บททั้งหมดของ Shadows of Silk & Steel: A Billionaire's Secret, A Bodyguar: บทที่ 101 - บทที่ 110

The lull in Anton’s penthouse was a different creature now. It wasn’t the peaceful, expansive quiet of luxury, but a watchful, brittle stillness. The floor-to-ceiling windows, which had once framed a kingdom, now felt like the glass walls of an exquisite terrarium. A month had passed since the alpine dawn. The physical wounds were healing. The legal and corporate storms were, through a brutal, expensive alchemy of lawyers and public relations, being weathered. Rogers Industries stood, bloodied but intact, its stock slowly climbing. The official narrative was a masterwork of selective truth: a rogue executive (Evelyn), aided by an unstable family member (Marcus), had attempted corporate sabotage. The crisis was thwarted by the decisive action of CEO Anton Rogers and his security team. The name Silas never surfaced. The word ‘Cerberus’ was erased. Sabatine Stalker was a footnote, a contracted specialist.They had survived. But survival, Sabatine was learning, was its own kind of war.He

The spiced milk had been a punctuation mark in a long, run-on sentence of tension. It hadn’t resolved anything, but it had created a new, fragile space. A space where Anton didn’t issue commands and Sabatine didn’t perform a role. For two mornings, they’d repeated the ritual—Anton appearing at the door just before dawn with two simple mugs, Sabatine accepting, the two of them standing in the quiet hall until the sun gilded the edges of the abstract art on the walls. No corporate talk. No strategy. Just the steam from the mugs and the shared, unspoken acknowledgment of another night survived.On the third morning, Anton didn’t have the mugs.He stood in the same spot as the first light filtered in, dressed not in his usual immaculate suit, but in dark, comfortable trousers and a soft, navy sweater. He looked younger, less like the CEO and more like the man who had built a fire from nothing.“There’s something up on the roof,” he said, his voice still holding the quiet of the early hour

The rooftop confessions had changed the atmosphere in the penthouse. It was as if a pane of soundproof glass had been removed. The silence was no longer sterile, but expectant. The air hummed with the echoes of truths spoken into the wind. Anton moved with less rigidity, his focus less like a scalpel and more like a lamp, its light less harsh, more searching. And Sabatine found his feet lingering less in the doorway of the guest suite, his gaze drawn more often to where Anton worked, not as a subject under observation, but as a point of gravitational pull.Yet, a chasm remained. Anton had laid his foundational trauma bare, the root of his control. Sabatine had offered understanding, a shared language of guilt. But his own core fear, the one that had him moving like a ghost through the gilded halls, remained unspoken. It was the fear that lived deeper than the memory of Belgrade, a fear not of what he had done, but of what he might become.Three nights after Anton’s confession, they we

The penthouse, which had begun to feel like a shared space, reverted to a command center. The quiet breakfasts were replaced by the soft tap of keys and the low murmur of strategy. The air hummed with a different energy—not the brittle tension of before, but the focused, collaborative charge of a mission.Sabatine’s “project” was the silent war within Anton’s servers. He had mapped the initial vectors from Leon’s data onto a sprawling holographic display now occupying Anton’s dining table, turning the space into a war room. Lines of light connected nodes across continents, a spider’s web of intrusion with Rogers Industries at its still, silent center.Anton watched him work, a study in fierce, fluid concentration. This was Sabatine in his element, and the sight was mesmerizing. He was no longer the restless ghost; he was a hunter on a scent, his movements economical, his eyes missing nothing.“The Calgary breach,” Sabatine said, not looking up, his fingers manipulating the hologram to

The Mayfair ballroom’s opulence felt like a sick joke. The crystal, the laughter, the scent of gardenias—it was a stage set for a play whose true script was written in treachery. Anton maintained the performance flawlessly. He smiled, he shook hands, he delivered a brief, inspiring speech about resilience and integrity that now tasted like ash on his tongue. All the while, his mind was a silent, screaming siren.Finch. Alistair Finch.The man who had overseen the loading docks where Anton, as a teenager, had learned the weight of a shipping manifest. The man who had patiently explained just-in-time logistics over a shared whiskey after Anton’s father’s funeral. A pillar. A supposed fortress wall.And he was riddled with termites.They didn’t speak again until the black town car was gliding through the rain-slicked streets of London, the glow of the party a receding jewel in the rearview. The partition was up, sealing them in a pressurized capsule of quiet fury.Sabatine broke the sile