Semua Bab Satisfying the billionaire (mxm): Bab 161 - Bab 170

I carried the tea back in on a small tray. My mother and Grayson both looked up when I came back in. The atmosphere in the room had shifted in a way I couldn’t precisely name. But different. Like two people who had established the terms of something between them and were now sitting with the weight of it. I set the tray down and looked between them. “Should I be worried?” “Sit down Leo,” my mother said calmly. I sat. She poured tea with the careful deliberate movements of someone who had decided exactly what she was going to say next and was simply taking her time getting there. “Mr Knight has agreed to something,” she said. I looked at Grayson. “I’m going to make a formal statement,” he said quietly. “Acknowledging Rachel’s role in your father’s accident. Acknowledging that I knew and covered it up.” His eyes held mine steadily. “Not through lawyers. Not through a press release managed by my PR team. A direct statement. My name on it. Everything.” I stared at him. “That wil

Monday arrived faster than I was ready for. I was at the studio by seven thirty, script in hand, coffee in the other, trying to look like someone who had slept properly and wasn’t running entirely on nervous energy and leftover pasta from Sophie’s kitchen. The production was called Walls. Fitting, I thought, given everything. The studio was a converted warehouse in Brooklyn, all exposed brick and high ceilings and the particular organised chaos of a production in its first week. Cables everywhere. People moving with purpose in every direction. The specific electricity of something being built from nothing. I stood in the entrance for a moment just taking it in. “You Leo Carter?” I turned. A young woman with a clipboard and a headset around her neck was looking at me with efficient expectation. “Yes,” I said. “I’m Jade. Third AD. I’ll show you to your trailer and give you the rundown.” She was already moving. “Keep up.” I kept up. My trailer was small and clean and had my na

I stared at the photograph for a long time. It was taken from across the street, slightly angled, catching me mid stride outside the coffee shop. Clear enough to be deliberate. Steady enough to have been taken by someone who knew exactly what they were doing. We see you. We have always seen you. And we want you to know it. My hands were completely steady which surprised me. A week ago a message like this would have sent me spiraling. But something had shifted in me over the past few days, something that had been quietly hardening into resolve without my full awareness. I was done being afraid of shadows. I forwarded the image to Grayson with one line. They photographed me outside Diana’s coffee shop. They’ve had eyes on me since the beginning. His reply came within seconds. I’m coming to you. I typed back immediately. No. Stay where you are. I’m fine. Leo … Grayson. I typed firmly. Stay put. Don’t give them a reason to move tonight. We handle this smart. Then. Okay. But

I read his message four times before I put the phone down. Then I picked it up and read it again. I’m glad it was you. I sat on the edge of the couch in Max’s apartment. Max appeared from the bedroom at seven, took one look at my face, and said, “He messaged you.” “How do you always know?” I asked. “You have a specific expression,” he said, heading to the kitchen. “Like something complicated and you’re not sure if it was good for you.” “That’s extremely accurate,” I admitted. He started the coffee. “What did he say?” I read it to him. Max was quiet for a moment. Then, “Leo.” “I know.” “That’s not a man running a transaction anymore.” “I know that too.” “So what are you going to do?” I looked down at the phone. “Wait for the statement to go out,” I said. “Everything else after.” Max brought two mugs over and sat across from me. “You replied?” “Not yet.” “What are you going to say?” I picked up the phone slowly and typed. I saw this just now. I’m glad it was me too. T

I stayed for four hours. Not planned. Just two people sitting in the same space without agenda or performance or anything between them except the careful fragile truth of what they were becoming. We sat at his kitchen counter and he made coffee badly and I didn’t tell him it was bad and we talked. Really talked. Not about James or lawyers or statements or careers. About small things. Real things. He told me about growing up in the Knight household. The particular cold architecture of a wealthy family that measured love in proximity to power. “My father expressed pride exclusively through professional achievement,” he said. “And my stepmother was kind but careful. Rachel arrived into that household already fractured. Looking for warmth in all the wrong directions.” “How much younger was she?” “Seven years.” He turned his mug in his hands. “I tried to protect her from the time she was small. She was difficult and impulsive and she made terrible choices but she was also …” He pau