The Daniels estate felt colder than usual that morning. The air was heavy with tension, as if the very walls of the mansion could sense the unease that hovered over its residents. The family had not fully recovered from the embarrassment of the banquet, nor the unsettling truth that Michael had been right about EastGate. Though Harold Daniels tried to maintain control of his empire, whispers spread among investors and business partners. His phone had not stopped ringing for days, and every call seemed to pull him deeper into a pit of damage control. Meanwhile, David strutted about in false confidence, trying to reassure others that the Daniels name was unshaken—even though he himself trembled beneath the surface. But behind it all, Michael remained calm, watching, calculating. He had learned long ago that storms revealed true character, and this one was already tearing off the masks people wore. That morning, Clara descended the marble staircase and found her father pacing the livi

The pen trembled between Harold Daniels’ fingers. His signature—something he had written a thousand times without thought—suddenly felt like a blade aimed at his own heart. Across the polished table, Jonathan Ng’s smile stretched wide, like a predator watching prey corner itself. His presence filled the room, smooth yet suffocating, each word he had spoken laced with subtle venom. “Mr. Daniels,” Jonathan said softly, his voice calm but commanding, “a man is remembered by the choices he makes in moments such as these. Will you be remembered as the one who rebuilt his legacy… or the one who let it collapse in his hesitation?” David’s voice broke the silence, sharp and impatient. “Dad, what are you waiting for? This is the only way. If we lose this chance, we’ll be finished. Sign it!” Harold’s gaze flickered between his son and the man across from him. His mind spun, recalling the long nights staring at the accounts, the endless calls from creditors, the faces of loyal employees wait

The night was restless for Harold. He sat in his study long after the household had gone to bed, the clock ticking away the silence. His thoughts wrestled between pride in his refusal and dread of its consequences. He knew Jonathan Ng’s reputation. Rejecting his offer wasn’t merely closing a door—it was challenging a man who thrived in the shadows of power. Harold whispered into the empty room, as though confessing to himself, “Did I protect us… or doom us?” David, meanwhile, did not share his father’s doubts. His rage had crystallized into resolve. The message he received earlier had been the spark, and now he found himself seated in a secluded lounge, the kind of place where curtains were drawn tight and conversations carried weight heavier than the wine being poured. Jonathan Ng arrived precisely at midnight. Not a minute late. Not a second early. His presence seemed to command the air itself, and when he sat opposite David, he didn’t need to speak immediately; his silence was p

The morning air was unusually heavy, as if the very skies were aware of the storm brewing within the walls of the Mensah household. A pale sun filtered through the curtains, but its light did little to brighten Clara’s troubled heart. She had barely slept the night before, haunted by the memory of her brother’s words and the coldness in his eyes. “It’s too late, Clara. The choice is already made.” Those words echoed mercilessly in her ears. David, her own brother—the boy who once ran barefoot in the yard, chasing kites and laughter—was now entangled in Jonathan’s poisonous schemes. And worse still, he believed Jonathan’s lies more than the love of his own family. Clara sat at the dining table, untouched tea before her, her thoughts spiraling. She wanted to believe David could still be pulled back, that beneath the bitterness, her brother’s true heart still beat. But every moment he spent with Jonathan seemed to drag him deeper into darkness. Her father entered quietly, cane tappin

The following morning, the Mensah household stirred uneasily. Breakfast, which once marked a time of laughter and conversation, now felt like a ritual performed under a cloud. Mr. Mensah sat at the head of the long dining table, his hand resting on the handle of his cane, his face unreadable. Mrs. Mensah moved mechanically, pouring tea but hardly touching her food. Clara kept glancing toward the doorway, half-hoping David might walk in unexpectedly, half-dreading he would not. But the seat beside her remained empty. The silence was broken only by the faint clinking of silverware. Even the servants seemed to move more quietly than usual, as if afraid that noise itself might deepen the fractures in the air. Clara finally spoke, her voice steady though her chest ached. “We can’t let this silence become our normal. If we act as though David is already gone, then we are surrendering to Jonathan without a fight.” Her father’s eyes lifted, sharp and probing. “And what do you propose