Semua Bab Hearts at the Helm:A Billionaire's Gamble on Love: Bab 221 - Bab 230

The Maine air, which was usually a solace to Jonah's spirit, was threadbare and cutting with tension. He stood on the porch, his arms crossed over his chest, as he observed the twilight creep into the black pines. He could hear the low, steady drone of Clarkson's voice within, as he rehearsed his speech for the summit. Every carefully rehearsed phrase, every calculated pause, was a needle stabbing at Jonah's nerves.For days, he had carried a cold fear churning in his stomach, hardening with every passing hour. The exhilarating collaboration of writing the speech was replaced with an eating disorder. He had seen the glint in Clarkson's eye—the same intense, calculating fierceness he had saved for hostile takeovers and market intrigue. It was the stare of a master tactician descending on a war zone, and it chilled Jonah to the bone.He turned finally and went in. Clarkson stood facing the fire, notecards before him, his profile seared against the fire. He was every inch the billionaire

The lull in the Maine house was no longer peaceful. It was an empty space, and nature, the press, abhorred an empty space. By half-morning, it had been taken over by a low, constant thrum—the hum of rumor building to a roar.It started on the money networks. Men in well-tailored suits stood before monitors split between the Roberts Global stock ticker (still struggling) and Clarkson's corporate headshot official photo, their analysis biting and pure."Not so much what Roberts is going to say," intoned a CNBC commentator, "but if he's even qualified to address this body. Can a guy who tore his own kingdom down voluntarily possibly be worth listening to on what its future will hold?"And then the gossip websites entered the fray, with their own less circumspect, more caustic headlines.ROBERTS' LAST GOOFS: BILLIONAIRE OR HAPLESS BEGGAR?IS HE GOING TO MAKE HIS RETIREMENT SPEECH—OR PROPOSAL?JONES'S ROLE: MUSE OR MANIPULATOR?The news was a hydra, growing two new heads for every one you

The suite in the London hotel was a room of shining marble and unuttered opulence, but Jonah was being buried alive. Clarkson slept next to him, his breathing heavy and even, a slow, rolling tide in the darkness. It was the sleep of a man who had made peace with the void, who had looked into the dawn that was rising and accepted whatever it would bring.Jonah hated him with a desperate feeling that was a bodily ache.He had tried to sleep. He had closed his eyes and attempted to steal his body, but his mind was a wild bird beating against the confines of his head. The summit was not a speech; it was an eruption. Clarkson would light a fire in the heart of the ancient world, and Jonah was terrified there would be nothing remaining standing when the dust had settled.He viewed it in fractured, filmic fragments. Clarkson's measured, damning tone, reading out the transgressions of an industry. The shocked, then furious, faces of the IMF governors. The flash of cameras capturing not triump

The pre-function area of the summit was a thick blend of designer perfume, cigar and cigarette smoke, and low, heavy mutterings. It was the rumble of the world sailing elite in action, a cacophony of deals and strength. Clarkson drove it with Jonah in tow, an aura of quiet focus around them. He nodded to those he knew, acknowledging the attention, the scrutiny, the uncut schadenfreude in their gazes. He was the main event, the sideshow act everyone had paid to witness.Jonah hovered close behind him, his hand a firm, soothing pressure between Clarkson's shoulder blades, an anchor to the sane world. He could feel the pent-up energy in Clarkson, the quiet before the storm. They were approaching the doors to the main auditorium when the people in front of them seemed to shift and part with a quick, polite movement.And then she was there.Harper Lane.She stood frozen in the arched doorway of the auditorium, as if she were the hostess of this infernal gathering. She had not been invited.

The universe was narrowed to one antiseptic point: the green room. It was a waiting room, all sick colors, low pieces of furniture, and an omnipresent aroma of lemon-scented disinfectant that didn't manage to conceal the underlying smell of cold fear. A line of subdued TV screens on a wall showed the summit hall filled with the greatest powers in world shipping, their faces an ocean of radiating bright expectation. They were the judge, and Clarkson was the defendant, soon to take the stand.He stood in the center of the room, a statue of single-minded focus. His hands were clasped behind him, his shoulders set in a line so rigid that it seemed they could bear the weight of continents. He was practicing his opening words to himself, his lips moving silently, his eyes staring at some inner horizon where the only truth was. This was the Clarkson the world would see a few minutes hence: the tireless reformer, the man who had traded a fortune for his conscience.Jonah watched from behind a