Sophia’s hand had instinctively clutched the armrest of her chair, her knuckles whitening as the enormity of the number hung between them. Eight hundred million. The words themselves seemed to reverberate against the walls of the room, heavy, impossible, and yet very real. The figure hovered like a weight, pressing down with the gravity of inevitability. For a moment, Sophia allowed herself to simply breathe, though even that felt shallow, tentative. Eight hundred million was not merely a sum of money—it was a statement, a declaration that the removal of Logan Brooks would cost almost everything, that nothing in this city, nothing in her life, came without consequence. Eight hundred million was an astronomical amount, even for the Collins family, whose wealth was already substantial. That sum could fund corporate expansions across continents, acquire multiple high-value estates, manipulate smaller financial institutions, or even influence local politics with a mere handshake. It was

After the revelations of the past days, Logan could finally see things clearly. The fog of confusion and misplaced anger that had clouded his judgment for weeks was lifting, replaced by a sharp, unwavering focus. He no longer allowed himself to be consumed by fury toward Charlotte, no matter how tempting that instinct had been in the heat of the moment. Each glance at the stone on his desk reminded him that his emotions, raw and unfiltered, were now tools to sharpen, not distractions to indulge. Every image the stone had revealed in the last days had built a tapestry of truth, and it left one thing abundantly clear: Charlotte had not intended any of her recent actions. She had not acted out of desire, nor had she chosen betrayal or deceit willingly. Every seemingly reckless or immoral choice—the photographs, the texts, the unexplained absences, and the casual defiance—had been orchestrated by someone else entirely, someone with the foresight and precision to manipulate her life withou

Logan’s gaze locked on the man, the intensity in his eyes like molten steel. The man—tall, wiry, with that arrogant smirk still plastered across his face—seemed utterly unshaken by Logan’s presence, as if he were impervious to the threat radiating from the Iron Hand himself. He even laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that echoed through the dilapidated room, bouncing off broken walls and scattering into the shadows like taunting specters. “Your threat?” he said, leaning back against the wall, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips. “You think this is a big deal? That today marks my end? Logan, you’re just bragging. Empty words. I’ve already done what I wanted with your wife. She’s been with me, and yet you stand here, threatening nothing. Do you really believe you can stop what’s already been set in motion?”Logan’s jaw tightened, his patience fraying like worn rope. The audacity—the sheer, blinding arrogance of the man—was enough to make his blood boil. The words, the mockery, the del

The room was silent except for the soft thump of Marius’s body hitting the floor after Logan was done with him. Logan stood over him, chest heaving, fists still trembling from the raw surge of rage that coursed through his veins. The dim light caught the edges of his face, highlighting the steely determination in his eyes. “Then hell it is,” he muttered as he struck Marius one last time. The force of the blow was final, decisive. Marius crumpled completely, lifeless, the blood on his face darkening under the faint overhead glow.Logan took a step back, breathing steadily now. He looked at the still figure for a moment, the cold calm of his mind returning. His fury had been purged, replaced by a razor-sharp clarity. Marius’s death was necessary; the man had been a tool of deception, a minor piece in a much larger, dangerous puzzle. Logan knew it now—the real mastermind behind all of Charlotte’s recent torment was still at large. He did not linger, did not waste energy on reflection. Ea

Logan’s gaze was cold, unwavering, a storm barely restrained behind a placid mask. Every movement, every line of his body radiated the quiet confidence of a man who had faced insurmountable odds and emerged unscathed. Dante, despite his cultivated power, could feel it—an invisible pressure pressing against his chest, a weight of authority that no training or preparation could counter. He tried to hold his composure, tried to summon that flicker of defiance he had relied on so often, but it was slipping, fading under the relentless scrutiny of Logan’s eyes.“Tell me,” Logan said again, his voice low and measured, but carrying the weight of inevitable judgment, each syllable deliberate, each pause calculated to suffocate any attempt at evasion. “Who sent you?”Dante’s chest heaved. He had no room to maneuver, no trick left in his arsenal. Every deception, every cultivated aura, every layer of intimidation had been stripped away by Logan’s insight. The realization struck him with the for