Semua Bab Shadows of Silk & Steel: A Billionaire's Secret, A Bodyguar: Bab 121 - Bab 130

The meeting with Leon’s contact had been a dead end—a nervous data broker in a Bethnal Green pub who knew less than he’d implied. The trail to Thorne’s hidden finances remained cold. Sabatine left the pub with a simmering frustration, the greasy smell of fried food clinging to his coat, a stark contrast to the sterile air of the penthouse.He took the tube, changing lines twice, a ghost’s habit. He emerged near the penthouse tower as a fine, cold drizzle began to slick the pavement. The glamorous entry was for Anton; Sabatine used the discreet, key-carded service entrance that led into the building’s vast, multi-level underground garage. It was after midnight, and the garage was a cathedral of concrete and shadow, silent but for the hum of ventilation and the distant drip of water.His senses, dulled by the fruitless meeting and the monotonous journey, were at half-alert. A mistake. One he recognized the moment the elevator doors sighed shut behind him, sealing him in the grey, fluore

Dawn found them not in separate rooms, but tangled in the quiet chaos of Anton’s bed. The panic of the garage, the raw terror of the hold, had burned itself out in the night, leaving behind a profound, exhausted intimacy. Sabatine woke first, the unfamiliar weight of Anton’s arm across his chest, the heat of his body a solid presence against his back. The world outside the blackout curtains was a dull grey hum, but inside, the air was thick with shared breath and the scent of skin and sweat.For a long moment, he just lay there, cataloguing the sensations. The scratch of high-thread-count linen. The steady rhythm of Anton’s heart against his spine. The absolute, vulnerable trust in the way Anton held him even in sleep. The professional lines they had drawn in blood and strategy were not just blurred; they were erased, as if the night itself had washed them away.He felt Anton stir, his arm tightening momentarily before he went still. A soft, sleepy sigh warmed the back of Sabatine’s n

The press release went out at 3 p.m. London time. A model of corporate regret, it spoke of “shifting priorities” and “a renewed focus on core European markets.” The financial news channels lit up with speculation. Rogers Industries stock dipped, then stabilized—a two-billion-dollar sigh from the markets. Inside the penthouse, the atmosphere was not one of defeat, but of a coiled spring, wound to its breaking point.Anton was in his study, already fielding the first, concerned calls from board members. His voice was a masterpiece of composed disappointment. Sabatine listened from the doorway, hearing the lies delivered with such conviction it was chilling. He saw the cold, focused fury that had replaced Anton’s earlier ice. The plan was in motion: the feigned retreat, the lure for Thorne.When Anton ended the call, he didn’t look at Sabatine. He stared at the cityscape, his jaw a hard line. “He took the call,” Anton said, his voice flat. “Thorne. Offered his ‘sympathies.’ Said it was a

Sabatine’s disappearance was an artwork of negation. He didn’t slip out under cover of darkness; he dissolved. One moment he was a presence in the penthouse’s inner sanctum, the next he was a collection of fading digital echoes—a cancelled train ticket to Edinburgh, a blurry CCTV glimpse near King’s Cross, a single, encrypted data-burst to a server in Reykjavik that then self-deleted. To any observer, especially one gloating over a two-billion-dollar victory, it looked like a man cut loose, fleeing the fallout.Anton played his part flawlessly. He was seen at a charity gala, his smile tight, his answers about the Kijani withdrawal curt. The papers speculated about “strategic strain” and “boardroom pressure.” The narrative of a CEO under siege, reluctantly sacrificing a key lieutenant, was cemented.Meanwhile, Sabatine was nowhere and everywhere. He existed in the interstitial spaces of the city: a rented locker in a 24-hour gym, a pre-paid booth in a forgotten corner of the British Li

Knowing the enemy within Maya Li was one thing. Proving it, in a way that would be incontrovertible to the remaining board and the world, was another. They needed her to betray herself. They needed the compass to point, visibly and undeniably, towards a target only she could know. Sabatine’s proposal, delivered through layers of static on the secure line, was as elegant as it was terrifying: feed false intelligence and watch who took the bait. “We create a document,” Sabatine’s digitized voice explained. “A blueprint for something Anton cares about deeply, something with zero corporate value, maximum personal significance. We seed it into the corporate system with a flaw so subtle only the person who knows the real project would spot it—a flaw that makes it a perfect, irresistible target for sabotage. Then we watch. If Li is our compass, she’ll identify it, flag it to Thorne, and they’ll move to destroy it. We’ll have her in the act.” Anton listened, pacing the length of his study.