The Daniels residence was quiet the following morning, but silence in that house never meant peace. It was the kind of silence that hummed with suppressed tensions, like a storm lingering just beyond the horizon.Michael awoke early, as he always did. The city was only beginning to stir, but he had already finished his morning exercise and was standing at the small window of his study, watching the street outside. To anyone else, his morning routine was unremarkable, but to Michael, each day was carefully measured, every action deliberate.On the desk before him lay yesterday’s folded newspaper. The headline blared about EastGate Corporation’s rapid expansion. Investors were hailing them as the rising giant of the city, but Michael knew better. Behind the flashy headlines, cracks had already begun to form. Numbers he had tracked quietly through his hidden networks painted a grim picture—debts piled high, shadowy partnerships, and executives who were gambling too much on appearances.S

The banquet scandal did not fade overnight. By the next morning, newspapers and social media platforms across the city buzzed with headlines about EastGate’s disgrace. Clips of officers seizing the stolen sculpture circulated online, while commentators tore apart the Daniels family for aligning themselves with “frauds.”Inside the Daniels mansion, the mood was grim.Harold Daniels paced the length of his study, his face pale and weary. David sat nearby, his jaw tight with frustration. Clara stood by the window, her arms folded, while Michael leaned quietly against the wall.“This is a disaster,” Harold groaned. “Our stockholders are panicking, and our partners are questioning our credibility.”David scowled. “This is your fault, Clara. You dragged that… that useless man along. Every time he shows up, something bad happens.”Michael’s gaze flicked to him, calm and unflinching. “Funny. If I recall, the disaster came from EastGate, not me.”David bristled. “Don’t talk back. You’re nothin

The Daniels estate was quieter than usual, but beneath its polished halls, tension simmered like fire under glass. Harold paced his study every night, David grew restless with worry, and Clara carried the weight of unspoken questions. Only Michael remained steady—his calm demeanor both unsettling and reassuring to those around him. One late evening, Clara found herself awake, unable to sleep. She stepped into the kitchen for water and paused when she noticed light spilling from under the study door. Quietly, she approached. Voices. Low. Urgent. “…we can’t delay much longer,” one man hissed. “The board is restless. If the Daniels fall, so does our leverage.” Michael’s voice replied, smooth and composed. “And if you rush, you’ll lose everything. Timing is everything in war—and this, my friend, is war.” Clara’s hand trembled on the doorknob. Who was he talking to? And why did he sound like a general commanding soldiers rather than a “useless” husband? She pulled back just as the do

The Daniels estate was unusually quiet that morning. Even the birds that usually gathered in the courtyard seemed subdued, as if the entire house felt the weight of something unseen. Harold paced the study, his face pale, while David flipped anxiously through documents that no longer gave him any comfort. Clara sat in silence, her mind replaying the shocking revelations Michael had shared the night before. The only one who seemed calm was Michael. He sat by the window, sipping tea as though nothing had changed, though in truth, he was already several moves ahead of everyone in the room. He could almost hear the footsteps of betrayal echoing in the halls of Daniels Enterprises. The storm wasn’t just coming—it was already here. “Michael,” Harold said sharply, breaking the silence. “You claim Westwood has insiders. If that’s true, then who? I need names. Now.” Michael set his teacup down with deliberate slowness. “Names without proof are accusations, Harold. And accusations without p

The Daniels residence was unusually quiet after dinner, but Michael’s mind was far from restful. The anonymous message on his phone weighed heavily on him. He had seen enough in his past to recognize a warning when it was sent. “Far from over…” he murmured to himself as he leaned on the balcony railing, the cool night breeze brushing his face. Clara stepped out, her soft footsteps breaking his thoughts. She slipped her hand into his. “You’ve been distant all evening. What’s troubling you?” Michael hesitated. He wanted to shield her, to let her enjoy the moment of peace they had finally earned. But keeping secrets from Clara felt wrong. “Clara,” he said quietly, “today we defeated Westwood, but they weren’t the true enemy. There’s someone else—a hand in the shadows pulling strings.” Her eyes widened. “Do you mean… someone even stronger than Westwood?” Michael nodded grimly. “Yes. And whoever they are, they’ve just noticed me. That message was a challenge.” Clara’s grip tightened