All Chapters of Hearts at the Helm:A Billionaire's Gamble on Love: Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

The media mob's bellow was a physical form, a wall of sound that attacked Clarkson the moment he stepped out of the car. Microphones thrust into his face like daggers. Questions, charges, the name "Daniel Croft" yelled over and over, mixed into one savage hum. Camera lights flashed, a steady strobe illuminating his face as he knew it would be dissected for a glimpse of guilt, an edge of fear.He did not break gait. He did not look at them. His vision remained on the bleak, angular face of the conference center, Maya and a retinue of security forcing their way through the crowd. The peace he had known on the plane was gone, left smoldering in ruins by Harper's venom. But what rose from the ashes was not fear. It was hard, focused, and absolute fury.It was not the seething heat of infuriated fury of a man losing his hold on sanity. It was more tectonic. It was the fury of a man driven to the limit, whose most corrosive wound had been ripped open and dumped for the world to gaze upon. I

The journey up onto the podium was longer than any Clarkson Roberts had traveled. Every step on the gleaming concrete floor rang like a gong off the resounding, still room. The atmosphere was dense, heavy with a mixture of expensive perfume, cold disdain, and lecherous hunger for bloodsport. The light was hot, reducing the front rows of faces to white, featureless ovals, their expression hidden. Beyond that, the audience became a dark, churning sea.He stepped up to the plain wooden podium. It wobbled, a pitiful bulwark against the wall of judgment before him. He placed his hands upon its surface, feeling the coarseness of wood grain on his palms. He did not boot up a computer. There was no clicker for a slide show. The big screen behind him was blank. The emptiness was sufficient.He stared out, letting the silence build. He felt their annoyance, their frustration. They were corporate titans, their minutes in terms of billions. They came expecting a circus—a groveling apology, a fire

The clapping was a wave, a deafening, dizzy one. It was a cry of release, of a room full of powerbrokers briefly forgetting their own contained lives and clapping for a raw, human victory. For a full minute, Clarkson remained there, enveloped by the din, its strange, warming energy. He had done it. He had spoken his truth, and in lieu of derision, he had been given an ovation.But near the edge of the stage, in the wings where the technical team and organizers stood, there was another world playing itself out. A young woman with headphones looked pale-faced at a tablet. Her hand flew to her mouth. She caught the eye of the moderator, still clapping, his face a puzzled smile. She shook her head vigorously, her eyes open with alarm, and pointed wildly at the screen.The smile faded from the face of the moderator. He slumped forward, his own face paling. He glared at the tablet, then back at Clarkson, a silent, horrified message passing between them.The applause began to falter, wilting

The chilly, clinical rental apartment was a shrine to malice. Harper Lane was its sole tenant, the only illumination of the icy blue light of the TV screen. It throbbed, casting his vacant face in shifting colors of triumph and shadow. On the screen, stock analysts were seized by barely restrained ecstasy, the kind reserved for epoch-defining market crashes.—a stunning rebuke of leadership, a woman with a radical haircut was asserting, a smile in her voice. "The market is shouting something loud and clear: sentiment has no place in the captain's chair.".It's worse than that, Amanda," added her co-anchor. "This is a breach of trust. Shareholders invested in Clarkson Roberts, the businessman. They did not hire Clarkson Roberts, the leading man. This isn't a decline in stock; it's a vote against his very judgment.".Harper drank slowly at the whiskey, the fire a welcome antidote to the sweet chill of victory coursing through his veins. He had composed the ideal symphony of destruction.

The walk from the runway to the idled car was a gauntlet, but this time it was different. The cameras still flashed, a cold strobe light against the falling darkness. The reporters still shouted, their voices a tangled rope of questions about bankruptcy, shareholder lawsuits, and individual regret.But Clarkson and Jonah did not listen. Not exactly.The kiss had enclosed them in a bubble, a quiet circle of origin born of shared breath and obstinate touch. Clarkson's grip on Jonah's hand was an anchor, a physical connection to the certainty he had just regained. Jonah's hand in his was no longer a weight of duty, but a store of strength, warm and living and sure.They were one entity as they walked, their steps synchronized, their shoulders commingling. They didn't look at the media throng. They looked at each other. In the dim light, Jonah's gaze was bright, the uncertainty's shadow erased by the public, jarring passion of Clarkson's kiss. He saw only the man—not the fallen billionair