Clinton Mercedes hated being ignored.He hated it more than losing money. More than bad press. More than government pressure.But lately, that was exactly what was happening.Every conversation in the mansion revolved around Nicolas.Every report. Every warning. Every whisper from their father.Nicolas this. Nicolas that.Clinton stood alone in his office, staring at the city skyline through the tall windows. His reflection looked sharp, controlled, powerful.But inside, something was boiling.A knock came at the door.“Enter,” he said sharply.One of his private security captains stepped in.“Sir, the Singapore partner officially terminated the agreement this morning.”Clinton’s jaw tightened.“And?”“They cited ‘strategic restructuring.’”Clinton let out a dry laugh.“Strategic restructuring,” he repeated. “Eden Wealth doesn’t even hide it anymore.”The captain hesitated.“Sir… should we retaliate?”Clinton turned slowly.“We?”The man swallowed.“I mean—should the Group retaliate?”

The morning after the opera house fire, the city felt different.News vans crowded the streets. Reporters spoke in serious tones about violence, corporate rivalry, and an “attempted assassination.” Names were not officially released, but rumors traveled faster than facts.At the Wealth Mansion, the gates remained closed.Inside his study, Eden Wealth stood by the window, watching the early sunlight stretch across the lawn. He had not slept.Philip entered quietly.“You should rest,” Philip said.Dean didn’t turn. “Clinton left the city at dawn.”Philip paused. “Confirmed?”“Yes.”“Destination?”“Unknown. But one of our contacts traced his jet clearance request. Private airfield outside the capital.”Philip walked closer. “So he’s regrouping.”Dean finally faced him.“No. He’s planning something bigger.”Philip hesitated. “And Nicolas?”Dean’s jaw tightened slightly.“He didn’t authorize last night.”“You believe him?”Dean didn’t answer right away.“I believe he didn’t expect it.”“Th

The storm did not stop that night.Rain poured endlessly over the city, washing streets clean while quietly carrying tension through every corner of the Mercedes empire. Thunder rolled across the skyline like distant artillery, and lightning briefly revealed buildings standing like silent witnesses to secrets waiting to explode.Clinton Mercedes barely slept.By dawn, he was already seated in his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, staring at a digital map filled with blinking markers. Each light represented a property, an ally, or a vulnerability.And lately, there were far too many vulnerabilities.The door opened without a knock.Dean walked in, holding two cups of coffee.“You look terrible,” Dean said, handing one over.Clinton accepted it. “That means I’m thinking clearly.”Dean sat opposite him. “I doubled security around Clarice like you asked. Quiet rotations. No obvious guards.”“Good.”“But she noticed something,” Dean added. “She’s asking questions.”Clinton sighed soft

Morning turned into afternoon without Clarice noticing how fast the hours moved.Work usually grounded her. Numbers, schedules, meetings, confirmations — everything had order. Everything made sense when placed into neat digital folders and timed blocks.But today I refused to behave normally.Every few minutes, something small felt wrong.Too many security personnel walking past her desk.Too many hushed conversations stopping the moment she looked up.Too many encrypted notifications appearing on Dean’s private channel.Clarice kept working anyway.That was her strength — maintaining normalcy when everything else tilted toward chaos.She reviewed incoming correspondence carefully, filtering calls exactly as Dean instructed. Twice she rejected board members attempting direct access. Once she redirected a senior investor to legal without explanation.Each decision felt heavier than usual.Because now she understood something clearly:She wasn’t just managing a schedule anymore.She was

Night settled slowly over the city, painting the skyline in silver reflections and restless shadows. From the top floor of the Mercedes Tower, the world looked calm — orderly even. Traffic lights blinked in predictable rhythm. Cars moved like obedient lines of light.But Clinton Mercedes knew better.Order was always an illusion.He stood by the massive glass window of his private office, one hand resting in his pocket, the other holding a glass of untouched whiskey. The city stretched endlessly before him, yet his attention remained far away — inside problems that refused to stay buried.Behind him, the office remained dim, lit only by the city glow and the faint amber light from his desk lamp.A knock came.Soft. Controlled.“Come in,” Clinton said without turning.The door opened quietly, and Victor Hale stepped inside, closing it behind him.Victor did not speak immediately. That alone told Clinton the situation had worsened.“Well?” Clinton asked calmly.Victor exhaled. “We confi