Semua Bab The Billionaire’s Regret: Too Late to Love: Bab 51 - Bab 60

The door closed behind Chris with a muted click.Allen Hale didn’t look up immediately.He stood by the window instead, back turned, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and clipped. The city stretched behind him—London steel and glass, orderly and ruthless. Hale Tower from the inside.Chris waited.His hands relaxed at his sides. Spine straight. Heart steady. He counted his breaths the way Mia had taught him. In. Hold. Out.Allen ended the call and turned.Up close, he looked exactly like the photographs Derek had sent—tailored suit, expensive restraint, confidence worn like a second skin. No cracks visible. No guilt on the surface. Just power and control.“Yes?” Allen said, finally. “You’re the consultant.”Chris inclined his head slightly. Respectful. Neutral. “Good morning, Mr. Hale.”Allen gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Good morning. Sit.”Chris did.Allen took his own seat, folding his hands together, studying Chris like a calculation.“You have five minutes,” Allen

Allen didn’t bother lowering his voice.That was the first thing Chris noticed.He stood just outside the glass wall of Allen’s office, tablet tucked under his arm, posture easy, face unreadable. Derek was beside him, hands clasped behind his back, listening.“Give him access,” Allen said, turning his pen between his fingers. “All financial documents. Accounts. Loans. Shares. The works.”Derek nodded. “Full access, sir?”Allen’s eyes flicked to Chris.Then lingered.“Yes,” Allen said slowly. “But be careful.”Chris felt it—felt the weight of that word.Careful.Allen leaned back in his chair. “Watch him closely. I don’t want surprises.”Derek inclined his head. “Of course.”Allen’s gaze returned to Chris. “You understand discretion, Mr. Argent?”Chris met his eyes without flinching. “It’s my profession.”Allen smiled thinly. “Good.”He waved a dismissive hand. “You may go.”Outside the office, the door closed with a soft click.Derek exhaled—barely noticeable, but it was there.“This

Chris stepped out of Hale Tower just as the lunch hour crowd began spilling onto the pavement like loosened thread from a seam. Suits. Heels. Phone calls barked into cold air. The usual rhythm of corporate survival. He loosened his tie slightly, exhaling as London’s winter wind brushed across his face — sharp, grounding. He was halfway down the front steps when a sleek black sedan rolled to a quiet stop near the entrance. His gaze flicked toward it absentmindedly. Then froze. The driver stepped out first, circling the car, opening the back door with mechanical precision. A pair of nude heels touched the pavement. Slow, elegant, and deliberate. Evelyn Carter stepped out like the world owed her space. Chris didn’t move. He didn’t blink. He just watched. Her coat was ivory. Structured, expensive without screaming it. Her hair fell in soft waves that caught the dull daylight like polished silk. She smiled faintly at something the driver said — a polite curve of lips that nev

The hotel room was quiet. Outside, the hum of London drifted up from the street, distant, meaningless. Inside, Chris and Derek were leaning over the small table that had become their command center—papers scattered, laptop screens glowing in the dim light. The scent of stale coffee mixed with ink and adrenaline. Chris stared at the spreadsheet again, eyes sharp, tracing lines of numbers and codes like he was trying to read Allen’s mind through them. “He’s planning it,” Chris said finally, voice low, almost a growl. “Every transfer, every account… It’s mapped. He’s moving the remaining funds overseas.” Derek didn’t flinch. He had that calm, sharp stare that made Chris both grateful and uneasy. “Yes.” Chris pushed a paper toward him. “Encrypted twice. Derek, you’re sure these are the latest schedules?” Derek leaned against the window frame, phone in hand, shoulders relaxed but tense all the same. “I intercepted them an hour ago. Everything lines up. Allen’s tightening the screws. I

Lunch was Allen’s idea. Not the staff cafeteria. Not the glass-walled executive lounge that pretended transparency. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere curated. A restaurant two streets away from Hale Tower—warm wood, low lighting, discreet tables spaced far enough apart for secrets to breathe. Chris clocked everything the moment they stepped inside. The way Allen paused just long enough for the maître d’ to recognize him. The nod. The familiar smile was exchanged like currency. The subtle authority that didn’t need raising. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hale,” the maître d’ said. “Same table,” Allen replied. “Of course.” They were led toward the back, where sunlight filtered through tall windows and softened everything it touched. Allen pulled out his chair and sat with the ease of a man who had never questioned belonging. Chris sat opposite him, adjusting his cufflinks. He didn’t rush. He didn’t look around like a tourist. He blended. Silence settled between them as menus were placed on th