Jason’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes turned sharp, like a blade catching light. “Great question,” he said, leaning into the mic. “The CIA has investigated those claims, and has confirmed they’re baseless. No slave trade, no Mr. Nonso fraud, no nothing. The accuser’s facing defamation charges—serious ones.” He paused, his grin twisting, playful but deadly. “Guess she thought she could sling dirt and skip town. But the law’s like a bad ex—it always comes back to collect.” The reporters gasped, cameras flashing like gunfire. Lena’s eyes widened, her pulse hammering. Defamation? Charges? She’d screamed those accusations in public, sure, but she thought Rowan was done, a nobody out of the game. Jason’s next words hit like a sledgehammer. “We’re all about trust,” he said, his voice smooth, commanding. “If our staff’s guilty, they’ll face justice. But if the accuser’s lying—and she is—she’ll be the one in court. Echelon doesn’t play cover-up. We play fair. At the same time, we don’t

The boardroom at Obsidian Tech buzzed with a nervous energy, the air thick with the weight of Jason Echelon’s presence. The heir of Echelon Eight sat at the head of the table, his tailored suit sharp, his godly eyes scanning the room with a mix of charm and menace. Rowan Kane, Lena’s ex-husband, sat to his right, his face calm, almost serene, like a man who’d seen storms and walked through them unscathed. Jason’s PA, a gray-haired man with a clipboard, stood behind them, flanked by two security guards whose eyes never stopped moving. Across the table, Obsidian’s execs—Mr. Granger, Richard Voss, Mrs. Blackson, and Mr. White sat rigid, their deference to Jason bordering on worship. Outside, interns pressed against the glass, phones out, recording the “son of a god” who’d simply walked into their small, ordinary company, and a wave of hushed, wondrous whispers spread like wildfire Lena Aston stood near the table, her heart racing, her victory over Granger’s attempt to fire her st

“Stop the car,” Rowan snapped, his voice hard, cutting through the cab’s stale air. “Pull over. Now.” The driver, a scrawny kid in a Yankees cap, glanced back, eyes wide. “Yo, man, you crazy? That’s Bloodfang territory. Those guys—Viper and Tank—they run this block. Untouchable. You stop here, you’re dead.” Rowan’s jaw clenched, his eyes locked on the alley. “I said pull over.” The kid hesitated, hands shaking on the wheel. “I’m tellin’ you, nobody messes with the Bloodfangs. They got guns, knives, and shit, the whole fucking deal. These men rule the city.” Rowan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a growl that carried a weight the kid couldn’t ignore. “This is the problem with the world. People see this shit and keep driving. ‘Not my business.’ Well, I own this city, kid. Pull over, or you’re walking home.” The driver cursed under his breath, swerving to the curb. Rowan was out before the cab stopped, his cheap suit wrinkled, sneakers scuffing the pavement. He strode toward t

Lena stood over April, her palm still raised, her eyes blazing with a mix of rage and something uglier—jealousy, sharp and vicious. Mrs. Blackson smirked, arms crossed, enjoying the show like a vulture circling a kill. The air in the office was thick, heavy with the stench of their power trip. April’s soft sob broke the silence. That was really all she could do. Sob. “What the hell’s your problem?” Rowan suddenly snapped, his voice low but sharp, stepping back into the room, his files forgotten. His blood boiled, the same fire from the alleyway flaring up. The same fire that gutted up whenever he saw weak people being treated unfairly because they had no one to fight for them. It sparked a sense of responsibility in him. And quite frankly, he could not help it, no matter how hard he tried. He wanted to tear into them, to unleash the trillionaire CEO who could bury this company with a phone call. But he caught himself, biting back the urge. He was a receptionist here, a nobody in th

“Knock knock..!” The knock on Megan Aston’s door hit like a punch, sharp and rude, like the person knocking meant to break the door. She froze, half-sprawled on her bed, her silk sheets tangled around her legs. The dildo in her hand went silent as she fumbled to shut it off. Her cheeks burned, her breath shortened, not from pleasure anymore, but from the nerve of whoever the heck was banging at this hour, disturbing her glee climax. The room was dim, a single lamp throwing shadows on the walls. Her designer dresses tossed over a chair like leftovers from Lena’s empire. Another knock, harder, rattled the frame. “Fucking… Christ!!,” Megan muttered, shoving the toy under a pillow and yanking a satin robe over her curves. Who the hell thought they could interrupt her night? She stormed to the door, barefoot, her heart thumping. Peering through the peephole, her gut twisted. Dominic Voss stood there, his pretty-boy face wrecked—red eyes, wrinkled suit like he’d been drinking in it. T