All Chapters of Bound by Fortune :A Scandalous Heir Billionaire Romance : Chapter 241 - Chapter 250

The lull after Melissa’s removal was thick and brittle, a pane of glass waiting for the next stone to be thrown. Davidson walked back to his position at the front of the cathedral; the weight of a thousand stares pressed down on him. He had contained one crisis, but the atmosphere was still charged, poisoned by her accusations. Victor’s smug intrusion had been a challenge to his authority, Melissa’s hysterics an assault on his very soul. He could feel the fragile consensus of the mourners fraying at the edges, their sympathy tempered by a lurid curiosity. Was there truth to it? Did the stress of his double life…?"If you are watching this," Joe's voice boomed through the cathedral's sound system, rich, calm, and utterly commanding, "then I am gone."Davidson's heart hammered against his ribs. He could not breathe. He could not look away. This was Joe's voice from beyond the grave, a voice he had ached to hear for days, now filling this cavern of hypocrisy and judgment.“For too long,

The final, resonant note of the recessional faded, but the silence that followed in the cathedral was of a different quality altogether. It was not the brittle, judgmental silence that had followed Melissa’s outburst, nor the stunned, reverent hush after Joe’s video. This was a silence thick with unspoken consensus, a collective intake of breath before a sea change.Davidson stood at the head of the aisle, the echo of Joe’s words—“Rule in the light”—still ringing in his soul. He prepared to lead the procession of dignitaries and billionaires out into the waiting media storm, his posture one of hard-won authority. But before he could take his first step, a movement from the back of the cathedral stopped him.It was not a dramatic entrance like Victor’s, nor a hysterical collapse like Melissa’s. It was a quiet, deliberate exodus.An older man in a simple, well-worn suit, his face weathered by a life far removed from boardrooms, stood up from his pew near the back. He was Mr. Henderson,

The silent march was over, its potent energy absorbed into the stones of the city, but its echo still vibrated in Davidson's bones, as the black cars took the inner circle on to the last, most private act: the burial. The Brian family mausoleum-a severe, modernist affair in granite and shadow-dominated a manicured hill in one of the private cemeteries that were a world away from the public spectacle of the cathedral. There were no cameras here, no crowds, no performances. There was only the earth, the stone, and the dead.The brief committee service was stark, stripped down. A few words from a chaplain, a final prayer whispered into the biting wind which swept up from the river. The small group of mourners/board members, a few shell-shocked relatives, Victor Brandt, and Davidson/stood in a tight, uncomfortable semicircle as the massive ebony casket slid into the dark mouth of the mausoleum. The sound of stone grating against stone was the sound of a door closing forever.But as the ot

The news of the board’s decision—the injunction, the frozen assets, the temporary ousting of Davidson—spread not through formal press releases, but through the digital veins of the city, a shockwave of outrage. It reached the drilling crews in West Texas during their pre-dawn checks. It buzzed on the phones of the administrative staff brewing coffee in the mid-town offices. It was muttered in the warehouses and whispered in the research labs. The “rightful family” had made their move in the sterile quiet of a boardroom, but they had forgotten the army Davidson had inherited.By mid-morning, they began to gather. It wasn't a planned protest. It was a convergence. They came in hard hats and work boots, in office attire and delivery uniforms. They were Mr. Henderson’s men, Sarah Pena’s foundation team, the cooks, the drivers, the engineers. They carried no candles now. Their faces were set in lines of grim determination. The silent march had been a plea, a show of solidarity. This was so

They called it the Hartley Building, a monolithic slab of federal granite in Washington D.C., but for one day, it became the center of the world. Satellite trucks clogged the surrounding streets, their antennae pointed skyward like a forest of metallic trees, broadcasting the signal to every continent. This was not a trial, they said. It was a "public fact-finding tribunal." But for the billions watching, it was the highest-stakes drama imaginable: the dissection of a fortune, the judgment of a king, and the spectacle of a love that had shaken an empire.Davidson Ekon walked into the chamber feeling as if he were stepping into a mechanical heart. The room was vast, circular, and cold, paneled in dark wood that absorbed light and sound. Three tiers of seating rose in concentric circles, each filled with a different stratum of power. The lowest tier held the official panel: the Secretary of Energy, the SEC Chairman, and the retired judge, their faces impassive. The second tier was a gal