All Chapters of Bound by Fortune :A Scandalous Heir Billionaire Romance : Chapter 211 - Chapter 220

The air in the Brian Energy boardroom was thin and sharp as a razor. It was the morning after Davidson’s defiant response to Melissa’s blackmail, and the promised letters had, indeed, been leaked. The fallout was a low, ugly hum in the media, a mix of prurient fascination and cynical analysis. But inside this room, the letters were a ghost at the feast, a personal specter overshadowed by the corporate death match about to unfold.Victor Brandt sat in his usurped seat at the head of the table, a portrait of smug triumph. He looked like a man who had already counted the spoils. The institutional investors, he knew, were wavering in the face of the fresh scandal. The board was a flock of nervous sheep, and he was the wolf who had them cornered. His hostile tender offer was a loaded gun on the table.Davidson sat opposite him, perfectly still. He wore the same navy suit from his press conference, his face a calm mask. Inside, every nerve was live wire, every sense heightened. The hidden l

The storm of Victor’s lawsuit and the demand for an audit had been a masterful smokescreen, a cloud of chaos so thick it seemed to choke all other narratives. For two days, the media cycled between “The Forgery Claim” and “The Heir’s Last Stand.” Melissa’s blackmail attempt and the leaked letters were relegated to secondary scandals, footnotes in the larger corporate war.Davidson was in his study, steeling himself for the long, grueling audit process, when his phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number. He almost ignored it, but a gut instinct made him answer.“Ekon,” he said, his voice weary.“It’s Liam Croft.”Davidson’s grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles turning white. The sound of the journalist’s name was a physical blow, a reminder of the most intimate betrayal. “I have nothing to say to you.”“I know you don’t,” Liam’s voice was different—rushed, stripped of its false empathy, and laced with a strange, urgent energy. “And you don’t have to say anything. Just listen

The parchment, still bearing the faint, warm scent of Joe’s skin and the rich, earthy smell of drying ink, felt like a live coal in Davidson’s hand. He had placed it in the penthouse’s monumental safe, the heavy door closing with a sound like a tomb sealing, but its weight remained on him, a glorious and terrifying burden. For a few hours, he had allowed himself to believe in a future where he could rule at Joe’s side, the king and his consort, strength returned and the empire secure.The universe disabused him of that notion with brutal efficiency.It happened in the middle of the night. Davidson was woken not by a sound, but by a lack of one. The soft, rhythmic rasp of Joe’s breathing from the other side of the bed had stopped. He bolted upright, his heart seizing.Joe was still, his face waxy and pale in the moonlight filtering through the windows. He wasn't breathing.“Joe!” The name was torn from him, a raw, animal sound in the silent room. He fumbled for the emergency call butto

The ventilator's constant, mechanical whisper was the only sound in the ICU room, a metronome marking off an uncertain future. Joe's face, wan and serene against the pillow, was a blank slate upon which Davidson's hopes and fears wrote themselves in bold, alternating strokes. The doctors had begun slowly to wean Joe from the sedatives.There was no guarantee of what would await on the other side—the king, a ghost, or oblivion. It was in this limbo, suspended between life and death, that Davidson found his concentration. Waiting was a luxury that would not be granted by his enemies. Victor's gravesite plan was a sword of Damocles, and the loyalty of the board was a fickle flame, fluttering in the winds of suspicion. To wait for Joe's death—or his awakening broken—was to yield the initiative.It was to permit Victor to control the narrative, the schedule, the very ground upon which this struggle was fought.He could not battle for a king who might never speak again. But he could battle

The press conference was meant to be a coronation. Not with a crown, but with cold, hard metrics of power. Davidson stepped up to the podium in the main auditorium of Brian Energy, the company's new logo gleaming behind him. He was unveiling the completed deal with the Qatari investment authority, the "New Energy Bridge" partnership. It was the ultimate vindication of his leadership, a strategic coup de grâce that had dissipated Victor's last hope.The room was packed with reporters, their questions now respectful, almost deferential.The story had finally, irretrievably, turned.He was midway through explaining the technological synergies when an uproar broke out at the back of the hall. A voice, shrill and frayed, cut through his carefully chosen words."Liar!"Every head turned. Cameras, which had been trained on Davidson, lurched toward the door. Melissa Ekon stood there, her face a mask of tear-streaked fury. She was disheveled, her hair escaping its former perfect coiffure, her