บททั้งหมดของ The Unspoken Accord : บทที่ 31 - บทที่ 40

The Daily ConfessionThe flight home from Geneva was a study in conditional intimacy. They occupied the same first-class cabin, but the physical closeness was a stark contrast to the emotional scaffolding still required. They held hands briefly during takeoff, a gesture of shared humanity, not romantic passion. It was a silent acknowledgment that their safety net was now woven from shared vulnerability.Back in the West Wing, the atmosphere was fundamentally changed. The separate beds were gone. They shared the sprawling marital suite, but the space felt heavy with expectation. The War Room key remained, not locked away, but placed prominently on Mimi’s side of the dresser, a daily, visible reminder of her power and independence.The company cleanup was immediate and demanding. The successful counter-suit had terrified Thorne, but his network still needed dismantling. William, fueled by coffee and the desperate desire to prove himself, threw himself into the work. But this time, Mimi

A New HorizonThe morning after the gala felt different. The air in the West Wing was no longer thick with guarded terms and emotional tariffs, but with the genuine, easy peace of shared purpose. The public spectacle had served its purpose, transforming private negotiation into irreversible public fact. Mimi was no longer the wife or the contract partner; she was the CSIO, and she was essential.William woke before dawn, not to the frantic buzz of a crisis, but to the soft light filtering through the sheer curtains. He looked at Mimi, sleeping soundly beside him, the first truly peaceful sleep they had shared since the crisis began. He realized the weight lifted from him was not the corporate fear of Thorne, but the private fear of losing her respect.He slipped out of bed, leaving a small, handwritten note on her pillow before heading to his study for the morning review.The Confession of HopeMimi found the note when she woke. It wasn't about a legal brief or a market trend; it was

The Poison DripThe air in the Integrity Ventures office had changed overnight. It was subtle, a hesitation in the morning greetings, averted eyes over coffee machines, the faint, frantic clicking of browser tabs being closed as Mimi walked past open workstations. It was the smell of a secret everyone knew.Uche, her assistant, was waiting by her office door, a tablet clutched to his chest like a shield. His usually cheerful face was pale.“They’re… proliferating, ma’am,” he said softly, handing her the device.Mimi took it, her face a mask of cool marble. The “Lagos Ledger” article was no longer alone. Two other sites, one a supposedly respectable financial digest, another a popular business newsletter had run their own versions. The headlines were less vulgar but more deadly in their legitimacy: “CSIO’s Health Rumors Spark Boardroom Chatter” and “Williams Holdings: Succession Planning or Personal Planning?”They’d all used the same phrasing. “Sources close to the family…” “Noted fat

Evelyn's GambitThe silence in the West Wing after the doctor left was more profound than any noise. It was the silence of a battlefield after the explosion, the dust settling on a new, terrifying reality.The diagnosis was concise: pregnancy confirmed. Stress-induced threatened miscarriage. Treatment: absolute rest. Zero psychological stressors. The words “bed rest” were not a suggestion, they were a medical command.Mimi slept, a sedative ensuring her body’s compliance, her face pale against the pillows, one hand resting protectively over her womb. William sat beside the bed, holding her other hand. His thumb traced slow circles on her skin, a silent, desperate prayer. The rage that had consumed him was now a cold, dense mass in his chest, waiting to be shaped into a weapon.In the sitting room, Evelyn waited. She had dismissed the hovering staff. A pot of strong English breakfast tea sat untouched between them.“Tell me,” she said. Her voice held no hysterics, no social flutter. It

The GhostThe West Wing study had been transformed. The air, once thick with marital tension and private grief, now hummed with a different, more volatile energy the focused, precarious synergy of the Triad.Mimi stood at the main data wall, her fingers flying across a keyboard, pulling up estate access logs, Sentinel Shield contracts, and communication records. Her face was a mask of concentration, the CSIO in full command. William was stationed at the antique desk, his phone glued to his ear, his voice a low, relentless pressure as he legally leaned on Sentinel Shield’s corporate leadership in Geneva, demanding full transparency in a “routine post-Thorne audit.” His authority provided the legitimate, noisy cover.And Kunle, perched on the edge of a low leather sofa, was a world apart. His sleek, encrypted laptop was open, its screen a cascade of code and dark-web dashboard interfaces that looked alien to the opulent room. He wore a headset, murmuring in a mix of English and tech jar