Semua Bab Bound by Fortune :A Scandalous Heir Billionaire Romance : Bab 11 - Bab 20

The Archbishop's words faded after he blended in with the crowd. What is the cost of the binding? It was a surreptitious bombshell planted in the midst of the radiant din, and its consequences propagated only through Davidson. The ballroom's cacophony rushed back at him, but it was muffled, far away, as if he heard it underwater.Joe Brian watched him, his expression blank. He did not offer comfort or wisdom. He offered a command. "The Russian delegation has arrived. They admire power, not introspection. Get a hold of yourself.".The words were an icy water bucket. Davidson took a step back with his shoulders, pushing the Archbishop's tearful eyes and his grandfather's memory out of his mind. He put them into a box, along with Melissa's signature view and the sound of his children laughing. No vulnerabilities. He prayed Brian's mantra like a prayer. It was the only prayer left to him now.The Russians were a crowd of hard shoulders and calculating eyes, gathered round their leader, a

The phone lay on the marble floor, its screen a dark accusing eye. The image was seared on Davidson's retina: the intimate proximity, the intent focus, the incriminating setting. He's not what you think he is. And neither are you.And that name. Michael.The word echoed through the still, upscale room, a key turning in a lock Davidson didn't know existed. It wasn't business. It was personal. Deeply, appallingly personal.The triumph of the morning, the high of having beaten Victor Brandt, evaporated, replaced by a cold, metallic fear. His hands trembled. He bent, fingers fumbling as he picked up the phone from the ground. He stared at the number, a harmless string of digits that appeared to be the barrel of a gun. Who had dialed it? Brandt? One of his minions? Lara Cunningham, seeking another form of retribution?It didn't matter. The seed was planted. It was growing thorns in his brain.Ask him about Michael.The command was a whisper out of the dark and did not permit defiance. The

Morning in Dubai was a quiet, golden affair. The initial rays of sun sliced the peak of the Burj Khalifa, a blade of fire against the mauve horizon, then seeped down, bathing the city's manmade wonder in a pool of gold. Inside the darkened master suite, the world narrowed to the rhythm of two sets of breathing, now slipping into harmony.Davidson slept restlessly, Joe Brian's arm a heavy, possessive weight on his chest. The scent of him—fresh linen, expensive soap, and something peculiarly, fundamentally male—remained on the sheets, on his skin, in his lungs. The memory of the night was a living, corporal sense: a topography of gasping confessions in the dark, of exploratory touching that grew bolder, of an exposure so absolute it felt more intimate than anything.He had seen the geography of scars on the body of the billionaire, both psychic and bodily. He had felt the crazed, almost-fearful craving in his kisses, as if he were trying to devour two decades of solitude in a single nig

The click of the penthouse door shutting was the full stop at the end of a sentence in fire and gore. The world, its share prices in full-blown free fall and screaming headlines, closed shop. The war room melted away, leaving only the residue.The adrenaline that had driven Davidson through the long night and brutal day ran out, leaving a hollow, shaking fatigue in its wake. He stood in the center of the large living room, his body quivering with spent energy, his mind straining to decipher the silence. He had helped to plan the downfall of a human being. He had done it coldly, professionally, and guiltily not even a whisper. The ethics of it—keeping Brian safe, protecting his kids—did nothing to diminish the fundamental shift in his very being.Joe Brian stood there observing him on the other side of the room, the earlier triumph now tainted with watchful fervor. He could see the crash happening."Come here," Brian said, his sentences not orders, but a request. A lifeline.Davidson e

The quietness after Victor Brandt's departure was a void, sucking all the air out of the penthouse. The danger had been removed, the enemy vanquished, but his final curse—He's next—lingered in the air like a blemish on freshly waxed concrete.Joe Brian remained transfixed at the window, his back to the room, a graven image of repressed rage and, Davidson sensed, of a profound, vibrating terror. He had been looking into the ghost of Michael Reed in Brian's eyes tonight. The old scar, probed and salted by Brandt, was afresh bleeding.Davidson's own adrenaline was waning, overrun by a hollow, nauseating fear. His image of Brandt in his living room, talking to his children, seared onto the back of his eyelids. The all-clear from the security team was a fact, not a feeling. The feeling was one of profound desecration.His phone, clutched firmly in his hand, buzzed once again. Not Price. Not a security report.It was from an unknown number, but the code was familiar. Texas.The children are