Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Billionaire's Kept Secret : Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

POV: Ronan Klein"...This project is expected to bring in the needed increase we envisage....." I had tuned him out ten minutes ago. Nothing he was saying meant anything to me. Projections? What the fuck did I need those for? Nothing in the boardroom interested me. Don't get me wrong. The interior was tasteful. The decorator had done a great job. The staff neatly dressed in overpriced suits that spoke of their ambition and their false confidence which showed a phantom eagerness to climbing the ladder. I lounged at the head of the table in dark jeans, a plain green T-shirt that has cost me a lot of dollars and black designer sneakers. I didn't wear a tie ,a jacket and I owed no one an apology.My half-full glass of brandy sat in my hand as the presenter droned on, unaware he was speaking to himself.Maria Torres sat to my right, one of the younger executives. Her legs were crossed, eyes on the presentation, or so I thought, until I felt her feet brushing against my ankle unde

POV: Ronan KleinThe door to the attic groaned as Tobias unlocked it. I had not been down to the attic for years. It used to be my favourite place to hide when I was a boy. I would run down here and hide, imagining that I was older and the King of the Klein House. I guess dreams come true when you have had them for too long.I could smell the stench of dust, fear, and secrets so old that they crept out as the door opened, like a living thing.“She’s inside, sir,” Tobias said quietly.I nod.My mother was downstairs rehearsing her grief like an actress perfecting her lines. She would act like a grieving widow who had just found her husband murdered in his study in cold blood.But up here… this was my battlefield. I would play the son who had just lost a father and who needed answers.Tobias stepped aside, and I entered and shut the door behind me.The mistress, Lucien’s last betrayal to his wife—my mother—sat tied to a chair. Her wrists were bound behind her and her ankles tied to the

POV: Ronan Klein For a moment, all I heard was breath. Her breath was tangled with mine. It was shaky and spent. My pulse was still a heavy echo in my ears, drowning out the quiet of the attic. The ropes lay at her feet now. They were discarded and useless. Lucien’s mistress slumped to her knees, hair a mess around her flushed face. I sat on the chair and stroked her exposed clit from the back. She moans. She turns and stared up at me as if she wasn’t sure what I would do next. Her uncertainty gave me an edge. Most people feared the unknown. I thrived on it. She sat on the floor and whispers “Ronan…” She swallowed. “What now?” “Now....,” I said softly, tucking her hair away from her face, “you listen.” Her breath hitched but not from fear but from something worse. It was dependency. “We’re going downstairs,” I continued. “And you’re going to tell the story exactly how I say it.” “The story?” she whispered. I smiled. “How Hartley killed my father.” Her eyes wide

POV: Ronan Klein The council chamber had not felt this alive in decades. The walls themselves seemed to vibrate with the energy within its walls. The old stone absorbing anger the way it once absorbed blood. The long banners of Klein House stirred slightly, though no wind moved through the room. Men shifted in their seats like coiled springs, hands flexing and jaws tight waiting eagerly to throw the blows if and when it called for it. This was not a meeting. It was a collision waiting to happen. Rage moved faster than reason, leaping from man to man like burning woods. Voices clashed before I finished speaking and boots were scraping the marble floors. Their chairs shoved back hard enough to tipple them down. The long table that had once held treaties and blood oaths now trembled under fists. “You expect us to swallow this?” Lord Brecht snarled, rising halfway from his seat. “Hartley is no saint, but murder.....” “He was summoned....,” another shouted. “....By you, Ronan...

POV: Ronan Klein“You know,” Brutus muttered beside me, adjusting his cufflinks, “if this goes sideways, I’d like it noted for the record that I advised postponing it until after lunch.”I glanced at him. “Your concern is touching.”“I’m serious,” he said. “People make terrible decisions when they’re hungry or emotional. Today we’re dealing with both.”That earned a low breath of amusement from me, but the tension never left my chest.Klein Towers hummed with the change that was coming. Many decades of warring between the Klein and Peron house was coming to an end because of this treaty. This was modern warfare in tailored suits, shirts and of course, ties. The hall filled quickly. There were council members, corporate advisors and security chiefs. Screens mounted on the walls displayed the Klein and Peron insignias side by side, rotating slowly like a warning. I scanned faces out of instinct checking out supporters, skeptics and opportunists. It had become my constant practise.