Semua Bab The Mistress: Bab 51 - Bab 60

R-18“Get your hands off me! Do you have any idea who I am? I am carrying a Blackwood heir!”Avalain’s scream shattered the stunned silence of the marble foyer, but it lacked its usual venom. It was the sound of a woman drowning in a pool of her own making. The security team didn’t hesitate; they gripped her silk-clad arms with the same clinical indifference they would show to a piece of discarded trash. Behind them, the massive LED monitors in the gala hall were still cycling through the evidence—the Macau hotel logs, the DNA markers of Marcus Thorne’s child, and the leaked recordings of her plotting to “fleece the Blackwood idiot” for everything he was worth.“You’re nothing but a footnote, Avalain,” I said, stepping into her line of sight. I didn’t shout. I didn’t have to. I stood there, wrapped in my silver armor, watching the flashes of the paparazzi bulbs from the front gates through the glass. “The press is waiting. Why don’t you go tell them exactly whose child you’re carrying?

“Drop the briefcase, Marcus. Or the first thing the High Council loses isn’t their money—it’s their favorite cleaner.”Zander’s voice was like a glacier grinding over stone. He hadn’t moved a muscle, but the air in the penthouse had shifted from a sanctuary to a kill zone. Marcus Thorne didn’t flinch; he merely tilted his head, his eyes flicking to the satellite phone in my hand. He knew the power I held. He knew that with one thumb-press, the digital foundations of his masters would dissolve into nothingness.“You’re a long way from the shadows, Zander,” Marcus said, his smile never reaching his cold, predatory eyes. “But you’re too late. The ‘Kill Switch’ is a beautiful bluff, but it requires a signal. And the jammer in the elevator just went live.”The satellite phone in my hand beeped—a hollow, mocking sound. No Signal.My heart plummeted, but before the panic could take root, Zander’s private line—the one encrypted through a hardwired landline—began to scream on the nightstand. It

“Does the lighting suit you, Daniel? I made sure the press used the high-definition lenses. We wouldn’t want the world to miss a single bead of sweat.”Sophie’s voice was as sharp as a diamond-tipped drill, echoing through the cold, concrete hallway of the central booking station. She stood behind the reinforced glass, her arms crossed over her pristine designer suit, a stark contrast to the man on the other side. Daniel didn’t look like a Blackwood anymore. He was stripped of his bespoke tuxedo, dressed in a standard-issue orange jumpsuit that hung off his frame like a shroud.“You think this is a game, you little bitch?” Daniel spat, his voice cracking. He lunged at the glass, his hands—now stained with ink and grime—leaving smears on the surface. “Where is Victoria? Tell her to come here and look at me! Tell her she can’t erase me!”“Victoria is busy living the life you tried to steal,” Sophie replied, her smile never reaching her eyes. She held up her tablet, the screen reflecting

“Does it feel cold, Avalain? The sensation of everything you’ve built turning back into the air you used to breathe?”The voice wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was a gavel. I stood in the center of Avalain’s penthouse condo, the floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of a city that no longer belonged to her. The air was thick with the scent of her expensive French candles, a cloying sweetness that couldn’t mask the metallic tang of the fear radiating off her.Avalain turned from her vanity, a silk robe fluttering around her ankles. She looked at me, then at Sophie, and finally at the four men in dark uniforms standing by the door—the ones with the federal insignias on their lapels. She tried for a laugh, that high-pitched, melodic sound that had enchanted Daniel for years, but it came out as a brittle croak.“Victoria. You’re early. I haven’t even had my morning tea,” she said, her fingers clutching a diamond-encrusted phone as if it were a weapon. “And what is this? A costume

“Does it feel different, Victoria? Holding the weight of an empire that actually belongs to you?”Marcus Vane’s voice was smooth as aged bourbon as he slid a single, black titanium card across the table of my private study. It was the master key to the newly consolidated Vermon-Sovereign Fund. I didn’t reach for it immediately. I simply looked at it, the embossed crane of my family’s crest catching the afternoon light.“It feels heavy, Marcus,” I replied, my voice devoid of the tremor that had defined my life for half a decade. “But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a debt. It feels like an invoice that’s finally been paid in full.”Vane leaned back, a shark-like grin touching his lips. “It’s more than paid. Between the civil restitution, the liquidated Blackwood subsidiaries, and the interest on the embezzled trust, you didn’t just win your money back. You’ve successfully cannibalized the Blackwood legacy. You are now the single most liquid individual in the High Council’s juri