Lahat ng Kabanata ng Playing The Billionaire's Revenge Queen : Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

Brody POV,By seven that morning, Emilia was a trending topic for nothing she'd actually done.The photograph had multiplied overnight, screenshot into a hundred variations, each caption uglier than the last. My legal team was drowning in takedown requests that accomplished nothing.Apparently, the internet doesn't respect cease-and-desist letters, it just reposts them as proof of guilt."Pull her from the luncheon," Vanessa said, sliding a tablet across my desk showing the worst of it. "Let the story cool. If she disappears for a week, the narrative has nothing fresh to feed on.""If she disappears," I said, "it confirms every accusation in that caption."Emilia walked in halfway through the sentence, looking all dressed and composed, clearly having heard enough through the door to know exactly what we were discussing."I'm going," she said. "Today. The luncheon happens whether I hide or not.""Emilia–""If I stay home, Vanessa, what does that tell them?" She looked from one of us to

Brody's POV, The invitation arrived on embossed cardstock while my team was still cleaning up the wreckage of Serena's humiliation at the luncheon, which told me everything I needed to know about the Whitmores' timing. They wanted to hit while we were distracted. Instead, they'd handed me a second front the same week I'd already won the first. ‘The Whitmore Group cordially invites you to celebrate the engagement gala honoring Benjamin Walsh, whose extraordinary act of selfless sacrifice saved a beloved matriarch's life.’ I read it twice, then set it down on the desk. I kept my hand there for a moment, my fingers tightening against the paper. "Decline it," I told Patricia. "I'm not walking Emilia into a room built specifically to humiliate her while they parade around Benjamin like a saint." "I want to go." I looked up. Emilia stood in the study doorway, arms crossed, jaw set. She didn't shift or look away when I met her eyes. "Absolutely not," I said. "It's not your

Brody's POV,The event was supposed to be simple.A few investors, some cocktails, thirty minutes of Emilia standing beside me. She was there because I'd chosen her, not because I needed to clean up another scandal.It went sideways within the first twenty minutes.I found her near the bar, deep in conversation with Marcus Hale, a financial journalist with a talent for asking innocuous questions that detonated three sentences later."–and how would you characterize your relationship with Gerald Whitmore now?" he was asking, tablet angled to catch every word.“We're not in contact,” Emilia said, keeping her voice calm.I crossed the room and stepped into the conversation as if I'd been part of it all along."This is more interesting." He didn't look away from Emilia. "Miss Lambert, is it true you're aware of specific fraud allegations against the Whitmore family's medical partners?""That's a question for their lawyers," I said, before she could answer at all, and steered her toward th

Brody's POV,Benjamin's insult hung in the air like a struck match, and instead of letting it burn out, he fed it more oxygen."Donated nothing," he said, louder now, playing to the guests who'd turned to watch. "But sure, let's give her the sympathy anyway. Let's celebrate the woman who couldn't stand watching someone else get credit for a good deed she never actually did."A few people laughed. One guest glanced at Gerald before joining in, while another took a drink and looked away. No one seemed quite sure whether the joke was actually funny.Gerald stood beside Benjamin, his brows drawn together as he glanced toward me.“Benjamin,” he said quietly.But he made no move to stop him. He simply took another sip of champagne and watched.I watched Emilia, waiting for her to lift her chin and fire back.I'd seen that look at the luncheon, the way her jaw had tightened before she dismantled Serena in front of a hundred cameras.I expected words. I expected that same cold, precise voice.

Brody's POV, "Emilia Lambert completed every stage of compatibility testing herself," he said, his tired eyes fixed on the camera like it was the only thing keeping him upright. "Blood typing, tissue matching, psychological evaluation, surgical clearance, she met every single requirement the transplant board demanded, and she donated her kidney to Mrs. Whitmore two months ago." Nobody in that ballroom breathed. "Within days of the surgery, at Gerald Whitmore's direct instruction, I altered the donor registry to list Benjamin Walsh instead," he continued, his voice cracking slightly, "Miss Lambert's records were gradually stripped from the hospital's official files within the week, replaced piece by piece with fabricated documentation crediting Mr. Walsh." Then came the numbers. Six figures wired into an offshore account under his wife's maiden name. A smaller sum paid to a records administrator who'd helped scrub the digital trail clean. A third, far larger payment, made dire