Semua Bab Her Father’s Billionaire Best Friend : Bab 11 - Bab 20

“Could be real.” A shook his head. “Could be planted. Could be old. But the plan is the same: make Marcus look like a man with a disposable private life and his professional decisions suddenly look tainted with personal bias.”I thought of Dad—his laugh, his trust in Marcus—and my throat tightened. The blood at my temples felt like an apology. “If someone wanted to hurt Dad, why use me?”“Because you’re a perfect lever,” A said. “You matter to him. Your pieces are the ones other people will touch to make the whole thing fall. And Marcus—Marcus is loyal, but he’s also human. Human things make great scandals.”He slid a thin envelope into my hand. Inside were photocopies: an email thread, a bank transfer, a receipt from a hotel in a city Marcus had denied visiting. My fingers shook; the world sharpened, and for a beat I saw Marcus’s profile in the photo—happy, careless, the laugh unfazed—and then him on my porch promising protection. Everything leaned on a knife-edge.“Don’t trust him c

Elena opened her mouth, then closed it. “Someone approaching you out of the blue? Not a good sign.” Her tone was conversational, but there was an edge that made me think she’d been expecting something like this. “If A is involved, it complicates things because it indicates a player who works in shadows. My team—” she glanced at Marcus—“we can triangulate, but it will take time.”“Time we might not have,” Dad said. He shoved the folder back toward Marcus. “Your company, Marcus. If this goes public—”“I know,” Marcus said. He sounded exhausted in a way that made me young and useless and thin. He moved past Elena and crossed the foyer toward me. His fingers brushed my shoulder in a gesture that was more claim than comfort.Elena’s gaze tracked that motion and, with preternatural calm, she stepped forward and kissed Marcus—light, porcelain, a deliberate press of lips that startled everyone. It wasn’t the desperate hungry kiss we’d shared that had set my nights on fire. It was a cold, publ

They took him to a compact black vehicle: polite words, well-practiced motions, hands that knew the choreography of authority. Before they closed the door, Marcus reached toward me, fingers brushing my cheek with a touch that burned like the heat of a flame against skin.“Hide the folder,” he whispered, urgent and small, like someone pressing a secret into my palm. “And Claire—do not leave the house.”The world congealed into one sharp sound—the slam of a car door, a tightening of tires, and then silence at the edge of the driveway as the vehicle rolled away.My chest hollowed with a breath so big it nearly knocked me off my feet. I wanted to run. I wanted to follow. I wanted to tear after the car and demand everything—truth, explanations, proof that this was a setup—but his fingers were still on my skin, a residual warmth that told me he meant what he said.Dad stood rooted, the folder drooping from his hand like something that had been caught suddenly in a storm. Elena folded her ar

I looked at Adrian, who didn’t falter. “A changes tone,” he said, as if reciting a weather report. “That’s usual. Don’t panic.” We rounded the corner and the streetlights smudged our shadows on the pavement. Behind us, a group of men in dark coats slowed to match our pace—too many, too close. My pulse became a drum in my throat. Juliette’s posture tightened. Adrian’s jaw flexed. Then a small, quick movement: one of the men stepped forward and said, “Evening, Ms. Hale. Lovely night.” His smile was the kind practiced in rooms that closed. He reached for me in the same way people reach for things they plan to possess. Adrian’s hand shot out like an animal’s reflex. He grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting with a speed that made my head swim. The man’s smile fractured into surprise and then pain. The other men moved in, and the sidewalk dissolved into a choreography of bodies and sudden noise. I do not remember whether I screamed. I remember heat and the taste of copper on my tongue and

Adrenaline flared into panic. The men who had tried to grab me earlier had been amateurs compared to what I was seeing in front of me—men who used images, not fists, to topple empires. Someone had already tried to ambush me in the street. The minds behind this were not sloppy. They planned, rehearsed, and executed with precision.Before I could breathe again, another file caught my eye: an email thread between Marcus and a Graham Reid, timestamped months earlier, discussing “contingencies” and “using assets.” The thread was dry, corporate. Marcus instructing a plan to “soften” public perception for a takeover bid, the language clinical. Hidden in the lower lines, a mention: Elena to be briefed tomorrow; use plateau account for cross-posting. The subtlety of it made my stomach rotate.There were other attachments—bank transfers routed through shell companies that fed into Bellamy-related accounts but with plausible deniability. My head spun from the architecture of the conspiracy. Mone