THE HEIR BEHIND THE CREST

Chapter 18: The War for the Crest

Morning broke over the city like the calm before battle. The Imperial Crest stood tall, its glass towers catching the sun as if nothing had changed, yet inside, every corridor throbbed with urgency.

John Raymond’s war had begun.

He sat at the centre of the storm, the boardroom transformed into a command post. Screens displayed charts, transactions, and market feeds. Rita stood beside him, her face pale with exhaustion but her focus razor-sharp.

“Another three investors just pulled out,” she said quietly. “The press is saying Sovereign is the future, and we’re the past.”

John didn’t flinch. “Then we make the past unforgettable.”

Dalton leaned forward. “We’ve traced Harrison’s funding trail through offshore accounts. He’s been buying up Crest shares through proxies. If he hits forty percent, he can launch a hostile takeover.”

“How close is he?” John asked.

“Thirty-four and rising.”

John exhaled slowly. “Then we hit him where it hurts.”

He turned to Rita. “Set up the leaks.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “You’re sure?”

“Yes. The world wants a villain? Let’s give them the real one.”

Within hours, the first strike hit. Every major financial network aired a story exposing Sovereign’s shell companies, their connections to criminal laundering, and hidden offshore accounts tied to Harrison West. The story spread like wildfire, shaking markets and tarnishing Sovereign’s gleaming name.

But Harrison had expected it.

By afternoon, the retaliation came — swift, precise, merciless. A leaked video surfaced online: Shack’s recorded confession, edited to make it look as if he had admitted to killing Raymond Senior under John’s orders.

The headline screamed: HEIR BEHIND THE MURDER.

By evening, protesters gathered outside The Imperial Crest. Flashbulbs flared. Reporters swarmed. The empire John had rebuilt teetered on the edge of ruin.

Rita burst into his office, the glow of the screens flickering across her face. “The footage is everywhere. They’re calling for your resignation. Even the board wants an emergency vote.”

John stared at the newsfeed. Shack’s trembling face filled the screen, the words manipulated, twisted. His father’s name whispered beneath the chaos.

“Send a statement,” he said quietly.

Rita hesitated. “What do you want me to say?”

He looked up, his eyes hard. “Tell them I’m not stepping down. Tell them this fight isn’t about image — it’s about truth.”

Rita nodded and left, her heels echoing through the hallway like drumbeats of defiance.

The board meeting began an hour later. The tension inside the chamber could have split glass. Dalton sat at the head, his usual calm replaced by unease. Half the board looked to John, the other half to their screens, watching Sovereign’s stock rise in real time.

“Mr Raymond,” Dalton began carefully, “your leadership has been questioned publicly. Investors demand stability. Sovereign is offering a merger.”

John leaned forward. “You mean surrender.”

Dalton sighed. “Call it what you will, but they’re promising continuity. If this continues, The Crest could collapse within a week.”

“Then let it,” John said coldly. “I’d rather see it fall than hand it to the man who killed my father.”

The room went silent.

One of the older members, a frail man with trembling hands, spoke softly. “You’re letting pride destroy legacy.”

“No,” John said. “I’m letting truth defend it.”

Dalton frowned. “You can’t fight public opinion, John. Not when the evidence is against you.”

John’s voice was quiet but dangerous. “Then I’ll create my own evidence.”

He stood, turning to leave, but Dalton stopped him. “You’re one man against an empire, John. Be realistic.”

He paused at the door. “That’s where you’re wrong. He may have Sovereign. I have the Crest. And I have the truth.”

Downstairs, Rita worked in the data centre, her fingers flying over the keyboard. Her eyes scanned streams of information — deleted files, ghost accounts, fragments of old communications. She searched for anything that could disprove the video.

Finally, she found it — the metadata from Shack’s original recording. The timestamps didn’t match the leak. The confession had been cut, rearranged, its order altered to create false guilt.

She hit print and bolted upstairs. “John!”

He met her halfway, the file still in her hand. “The confession was doctored. Shack didn’t say what the video shows. Harrison spliced his words.”

John took the papers, scanning them quickly. Relief didn’t show on his face, only focus. “Good. We’ll use it.”

He strode back into the boardroom, slamming the folder onto the table. “You want proof? There it is. Harrison forged the confession. The metadata proves it.”

Dalton reviewed the document, his expression shifting. “If this is true…”

“It’s true,” John said. “And it’s going public tonight.”

Before Dalton could respond, the lights flickered. The screens around them went black, then turned white. A logo appeared — a golden lion’s broken crown.

Then Harrison’s voice filled the room.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

Every board member froze.

“I hear The Crest is under new management — again,” Harrison said through the broadcast. “So allow me to introduce myself properly.”

The feed switched to a live broadcast — Harrison sitting in his office at Sovereign’s headquarters, a glass of wine in hand, the city glittering behind him.

“I’m sure you’ve all heard of Sovereign by now,” he continued. “But here’s what you don’t know: as of this morning, Sovereign Holdings controls forty-two percent of The Imperial Crest’s shares. Effective immediately, we are launching a full acquisition.”

Gasps filled the room.

Dalton shot to his feet. “That’s impossible…”

“It’s done,” Harrison interrupted, smiling. “Your votes, your fears, your silence — they’ve all been bought. The Crest belongs to me now.”

The screen flickered again, showing signatures of shareholders, contracts already signed. Rita’s face paled. “He’s using the merger Dalton proposed.”

John turned slowly to Dalton, his voice low and deadly. “You gave him the access.”

Dalton’s lips trembled. “I… I… I only wanted to protect the comp…”

“You sold it,” John said.

Before Dalton could speak again, the feed returned to Harrison.

“John,” he said smoothly, his tone almost cordial. “You built your empire on my ashes. Now I’ll rebuild mine on yours. If you want your throne back, come take it from me.”

The screen went dark.

For a moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the rain beginning to fall against the windows.

John looked around the table — at the frightened faces, the silent betrayal written in every glance.

He turned to Rita. “Prepare the jet.”

Her eyes widened. “Where are you going?”

He met her gaze, voice steady as steel. “Zurich.”

Outside, thunder rolled through the city as John walked through the lobby. Reporters shouted questions, cameras flashed, but he didn’t slow. Security cleared a path, and the glass doors of The Imperial Crest opened before him.

He paused only once, looking back at the building that bore his name. The golden lion insignia above the entrance gleamed against the storm.

“Hold the Crest,” he said to Rita, who stood beside him. “No one takes it apart while I’m gone.”

She nodded, eyes fierce. “And if he comes for us again?”

John’s answer was quiet, but every syllable cut through the thunder. “Then make him regret ever surviving that fall.”

He stepped into the rain, the storm swallowing him whole.

And far across the ocean, Harrison West watched the footage from his office, a small smile curling at his lips.

“Let the war begin,” he whispered.

The clock behind him struck midnight.

The empire war had begun.