He stood frozen, the phone still clutched in his hand as the call ended. His assistant’s voice echoed in his mind: "They’re planning to sell off Bravura’s headquarters, satellite offices, and several company properties to recover their funds." The words hit like a sledgehammer. Bravura Consortium, his empire, was collapsing! The towers, the offshore accounts, the luxurious lifestyle—it was all slipping through his fingers like dry sand. Even the house he currently stood in—the grand estate he had just boasted about to Elaine—was registered as one of the company’s assets. If he didn’t act fast, he’d lose everything! Panic clawed at his chest, but Harry knew better than to show weakness. Not in front of Elaine. He tucked the phone into his pocket, turned around with a forced smile, and casually walked toward the marble countertop, pretending to inspect a bottle of wine. Elaine, who had been admiring a crystal sculpture in the living room, turned to him, when she noticed

That afternoon, the news spread across social media like wildfire that Tiger had been beaten senseless by a complete nobody. Grainy video clips began circulating online, capturing shaky glimpses of the fight where Tiger crashed to the ground, clutching his ribs, bloodied and left gasping on the pavement. It was unthinkable. Everyone knew Tiger was trained by the infamous enforcer, Felix Rodgers—one of the city's most feared martial arts masters and a man known for silencing his enemies with his fists. For years, no one dared challenge him. His name alone sent shudders through back alleys, elite circles, and underground fight rings. And now? He’d been flattened by a nobody. No one could believe it. The streets buzzed with disbelief. It was absurd and humiliating. Even… hilarious. The reactions were immediate. Some people erupted with laughter and pride. “About time someone shut that demon up!” someone said. “That man had it coming!” There was something satisfying, e

Outside the pristine, glass-paneled entrance of the hospital’s premium VIP ward, Cynthia burst through the doors with Antonio at her side. The hallway buzzed with subdued urgency as nurses pushed carts, whispered over intercoms, but Cynthia only saw the nanny. The woman was pacing, fingers wringing the hem of her sweater. When she caught sight of Cynthia, she rushed forward, wide-eyed and breathless. “Miss Morris—she… she’s not getting better. They said…” Cynthia didn’t wait for her to finish speaking, instead, she rushed past her. With her heart in her throat, she nearly collided with a tall figure standing stiffly outside Matilda’s room. As it turned out, it was Dr. Dennis Tella. Dennis Tella was the youngest son of the Vice President of the Gelrith City Medical Association, and he was something of a prodigy in the medical world. Barely in his early thirties—somewhere between 30 and 33—he had already risen through the ranks to become a lead doctor at one of the

While waiting in the VIP ward, Antonio and Cynthia were startled to see two nurses suddenly rush out of Matilda’s room, urgency written all over their faces. Alarmed, especially Cynthia, they exchanged a quick glance. Something was clearly wrong. “Please, come with me, Antonio,” Cynthia said, her voice tight. “We need to find out what’s happening.” They hurried to the room, signaling to one of the nurses near the door. With a nod, the nurse allowed them inside. What they saw stopped them cold. Matilda was trembling on the bed, her small frame nearly swallowed by the crisp white sheets. She was unconscious, her body subtly convulsing. Cynthia immediately rushed to her side, gripping her frail hand with both of hers, her own fingers shaking. “Antonio,” she whispered, eyes brimming with fear, “please… just tell me she’s going to be okay.” He turned to her with calm, focused eyes. “Don’t panic. Let me check her first.” Moving with silent precision, Antonio approached the b

Without a word, Antonio shifted his focus back to Matilda. How could he even begin to respond to a question like that? The moment was too fragile, too critical. There was no room for theatrics. His focus stayed fixed on Matilda. Her skin was pale as snow, lips tinged with blue, and a thin stream of blood still seeping from the wound along her side. Florence stepped forward, “You’re not even supposed to be touching her! You’re not staff, you’re not licensed, and this is a critical case! Is this how low you’ve sunk—using a dying child to win your new girlfriend's affection now that your ex-wife is done with you?” Florence's fury was written all over her face. Antonio’s hand jerked, the needle trembling for a half-second before he clenched his jaw and steadied it. He looked up slowly, his dark eyes flashing with disdain. “If you two geniuses,” he said icily, “have a better way to stop her internal bleeding and stabilize her without losing her within the next ten minutes—b