All Chapters of The Billionaire Legacy : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Anabella Pov.I burst through the bunker’s cold maw before my racing lungs could catch up—my gown torn, feet numb, but my heart beating pure, unmitigated resolve. The stark corridor yawned ahead, concrete swallowing every echo of my steps, every hint of breath.Then I saw them.Daniel. Tall. Still. Holding my son—my Peter—pressed into his arm like a shield. And there, chained to the wall with rusty links that bit into his wrists, stood my father. Both faces turning, haunted, toward me.My chest exploded. Dread and grief collided, breathing trapped in my throat. My legs felt halfway gone. I swallowed. Peter’s voice—tiny and raw.“Mama…” He cried, eyes flickering bright with recognition. My heart fractured. I lurched forward.Daniel’s calm was knife—sharp, cold.“Look at me.” His voice echoed, distant yet dagger-sharp. “Your father is alive. Your son is alive. I can make them both disappear. But I need one thing from you: yourself.”My breath caught. The word yourself pulsed in the sta

John’s Pov.Rage consumed me, I looked at the nurse and hissed storming out of the hospital.Why?Why does she water down my effort?This woman would drive me nuts.“Vanguard Compound”. I snapped at the driver.Bringing out my phone, the secret spy had alerted me that she was seen entering the building.“Stay at alert, I'm on my way”. I ordered the men.“Should we attack?”. The leader of the men asked.“Lay low………i want to see where this leads”. I ordered them, my anger threatening to explode.Why was she doing this?Is she trying to get herself killed?Daniel……..the cursed bastard!.I would seize life out of him, I would make him choke on his own blood.He had the nerves to mess with my woman and my son.The audacity.The driver had driven half the journey when I ordered him to take me back home.“Turn around, take me home”. I ordered the driver, my words measured.He bowed in accordance, turning the wheels over, driving me home.Daniel Alexander had toyed with fire, I had been too

John Pov.She left.She chose him.She walked into Daniel’s arms and left me bleeding.But the news… the news didn’t lie.The PAL codes. The nuclear heartbeat of the United States, stolen. Smuggled out. Heading for North Korea.And Daniel’s name keeps flashing in my skull like lightning.He’s tied to it. He has to be. I know it. I feel it in my marrow.I’m done crying. Done begging. Done clutching her perfume-soaked lace like a corpse.I’m not just a man.I am JOHN MCQUEEN.The best in the game.The blood and steel of the defense world runs through my hands. The satellites, the drones, the contracts, the codes. Nations whisper my name with fear.If the PAL codes are moving, I can find them. If Daniel touched them, I’ll uncover it. If Annabella is wrapped in his mess, I’ll pull her out.No more screaming at the walls.Now I sharpen the knife.The office is still wrecked. Papers on the floor, staff too afraid to knock. Good. Let them fear me. Fear is useful. Fear keeps people silent.

John’s Pov.The elevator doors hissed open, spilling me from the underground bunker into the chill of the night.The city was alive above me, but I felt hollow. Every step from the concrete shadows to the waiting car felt heavier than the last, as though the weight of the files I had just seen clung to my shoulders.Cooked.That single word echoed in my chest like a curse.The driver opened the back door, but I waved him off. I wanted the wheel. I needed control of something tonight, even if it was just the road.The engine purred to life, but it wasn’t comfort. It was noise. The kind of noise that grates on nerves already stretched thin. I pressed my foot to the gas and let the city swallow me whole.Headlights blurred. Towers loomed. Neon bled into the windshield in sickly streaks. Everywhere I looked, I imagined my face glowing across those screens. Traitor. Thief. Billionaire Crime Lord.The government feeds. The news cycles. The private channels. The hacker’s words repeated li

John’s Pov.At the station.They haul me into the station. The fluorescent lights strip my suit of any pretense. The booking room smells of bleach and old coffee and the last hairs of dignity. A clerk stamps my name on paper like a bookend to a life. I feel ridiculous, small fingers of panic curled tight around my guts.They run through the list—photograph, fingerprints, legalities. The detective slides a folder across the table and points to rows of numbers. “Explain this transfer,” he says. His voice is flat, the voice of someone who believes he is touching the truth.I look at the page. Figures. Dates. Signatures—some mine, some not. A map of currency flowing from my accounts into others. Shell companies. They’ll show this in court like a magician reveals a card trick. But tricks rely on misdirection. I know misdirection. I practiced it less neatly, in the dark rooms where you keep procurement healthy and scientists paid and men fed. Daniel’s art is theater theaterized.“If you wa