All Chapters of Billionaire by Blood, Not by Name: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The Quinn Group headquarters stood like a monument to money.Sixty-one floors of mirrored steel, each pane cut with architectural arrogance, as if the entire building had been raised from the bones of failed competitors. The front lobby was double-height, flooded with natural light, dominated by abstract sculpture, and so coldly curated it felt more like a museum for the rich than an office.Noah stood at the foot of it in boots that had seen better days, watching glass elevators snake up the interior like blood through arteries.He adjusted the collar of his cleanest button-down, ran a hand through his hair, and walked toward the revolving doors.They didn’t spin automatically.He pushed through.The moment he stepped inside, the temperature dropped.Not physically — but in tone.The floor gleamed like ice. The walls were soft gray, dotted with flickering digital panels looping Quinn Group commercials and investment projections. People in tailored suits strode past him like he didn’t

The vent rattled faintly above Noah's head.Somewhere, far off in the building’s labyrinth of ducts and climate control, someone was probably discussing mergers over champagne. Noah, meanwhile, was seated in a repurposed filing closet with a chair that groaned every time he shifted weight.The desk was too shallow. The landline didn’t dial out. The walls were that sickly, institutional off-white that felt like punishment.He leaned back in the chair and muttered, “Luxury prison.”No reply, of course.No computer, no wi-fi, no sign-in instructions. No one had even given him a pen.Just a chair, a desk, and silence.He stood and began inspecting the space like he was casing a crime scene.The closet — let’s not pretend it was anything else — had no visible cameras, but he spotted a tiny circular plate in the corner ceiling. Audio mic, maybe. Disguised.Paranoid? Maybe.But paranoia was just preparation someone else didn’t plan for.He crouched beside the desk, ran his hand along the fl

The hallway outside the boardroom swallowed sound.Muted walls. Carpeted floors. Polished chrome fixtures that reflected everything but warmth.Noah walked with unhurried steps, hands still buried in his pockets, every inch of him calm on the surface — but lit underneath, like a car engine left running.Behind him, the boardroom door clicked shut.He didn’t turn.He didn’t need to.The sound of Lena’s heels had rhythm — not just movement, but tempo. She walked like a metronome set to “threat.”The sound grew louder.Then softer.Then matched his pace.She didn’t look at him when she spoke. Her tone was light, offhand — too easy to be casual.“You enjoy making things difficult?”Noah didn’t flinch. “I enjoy making things fair.”“This isn’t a sandbox, Mr. Quinn. You don’t get a trophy for participation.”“Didn’t come here for a trophy.”A beat.She turned her head slightly — just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye.“No. You came here for a legacy you didn’t earn.”That l

Flashbulbs used to mean trouble.Police lights. Paparazzi outside bar exits. Courtrooms where he wasn’t supposed to be.But now? The cameras were newer. Cleaner. Dressed in subtle corporate branding and polite intention.Still smelled the same.Still felt like teeth.Noah stepped out into the atrium and immediately felt the heat — not literal heat, but attention. It clung to him like sweat beneath a suit he still hadn’t grown into.Rae’s voice rang in his head like a siren:“Smile. Speak in calm, clipped tones. Stay on message.”Right.Message.He looked around the room.The crowd wasn’t huge — maybe forty chairs, plus ten standing cameras and a few assistants with tripods and handheld mics. But every person present was wired into thousands more. Livestreams. Articles. Editorials queued up on prewritten drafts waiting for one slip, one blink, one quote they could spin.They didn’t want a story.They wanted a spectacle.The podium was small — minimalist wood, a single embedded mic, fla

The door sighed shut behind them like it had secrets to keep.Noah didn’t move right away. The space was too quiet — the kind of silence padded by wealth and interior decorators, where nothing was ever urgent unless it was whispered.This room didn’t scream. It whispered.Low white leather seating curved like punctuation marks. The walls were matte white, designed to soothe and stifle at the same time. A silent AC system hummed like a therapist’s breath.Gareth dropped his tablet onto the table like it owed him money and collapsed into one of the chairs.Noah didn’t sit yet. He was still shedding his armor — unbuttoning his collar, peeling off his blazer, and rolling his shoulders like someone who’d been wearing the wrong identity all morning.The red imprint from the tie still marked his throat. A collar-shaped burn.He hadn’t even noticed until now.“Want to see your fan mail?” Gareth asked, glancing at the screen embedded into the table’s surface.“I’m good.”“You sure? The PR inb