Ron tilted his head slightly, lips curling faintly. “We are reviewing everything. We will take appropriate measures to ensure justice is served. But the primary concern now is stability. Restoration. Growth. Nova will emerge stronger than ever, and those responsible for this betrayal will never touch us again.”Hugo clapped his hands together, smiling broadly. “Hear that? Every word, every pause—it’s like poetry. You’ve made them love you, fear you, and trust you all at once. That’s true power.”Marco whispered, leaning close to Ron, a gleam in his eyes. “You’re rewriting the story as they watch. They don’t know the truth, but they believe every lie. Every reaction is crafted. You’ve turned chaos into order, Logan. Into spectacle.”Vito laughed softly, almost venomously. “And the best part? They’ll never guess the truth. The world sees a hero standing at the podium. But we know who holds the strings.”Ron allowed himself a small, controlled smile, letting the applause wash over him. H

Later — Ron’s HomeHours later, Ron returned to his mansion. The estate was silent, the kind of stillness that seemed to bow to him as he walked through its vast halls. His steps were light, almost imperceptible, yet deliberate. Every movement, every gesture radiated a calm satisfaction.He tossed his jacket on the couch with the careless grace of a man who knew nothing could touch him. He hummed quietly, a low, precise hum, as though each note marked the rhythm of his victory.He walked downstairs into a dark room hidden beneath the house. The walls were bare, cold, and unwelcoming, illuminated only by a faint, dim light that he switched on with a flick of the wrist.Inside—Two chairs.Two ropes.Two broken hearts.Elsa’s mother and father sat bound, wrists and ankles restrained with thick ropes. Their clothes were wrinkled, stained, and their hair disheveled. Pale faces, hollow eyes. Exhaustion and despair were carved into every line of their bodies. They had been crying for hours.

Half an hour later, Ron was ready for the party.He stood before the mirror in his private dressing room — a space designed to feed his ego more than serve any practical purpose. The soft, golden lighting highlighted every angle of his face, every expensive detail of his wardrobe.He looked sharp. Perfectly sharp.His hair was slicked back with meticulous precision, not a strand out of place. His suit — custom tailored, midnight black — hugged his body like it was woven solely for power. His shoes reflected the room back at him like polished obsidian.Even his cologne — rich, elegant, just strong enough to be remembered — carried the scent of authority.Ron smiled at his own reflection. Slow. Admiring. A king regarding himself before coronation.Finally, he thought, finally the night is mine.For once, it would not be his brother receiving the admiration. Not his niece being praised for her innocence and virtue. Not Ethan Storm stealing spotlights with innovation and charisma.Tonight

“Ethan… what should we do now?”Elsa’s voice trembled. She hadn’t recovered from the attack or the chaos of the day — everything that she thought she understood about her life was collapsing piece by piece.Ethan didn’t answer right away. His mind was still racing, trying to make sense of the Bellanos’ move, Ron’s betrayal, the sudden freefall of Nova — all the destruction aimed at him.Then—Bzzt! Bzzt!His phone buzzed violently in his pocket.He frowned, glancing at the screen. It was a call from one of his most trusted men — someone who never contacted him unless something crucial was at stake.He snatched up the phone. “I hope you have some great news,” he said flatly. “If not… hang up right now.”“Sir, I do have great news,” the man replied. His voice was quick — urgent. “You asked me to look closely into Ron Logan… and I found something.”Ethan straightened slightly. “Go on.”There was hesitation — which Ethan did not like.“It’s… well… worse than we thought. Ron didn’t just be

Outside, the night air bit into Elsa’s cheeks—sharp, cold, unforgiving. But she didn’t feel any of it. Her eyes were locked on the emergency vehicle parked ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness like harsh, unblinking eyes.Her parents.Their silhouettes were faint behind the medics working around them. That was all she could see. All she cared about.Her body moved on instinct, each step fueled by adrenaline and terror, her legs threatening to give out but pushed forward by sheer desperation.As she got closer, the scene sharpened into focus.Her mother lay on a stretcher, skin frighteningly pale, lips cracked, eyes half-lidded as if she were drifting somewhere far beyond the pain. Her chest rose and fell shallowly, every breath fragile and uncertain.Her father—still tied at the wrists but freed enough to stand—paced in jagged lines, eyes wild with panic as he hovered between the medics and the open car door. He flinched every time someone spoke, every time a machine bee