Daniels stood frozen for a moment after Antonio’s final statement, the weight of it pressing down on him like something he could no longer push away. Confess to the world. Admit everything. Take responsibility for the rumors, the manipulation, the damage done to Bellagio Group and Cynthia Greyson. His throat tightened. At first, he tried to resist the idea entirely. But then reality settled in. He had already lost the job he thought was his new beginning. And now, standing in that office, watching Antonio and the manager regard him without sympathy or hesitation, Daniels began to understand something uncomfortable. He was no longer negotiating from a position of strength. He was reacting. And reacting too late. His voice came out lower than before. “If I… if I do what you’re saying,” Daniels began slowly, “if I make a public confession…” He paused, swallowing. “…will my job here be reinstated?” The room went quiet. The manager looked at him for a long moment, as though

Cynthia’s fingers trembled as the phone slipped from her grasp, the device nearly hitting the floor before her strength seemed to drain all at once. Her knees weakened beneath her, her body swaying as the weight of what she had just heard crashed down on her all at once.Antonio reacted instantly.He stepped forward and caught her before she could collapse, his grip firm yet careful as he steadied her. One hand supported her arm while the other held her securely in place.“Cynthia,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the fog that threatened to overwhelm her. “What happened?”She struggled to breathe properly. Her chest rose unevenly, each breath shallow and unsteady as she tried to form words.“My father…” she whispered, her voice breaking under the strain. “They said… he’s on the verge of death.”Antonio’s expression darkened immediately. His focus sharpened.“What exactly did they say?” he asked, his tone controlled but urgent.Cynthia shook her head faintly, trying to stead

The man in the white coat stepped fully into the room, and his presence immediately drew every eye toward him. Conversations that had been murmuring moments before died down without instruction, as though his arrival alone commanded silence. He carried himself with quiet authority, the kind that did not need to be announced—the kind that came from years of experience standing at the fragile boundary between life and death. His posture was straight, his movements measured, and his expression composed in a way that suggested he had seen far too much to be easily shaken.“Good afternoon,” he said calmly, offering a brief, polite nod to everyone present.The servants responded at once, bowing their heads slightly in respect. The butler, who had been standing closest to the bed, stepped aside with visible relief, as though he had been waiting for this moment. Cynthia, however, wasted no time. She moved toward the doctor almost immediately, her composure barely holding together.“Doctor,” s

The room was heavy with grief.Cynthia sat beside her father’s bed, her hands tightly clasped around his lifeless fingers as tears streamed down her face without restraint. Her shoulders shook with every uneven breath she tried to take, as though her body itself could not accept what her mind was beginning to understand. Behind her, the servants had lowered their heads. Some openly wept without trying to hide it, while others whispered faint prayers under their breath, clinging to anything that might soften the weight of the moment.The air itself felt defeated, as though even the walls had accepted that something irreplaceable was slipping away.Elias Greyson lay motionless on the bed. His breathing was faint and irregular—each rise of his chest weaker than the last, each pause between breaths longer than the one before it. It was not the presence of life that defined him now, but its slow withdrawal. The earlier words from the doctor still echoed in everyone’s minds like a final ver

The room was thick with despair, the kind that pressed down on every chest and made breathing feel like a burden. It was heavy, suffocating, almost tangible—as though grief itself had taken form and settled over everyone present. Even the air felt still, unmoving, unwilling to carry even the smallest whisper without weight. Elias Greyson lay motionless on the bed. His once commanding presence had faded into something fragile, almost unrecognizable. His skin was pale, drained of life, his lips dry, his body frail. Each breath he took was shallow, uneven, as though even breathing had become a struggle too great for him to bear. His life hung by a thread so thin it seemed ready to snap at any moment. Cynthia stood beside him. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, her fingers curling and uncurling as though she didn’t know what else to do with them. Her eyes were red, swollen from tears that refused to stop flowing. She looked at Elias, searching his face for something—anything—that sugge