CHAPTER 265: HE WHO BLEEDS...

The drizzle was a mere whisper against the slick obsidian of my limousine, a stark contrast to the inferno I’d crawled out of. Each breath was a shallow victory against the persistent ache radiating from my back, a dull throb beneath the hastily applied bandages. My palm, still sticky with dried blood, protested the slightest movement. The pain lodged in my abdomen felt like a malevolent guest, a constant reminder of Caden’s desperate, savage attack. My shoulder, a fiery inferno, was a testament to a fight I should have lost, but hadn’t.

Gray shoved an energy bar into my hand earlier. I didn’t argue. I hadn’t eaten in over two days or is it three already? And I needed to stay upright long enough to remind the board who they were dealing with.

Gray’s hand hovered near my elbow as I stepped out of the car, the cold morning air cutting through the fresh bandages beneath my shirt. My abdomen burned where the bullet had grazed deep, the shoulder wound throbbed in rhythm with my pulse, and the skin of my palm—split open and raw—ached against the cuff of my sleeve.

The moment I stepped out, the cacophony hit. Reporters, a swarm of vultures drawn to the scent of scandal, surged forward, their voices overlapping in a desperate attempt to elicit a statement.

"Mr. Walton! Is it true the article was deleted because it was real?"

"Did you pay the media to silence the truth?"

"Why was it deleted?"

"Is Isabella Miller really your mistress?"

"Where have you been?"

"Did she blackmail you—"

My security detail, a wall of stoic professionalism, moved with practiced efficiency, forming a protective cordon, carving a path through the chaos.

The flash of the cameras was blinding, a relentless, strobing white assault that turned the marble steps into a dizzying landscape. Each clicking shutter felt like a tiny, mocking drumbeat against the silence I was enforcing.

I ignored them, my focus narrowed to the imposing glass doors of the corporate headquarters. Each step was a calculated effort, a battle against the pain that threatened to buckle my knees. I kept my eyes fixed ahead, a ghost of a man propelled forward by sheer will. Gray was a silent shadow at my side, his presence a steady anchor in the maelstrom of my existence.

Inside, the air was too warm, too bright. The marble floors reflected our movements like ghosts. My legs felt heavy, every muscle screaming, but my posture never faltered.

The elevator ride was a silent, tense ascent. As the doors slid open onto the executive floor, Cam was waiting outside the boardroom, leaning against the wall, his jacket rumpled, his face a mask of relief and concern.

"Thank God you made it back alive," he breathed, his words laced with a nervous energy. He took a step closer, his eyes scanning me quickly. "You’re limping. Why are you limping? Are you bleeding again? Are you okay? Adrien, what the hell—"

I met his concerned gaze with a glare, the exhaustion and pain making my temper even shorter than usual. "Open the door," I said, my voice a low rasp.

The two men standing at the door immediately obeyed.

Even before they could touch the handle, the guttural roar from within the room reached us. It was a symphony of indignation, a chorus of blame directed squarely at my absent, and apparently, incorrigible CEO.

"...he’s arrogant, that’s what he is! Ten years of running this company like his private playground—"

"Exactly. He hasn’t even shown his face for hours while the press burns our name!"

"And he had the audacity to cage us in here. How dare he!"

"And that woman—his assistant—has bewitched him completely. Look what she’s done to his image! The board should’ve voted hours ago—"

Cam flinched at the sheer venom in the voices. He looked at me, his eyes practically pleading for me to control myself. I took a slow, deliberate breath, the air catching on the rough edges of my wounds. It was time.

The lock clicked.

The heavy doors swung inward, revealing the opulent conference room.

Silence.

A hundred-million-dollar hush.

The boardroom froze—voices dying mid-sentence, the hum of the projector still casting graphs over the table like bloodless wounds. Twelve men, three women. All of them with my name in their mouths a moment ago. None of them could look me in the eye now.

My security team fanned out, lining the walls like impassive sentinels, their gazes fixed on the assembled occupants of the room.

Then I stepped in. Cam followed a step behind, his jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room like a bodyguard sizing up a threat.

The smell hit first—sterile air, old coffee, and fear. The kind that clings to the walls.

My steps were slow, deliberate—each one a quiet declaration that I was not to be questioned. The man mid-sentence froze, his mouth hanging open, hand suspended like a thief caught in the act.

Some men rose instantly, out of habit or fear. Others stayed seated, their arrogance brittle beneath the weight of my gaze.

For a moment, no one breathed.

The pain in my ribs pulsed with every step, sharp and rhythmic, like a heartbeat that refused to die. My temple throbbed. The stitches on my side felt wet again—split, maybe. I couldn’t tell. I was still standing. That was all that mattered.

Their eyes followed me as I crossed the length of the room without a word and took my seat at the head of the table. The chair groaned softly beneath me. The silver watch on my wrist ticked once, a measured sound against the collective silence.

I set my palm on the table. The burn there—split skin and broken blisters—screamed under the contact. I didn’t flinch. I wanted them to see it. To feel the silence wrap tighter around their throats.

Every inhale scraped my chest raw. My head rang with the low hum of fury I couldn’t release—not here. Not yet. My body wanted to sit, to rest, but my mind wanted to slit the room open and feed it its own hypocrisy.

I thought of my mother—motionless in her bed, the slow rise and fall of her chest like a metronome marking the decay of years. Then of Isabella—her laughter, her warmth, the reason I hadn’t lost myself completely. Both of them far from this room. Both reminders that mercy is a luxury I couldn’t afford anymore.

The voices in my head—the board, my father, Caden’s broken grin—all blurred into one long, grating noise. I wanted silence. I wanted to tape their mouths shut, one by one, until all I heard was my own pulse hammering in my skull.

My sight went out of focus for a second— walls bending, sound slipping away. For a second, the table wasn’t real. Then the sting of my palm against wood snapped everything back into focus. Cam shifted forward instinctively, only to stop himself. His fists curled at his sides, the tension in his shoulders betraying the storm he was holding back.

The momentary blackout was a dangerous flirtation with unconsciousness. But the sharp sting of my palm against the polished mahogany jolted me back. The pain was a welcome anchor, a tangible sensation in a reality that felt increasingly surreal. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles white, focusing on the faces swimming before me. They were a gallery of avarice and fear, a testament to the power I wielded, and the fragile foundation upon which it was built.

When I finally spoke, the words were deliberate, scalpel-clean.

"I see you’ve all been productive in my absence." my tone was steady, but every syllable carried weight. "Go on. Continue."

No one dared to. Not even the air.