CHAPTER 82The boardroom had filled significantly since the Valerio group's arrival.What had started as an intimate gathering of key players had transformed into something resembling a grand spectacle.Along the walls, in plush seating areas specifically designed for observers, sat some of the wealthiest and most influential people in North America.Tech billionaires. Oil magnates. Fashion moguls. Media personalities.All dressed in designer suits and couture gowns, their jewelry catching the light as they whispered among themselves.This wasn't just a business deal.It was entertainment for the elite.A gladiatorial match where billions of dollars and political power were the stakes.Adrian's Imago noted each face with clinical precision, his enhanced senses picking up every whispered conversation, every subtle shift in body language.They were hungry.Hungry for drama. For conflict. For someone to fall.The President's assistant, a severe-looking woman in her fifties with steel-gra

CHAPTER 84:Burst wasn't even the right word.The door slammed open with such force that it hit the wall with a deafening BANG that made everyone in the room jump.Every head turned.Standing in the doorwayWas Isabella Moreau.She looked radiant despite everything. Her dark hair fell in perfect waves over her shoulders. She wore an elegant navy blue dress, simple but expensive.Her left hand was bandaged carefully, the index finger that had been broken still healing.And beside her...Her father.Jean-Baptiste Moreau. Owner of the Moreau banking empire. One of the wealthiest men in North America.His expression was thunderous.The room had gone completely silent.Isabella's eyes swept across the space, taking in Elena's tears, Oliver's fury, Catalina's victimhood.Then her gaze landed on the Imago.And she smiled.It was a small, sad smile. But genuine."I'm sorry I'm late," Isabella said, her voice clear and carrying. "I had to take the next available flight to be here."She walked

CHAPTER 86:The Imago stepped out of the boardroom, his posture straight, his expression composed.The hallway beyond was chaos.Reporters, dozens of them, had been waiting outside the closed doors, their cameras and microphones ready. The moment the Imago emerged, they swarmed like piranhas sensing blood in the water."Mr. Valerio! Mr. Valerio!""Can you comment on the allegations?""Did you kill Diego Navarro?""What about the restaurant fire?""Is it true you're working with Kael Ashford?"The Imago stopped walking.He didn't raise his hand for silence. Didn't shout over the noise.He simply stood there, utterly still, his ice-blue eyes sweeping across the crowd.And one by one, the reporters fell silent.There was something about his presence, something cold and commanding, that demanded attention."I will answer your questions," the Imago said, his voice calm and clear. "But you will ask them one at a time. Respectfully."The reporters exchanged glances, then a woman in the fron

CHAPTER 88:Adrian's eyes snapped open.Darkness surrounded him, thick, suffocating, broken only by thin slivers of light filtering through gaps in metal.His head throbbed. His neck ached where it had been twisted, though the damage had already healed. Vampire physiology had its advantages.The Imago's first coherent thought was, "I'm in a trunk, and it's moving fast"The vehicle rumbled and bounced over uneven terrain, the suspension creaking with each pothole. The smell of gasoline and rubber filled his nostrils, along with something else, blood. Old blood, dried and crusted into the trunk's lining.How many people have they transported like this?The Imago's expression hardened. He wasn't Adrian, the kind, hesitant Adrian who would have panicked in this situation, who would have questioned himself, doubted his next move.No.The Imago was cold. Logical. Ruthless.And right now, he was furious.He shifted, testing the space around him. The trunk was cramped, barely large enough fo

CHAPTER 90:The Valerio estate in Ottawa had been transformed into a war room.Every light in the mansion was blazing. Security personnel moved through the halls with military precision. The main study, normally a quiet sanctuary of leather-bound books and expensive scotch, had become command central.Rafael stood at the head of a massive oak table, his hands braced against the polished surface, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. He'd been awake for over eighteen hours, running on nothing but fury and black coffee.Around the table sat the people he trusted most.Kael Ashford, his expression grim, sat with his eyes closed, occasionally muttering under his breath in what sounded like a strange language. Every so often, he would jot something down on paper, coordinates, timestamps, symbols that made no sense.Isabella Moreau sat to Rafael's right, her bandaged hand resting on the table, her face pale but determined. She'd refused to leave, refused to rest, despite her father's prote