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• Chapter 45: "Oh Poor Lena! How Foolish You Are..."

  Rowan stood there, his face unreadable, like he was carved from stone. The crowd’s whispers buzzed like flies, but he didn’t flinch. Lena’s words—slave trade, fraud, liar—hung in the air, sharp and heavy, waiting to draw blood. She stared at him, her chest heaving, daring him to crack. He didn’t. Instead, he reached into his breast pocket, slow and deliberate, pulling out a single black card. He held it up, letting the stage lights catch the faint shimmer of gold text: Echelon Eight – Global Infrastructure Recovery Taskforce. The hall went quiet, like someone had sucked the air out of it. Rowan turned to the crowd, his voice steady but not loud, like he was explaining something obvious to a room full of kids. “Ms. Aston’s talking about wire transfers, contracts—things she doesn’t understand. Those are part of a classified project. LangCorp, Echelon Eight, and the United Nations. We’re not moving slaves. We’re moving solar grids, clean water, schools. Real progress. The kind Mr.

• Chapter 44: "Do Something, Lena!!"

  “LangCorp and Echelon Eight aren’t just launching a project,” Rowan continued, “they’re opening a door. A real door. To real people. If you’re an architect, a designer, an engineer, a creative with ideas the world hasn’t seen yet—this is your moment. Not in ten years. Not when your uncle gets you a meeting. Now.” The room was still, hanging on his every syllable. He looked out again, and this time… this time his gaze brushed past a table at the back. Just brushed. Lena. Their eyes didn’t meet. Not fully. But she knew. She knew. Because for a split second, his lips curved into a smile. A dangerous smile. Like the memory of a man she used to know… now dressed in something bigger. He hadn’t changed. He’d evolved. And the room could feel it. “I’ll leave the rest to the professionals,” Rowan said, stepping back slightly. “But let this be your warning—and your welcome. If you’re going to enter this arena… come correct.” Then he handed the mic to Victoria with one black-gloved han

• Chapter 43: The Man Without A Crown

  Gasps swept through the room like a rising tide. Heads turned. Murmurs cracked the silence like static. Lena’s wineglass tilted in her trembling hand. Rowan Kane stepped out from the shadows. Tailored black. No lapel pin, no tag. Just presence. Heavy, unshakable, and sharp like steel. His shoes struck the stage like measured thunder—silent but echoing. It wasn’t just the cut of his suit or the calm in his gait. It was something more. Something that curled around the room’s throat and demanded breath. He said nothing as he joined her, his hands tucked in his pockets like he didn’t need this spotlight—like it was chasing him instead. And Victoria… she didn’t look at him the way friends looked at friends. No. Her smile was smaller now. A secret tucked behind her lips. The kind of smile that women who were never questioned wore. Like she knew something no one else did. He didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. But Victoria Lang did. She met him halfway, stepping down from the podium with the

• Chapter 42: A Queen In Midnight Blue

  Midnight blue, again. A custom Elie Saab gown that clung to her form like the night sky, trailing silver constellations embroidered into the seams. Hair—silver coils—wrapped in an intricate halo. Her skin glowed bronze under the lights. Her heels struck the marble-like drumbeats announcing royalty. And behind her, two towering security men. One black. One white. Both cut from granite. Victoria Lang walked like she had nothing to prove—and yet, somehow, had already proven everything. People stood as she approached. Some instinctively. Others without knowing why. Cameras didn’t dare flash in her face. They whispered like birds hiding in awe of an eagle. She reached the podium, turned, and gave Jason a warm hug. Then, he winked and stepped aside. Victoria faced the crowd. When she spoke, her voice didn’t boom—it resonated. Sly, calm, cultured. Like it had known every dialect and dismissed them all in favor of clarity. “Thank you,” she said, smiling faintly. “Thank you for showi

• Chapter 41: "The Stage Is Yours"

  “Hello, people of America. Welcome to the Gala Night hosted by LangCorp, in honor of our collaborative future with the economic giants of Echelon Eight!” The host’s voice thundered through the opulent hall, smooth as silk, but brimming with carefully restrained excitement. Spotlights fanned across the room. Applause rose—eager, rehearsed. The world’s cameras were watching. “Tonight,” the host continued, pacing slowly across the crystalline platform, “we welcome guests from every industry—tech, fashion, oil, defense, and of course, diplomacy. This room holds more net worth than half the globe. Please, enjoy the shows!” Smoke hissed. Lights cut the sky in beams of gold and amethyst. The entrance hall of the Echelon Dome—the most secure, most opulent event space in the entire country—was now a living pulse of wealth, glamour, and silent war. A drone flew across the ceiling, beaming live footage to giant curved screens. A crowd of nearly two thousand had gathered inside—royalty in ta

• Chapter 40: He Was Never Just A Man

  The rotors finally stopped spinning. But the tension? Still loud enough to shatter glass. People swarmed. Phones raised, cameras clicked like lightning—blinding, frantic. The crowd—hundreds deep—rushed toward the freshly landed helicopter as though salvation had arrived from the clouds. It was just so monumental. Security moved in fast. Like shadows come to life. They formed a wall, black-suited titans with earpieces and scanning eyes. A man with a press badge tried to duck under one of their arms. He didn’t even make it halfway. “Fall back. Now,” barked one of the guards. The crowd slowed—but only just because stepping down from the chopper, right into the soft light of the gala courtyard, was Jason Cole Echelon. Even the air seemed to pause to admire him. He wore a suit that looked like it was spun from crushed obsidian—sleek, sharp, stitched to his build. A subtle glint of gold shimmered beneath the collar, matching the crest on his pocket. His jawline was carved like anci