of them, streaming out of the slender tower and onto the paved Plaza. They carried no protest signs, only their phones held high, and their faces shone with a fervent, relieved glow. Cameras and satellite dishes protruded like banners from the sides of the bank of news vans parked along the curb. The moment the black Rolls-Royce pulled up, the applause that broke out became a physical phenomenon, battering the bulletproof glass.

Sabatine tensed beside him, her musclesTanggal unfolding into readiness, her eyes raking rooftops, windows, the edges of the crowd. “It’s a security nightmare,” she hissed, her hand instinctively going to where her gun had been.

“It's a show of faith,” Anton whispered, looking out at the crowd of faces. He saw bright young analysts, seasoned developers, and janitors in their uniforms, all brought together by this unexpected, deafening welcome. He saw no fear of him, but a collective breath of relief. The company was poisoned from the inside, and he, literally, publicly lanced the tumor that was eating away at it. He not only survived, he emerged victorious, with a transparency that was completely foreign to the Rogers legacy.

For the first time in his life, the towering building—the birthright, gilded prison that was the embodiment of his father’s cold ambition—took on meaning for Anton Rogers. Not a burden, but belonging. It was his. Truly. Not something to be protected but something to be recovered. A legacy.

“Close to me,” Sabatine directed, overriding the partner. She remained alert, professionally scanning, but the sharp edge of fear had retreated into a cutting acuity.

     “Fast. Straight into the house.”

He covered her hand with his where it lay tensed on the leather seat. “Together,” he said, and the word included far more than this present instance.

It opened, and they were sucked up in a sea of sound—a roar of cheers, of shouting questions, of clicking cameras. Anton came out first, straightening his coat. The pale, golden light of autumn suns glinted against the glass of the tower, and it all seemed to erupt in flame. He turned, held out his hand to offer entrance back inside.

A heartbeat’s pause. Then Sabatine took it, allowing him to lead her out into standing beside him. The presence was not one she flinched from, but she was not basking in it either. Instead, she stood like a poised huntress, eyeing the crowd, a dark and elegant figure in her charcoal coat standing out vividly against his navy suite. The contrast they presented was inescapable: the savior and the saved, the strength and the strategy, the partners in every possible way the crowd could conceive, and more than they could.

A chant began: it was low and then swelled: “Rogers! Rogers! Rogers!”

Anton did not wave. He did not offer a magnanimous smile. It was not the politician’s smile. Rather, he merely stood there, allowing them to see him. To see them. And then, he raised a hand, not in triumph, but in acknowledgement. In recognition. A gesture of thanks. The level of voices escalated.

Close to Sabatine, his lips brushing his ear to be heard over the noise, he said, “See? They’re not cheering for me. They’re cheering because the fort held. Because integrity won.”

She turned her head, her cheek almost meeting his. In her eyes, he saw the mirror of the crowd, the blue of the sky, the triumphant spire of the tower. The echo of the woman who had lived in hiding, wondering if her search for the truth might ever bring her anything except more shadows. “They're cheering on the story,” she argued, a small incredulous smile on her lips. “The one where the good guys win.”

“Then let's give them a good story to follow,” he said.

In each other’s arms, they made their way through the dispersing throngs. It was no more than fifty feet to the glass doors, but it might as well have been a parade. Reaching out, not to seize but to pat lightly at Anton’s shoulder, were hands; voices called out, “Welcome back, sir!” and, to Sabatine, “Thank you!” The security men, her employees now, stood back, a discreet but ever-present barrier.

Within the awesome and lofty atrium, the roar became distant thunder. The cool and marble-scented familiarity of the surroundings was never felt differently by Anton. Instead of smelling of sterilized ambition, it now reeked of… of coming home. The staff filled the atrium in large numbers, clapping and smiling vitreously.

The absence of Evelyn had been a presence that could be felt, but it was a presence that had been illuminated with light and not darkness.

"As they entered the private elevator, the noise finally ceased, replaced by a ringing silence. Sabatine leaned back against the mirrored wall, closing her eyes for a fleeting moment, exhaling a long, slow breath."

“Alright?” Anton asked, pushing the button for the penthouse suite.

She opened her eyes. They were clear, if tired. “That was… intense. But controlled. The team did well.” She was looking at him, really looking at him, as the elevator started moving smoothly upwards. “You did well. You didn’t give a speech. You just… were. It was perfect.”

“I meant what I said out there,” he said, the intimacy of the glass cube making it possible for him to tell the truth. “This strength they see? It’s ours. Not mine alone. Rogers Industries is stronger than ever because it’s no longer a monolith—a monument to one man’s paranoia. It’s becoming an ecosystem. And you’re part of its foundation.”

The doors led straight into his penthouse office—an overly cold, minimalist command center that was already subtly changed. There was a second identical ergonomic chair situated at a right angle to his computer desk. The sophisticated security monitor was discreetly mounted on a side wall, displaying a rotation of key points throughout the building. Her presence was integrated into his environment.

Sabatine drifted over to the floor-to-ceiling window and gazed out at the crowd that had begun to disperse in the square below. The Thames wound through the city, its presence both familiar and timeless. ‘It’s changed. The city. When I left, it had been a topography of danger. A territory to traverse. Now.’

"Now it feels like home again," he finished for her. He came to stand alongside her. He didn’t reach out to her physically. He just shared her view.

She met him with a nod, surprised, then nodded. “Yes. More than a place of operations. A home. Even after everything. Because of everything.” She turned to face him, the city sprawling before her, a kingdom regained. “The Dubai connection is hot. My team will brief us in an hour. This isn’t over.”

“I know,” he said. The encrypted package, the failed ‘integrity check’—it was a splinter, a reminder that their peace was active, fought for daily.

“But,” she went on, her eyes alight with determination, “for the first time, I’m not on the other side of it, looking in. I’m not a ghost in the machine. I’m in the nerve centre. With you.” She reached out and took his hand, intertwining her fingers in his. It was enough to spark a jolt of pure conviction in him. “The crowd wasn’t just cheering on a corporate win, Anton. They were cheering on resilience. And we’ve become pros at that.”

“We can’t leave,” she said, her voice barely audible over her own rapid breathing. “We can’t leave now.” 

 Schneider brought those joined hands to his lips, his kiss traveling from one knuckle to the next, learning now that this was an expression that said more than any of his own declarations. “This moment,” he repeated, his voice low.

 “And of course it ends like this,” she said, yet she didn’t move. “This kind of ending.” 

Every moment of their entire history had led to this moment. Every patient proposition, every passionate argument, every sorry apology – every moment had led to this point

London, with its historic stones and shiny new spines, with its secluded passages and towering architecture, was once more theirs. Not because they possessed the streets, but because they had decided to erect the delicate, powerful scaffolding of the future in the throbbing chest of the city. This was no ending but a statement. And, standing together, a black silhouette against the towering sky, the city had become more than a home.

It was like being at the starting line.

A survey.

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