Semua Bab Hearts at the Helm:A Billionaire's Gamble on Love: Bab 211 - Bab 220

The calmness of the penthouse was broken now. It was no longer the tense, holding the silence of disaster lurking, but the calm, focused hum of a workshop after the storm had passed. The financial headlines were different. The never-ending, scrolling ticker of his own demise was gone. In its place were spreadsheets, contracts, and financial reports, piled high on the large dining table that had previously only been used for carefully prepared, solo meals.Clarkson stood in front of floor-to-ceiling glass, not a king over his kingdom, but a liberator looking out over the battlefield. He had given up the crown, but the battle for his soul—and the soul of what was left of his reputation—had just begun.Jonah came up behind him, placing a fresh cup of coffee on the table next to a thick file flagged with red tabs. “The vultures are circling the corporate carcass,” he said, his tone pragmatic, not despairing. “But you’re not looking at a carcass, are you?”Clarkson turned a grim, determine

The Lambda Legacy Awards invitation took them aback. A heavy, cream-colored cardstock with a clean, minimalist geometric pattern that reflected the Greek letter. Delivered not to the offices of Roberts Global, but to the penthouse, to Mr. Clarkson Roberts & Mr. Jonah Jones.Clarkson held it for a long time, thumb tracing the ridged imprint. For over a decade, his giving for LGBTQ+ causes had been substantial but discreet, channeled through shell foundations and intermediaries. The sole manner Harper and the board had allowed it. To be seen donating to "such causes" was, in their view, an unwanted political note. Another variable to manage. Another possible taint on the immaculate, nonpolitical reputation of Roberts Global.Now there was no board to placate. No brand to defend. Only this invitation, and the man reading over his shoulder."They want us?" Jonah said, his voice a mixture of awe and terror. "They want you," Clarkson corrected softly, putting the card down. "After that inte

The online tempest raged for another twenty-four hours, a caterwauling chorus of takes and counter-takes, but inside the penthouse, there had fallen a profound stillness. Clarkson's live-streamed confession had been a controlled explosion, blowing Harper's narrative apart before it could fully set in. The violence of the attack had been spent, and it had left behind it the messy, complicated, but at last solid ground of truth.Clarkson, however, was rattled in a way he never was. The kiss had been about the future. The boardroom had been about the present. But Harper's leak had been an assault on his past, and the shrapnel had reached its mark. He felt… tainted. The ghost of who he once was now had a name, a date, a digital paper trail. He'd had it openly, but internally, there was a deeply ingrained shame that remained. He'd kept waiting for the other shoe to drop—for Jonah to look at him differently, to finally see the callous ghost Harper had so vividly resurrected.The following m

The air in the New York Public Library press room was charged, not with the schadenfreude of scandal, but with the excitement of genuine mystery. The invitation itself had been cryptic, with only the image of a stylized ship's wheel merged with a drafting compass and the words: The Roberts-Jones Foundation: A New Horizon. No one knew what to expect. A mea culpa? A retirement statement? A final attempt at rescuing a reputation?Clarkson paced backstage, watching the packed room through a gap in the heavy velvet curtain. He saw the faces of the journalists who had skinned him alive, now curious. He saw the financial pundits, their faces skeptical. And he saw new faces too—reporters from humanitarian magazines, LGBTQ+ media, their notebooks ready with a different set of questions.A hand slipped into his. Jonah's fingers were warm, their hold firm. Clarkson looked over at him. Jonah was not wearing a suit of armor. A plain, well-tailored jacket in a deep charcoal grey, a shade that made

The pre-dawn light that filtered into the penthouse was the color of a fresh bruise, a pale grey-blue that fought to illuminate the city sleeping below. But here, all the lights blazed. There was a buzz of purpose, electric tension in the air. It was the lull before the storm, but this time, one they were generating themselves.It was the Global Shipping Summit in London today. The most powerful movers and shakers in the maritime world would be there—rivals, former colleagues, the same men who had watched Clarkson fall with thinly veiled relish. He was to give the keynote speech. Initially, it had been envisioned as a victory lap for Roberts Global's latest fleet expansion. Now it was something else entirely. A challenge. A call to arms against the status quo.Clarkson stood before the full-length mirror, knotting his tie in smooth, mechanical gestures. The suit was charcoal wool, stark and impeccably tailored, but it felt different now. It wasn't the armour of the invincible billiona