All Chapters of Bound by Fortune :A Scandalous Heir Billionaire Romance : Chapter 261 - Chapter 270

The news broke not as a political headline, but as a spectacle. It was the lead story on every channel, not because of its strategic implications, but because of its visceral, primal drama: fire, and the destruction of a palace. Victor Brandt’s Adirondack estate, a sprawling, brutalist compound of glass and steel known as “Wolf’s Head,” was burning.The first footage came from a tourist’s drone, luckily flying at dawn, capturing the initial plumes of thick, black smoke coiling from the structure’s flat roof like serpents. Then, as the sun crested the mountains, the professional news choppers arrived, their cameras broadcasting the conflagration in high-definition to a mesmerized world. The flames were not the warm, orange glow of a hearth; they were an infernal, chemical blue and searing white, feeding on the expensive art, the rare manuscripts, the polished concrete and imported teak. It was a clean, violent purge.The cause was immediately, and fiercely, debated. Victor’s spokespeop

The world, once Melissa Ekon’s stage, had become her prison. The opulent penthouse overlooking Central Park, which she had occupied as a base of operations, now felt like a gilded cage, its silence screaming of her isolation. The phone, which had once buzzed constantly with the reassurances of lawyers and the sycophantic pledges of Victor’s allies, was dead. The defections had been a cascade, and with each one, a little more of the oxygen left her life.Victor was radio silent, a ghost in his own bunker, fighting for his political survival. He had no use for a weapon that had backfired so catastrophically. Her own lawyers, their retainers long since spent, had sent polite, final emails, citing the "toxic and untenable" legal environment and the "insurmountable" public sentiment. They were abandoning a sinking ship, and she was the lead weight tied to its mast.The public, the fickle beast she had tried to manipulate, had turned on her with a viciousness that stunned her. The woman who

The lull that fell over the city was not one of peace, but of a drawn breath. The chaotic symphony of riots, chants, and political speeches had ceased, replaced by a low, mechanical hum. It was the sound of a siege engine being assembled in the heart of modern Manhattan.Davidson’s forces did not arrive with torches and battering rams. They came with a quiet, terrifying efficiency. The first to solidify the perimeter were the official entities: National Guard Humvees and NYPD cruisers, their lights painting the pre-dawn streets in silent, swirling red and blue. They were the legitimizing shell. Inside that shell, Davidson’s own power coalesced.They were a hybrid army. Private security contractors in black tactical gear, their loyalty purchased with triple-time pay and the promise of future contracts, moved with disciplined precision, establishing choke points and sniper positions on adjacent rooftops. Alongside them stood the hardcore of Davidson’s grassroots support—unionized Brian

The stillness in the boardroom was a physical presence, thick and heavy as velvet. It was the first gathering since the siege, since the arrests, since the war had officially ended. The long, polished mahogany table, a battlefield in its own right, reflected the grim, expectant faces of the surviving board members. The air still smelled faintly of smoke and solvent, a ghost of the recent violence clinging to the ventilation system.They were all there. Arthur Welch, his defection now a mark of prescient wisdom, sat with his hands neatly folded. Helena Pierce, the venture capitalist, observed everything with the sharp, analytical eyes of someone assessing a newly acquired asset. The others—a mix of those who had stayed neutral through sheer cowardice and those who had quietly supported Davidson—watched the double doors at the end of the room.They were the court, and they awaited their king.When Davidson entered, the silence did not break; it deepened. He did not stride in with the co

The war was over. The throne was his. Now came the grim, unglamorous work of peace—the work of ensuring no enemy could ever rise to challenge him again. Davidson did not celebrate his victory. He dissected it. He spent his first days as undisputed king not in the spotlight, but in the bowels of the empire, surrounded by organizational charts, financial audits, and personnel files. The Brian Energies tower, so recently a fortress under siege, was now a fortress being rebuilt, stone by stone, with Davidson himself as the architect.He began with the traitors. It was not an act of vengeance, but of surgery. A diseased limb, left attached, would only fester and threaten the whole body.The process was quiet, methodical, and utterly merciless. There were no dramatic, public firings. Instead, a team of security and HR personnel, personally vetted by Ben Carter, moved through the building with the quiet efficiency of coroners.At 9:05 AM, Peter Johns, the Head of Strategic Acquisitions and a