CHAPTER 266: HE WHO BLEEDS, LEADS.

The silence pressed in, thick enough to taste.

I looked up, from one face to another—their expensive suits, their shifting eyes. The faint smell of coffee and cowardice. My vision pulsed at the edges again, darkening. I pushed through it.

I let the silence stretch, just long enough for discomfort to turn into panic.

"You were discussing my...tenure, I presume?" I continued, my eyes scanning the room with a calculated intensity.

At the far end, Langston adjusted his cufflinks with exaggerated calm, his lips twitching into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. Beside him, Marla Chen’s fingers danced nervously along the rim of her coffee cup, the only sound in the room besides my labored breathing. Across the table, Patel’s gaze met mine for a heartbeat—then dropped, his hand retreating from the stack of papers I’m sure he’d been about to present.

The silence was oppressive, a physical presence that pressed against my skin. I could feel the weight of their expectations, their anticipation of my next move.

"I believe you were saying something about my...arrogance?" I prompted, my tone dripping with venom. "Go on," I said, softer this time. "Don’t let me interrupt your vote of betrayal."

No one moved.

Then Sterling, the finance director, cleared his throat — a sound too fragile for the room. "We—we were discussing interim leadership," he said, eyes flicking everywhere but mine. "Given the uncertainty around your... condition."

My condition. How pathetic...

I said nothing. I just watched him squirm. It was fascinating — how a man could speak and still manage to shrink.

Sterling’s chair creaked as he shifted under the weight of my stare. His fingers tapped against the polished mahogany—a nervous rhythm that betrayed the facade of confidence he was desperately trying to maintain.

"You mean a coup," I said finally. My voice was soft enough that they had to lean in to hear it. "Say it properly."

A pause.

No one did.

My eyes moved across the faces of men who had once called me ’sir.’

"My silence," I said quietly, "has never meant absence. I wanted to see who would speak first."

A few men swallowed hard.

Another—the loudest from before—found the courage to sit straighter. "Mr. Walton, with all due respect, this company cannot survive another scandal. The public is questioning your credibility. That woman—"

"Say her name," I interrupted softly.

He hesitated. "Isabella Miller."

The name lingered like smoke.

I leaned back, eyes steady. "Yes. Isabella Miller. My assistant."

A few exchanged glances, someone’s pen slipped from their fingers.

"My wife."

The room gasped. The sound rippled through the space, a collective intake of breath that seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. Sterling choked on his own spit. The man who had dared to speak Isabella’s name paled, his confidence evaporating like morning mist.

My wife.

The words hung in the air, a stark declaration that redefined everything they thought they knew. The carefully constructed narrative of mistress and blackmail crumbled to dust.

"My wife and I," I continued, my gaze unwavering, ignoring the chaos, "entered into a contracted union at my behest. I pursued her, I begged her to agree to it. Over time, it evolved into something genuine. We are now legally married."

The air, thick with accusation moments before, now buzzed with the silent static of utter shock.

Sterling, the finance director, looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole. The man who had dared to speak of Isabella with such disdain now sat slack-jawed, his arrogance dissolved into stammering incoherence.

I let the silence hang, savoring their bewilderment. The truth, however twisted and carefully constructed, was a weapon far more potent than any lie. They’d expected a confession, a denial, an acknowledgement of wrongdoing. They’d prepared themselves for a negotiation, a power struggle, a chance to exploit my supposed weakness.

They hadn’t prepared for this.

"Married?" The word was finally choked out by a woman at the far end, Evelyn Reed from legal, her face pale. "You... you married your assistant in secret? Adrien, the bylaws, the disclosure agreements—"

"Have been adhered to," I cut in, my voice slicing through her panic. "The paperwork was filed with the legal department two weeks ago. Under a confidentiality clause so strict the penalty for breach is financial ruin. Your department, Evelyn. You signed off on the security allocation for the file yourself. You just never bothered to read the case number attached to it."

The blood drained from her face completely.

"Copies of the marriage certificate are being distributed now," I said, nodding to Gray, who moved with silent precision. He placed a single, crisp document in front of each board member.

The room erupted. The whispers turned into shouts, the stunned silence replaced by a cacophony of outrage and astonishment. I let them rave for a moment, a controlled release valve. When the noise reached its peak, I raised my hand again.

"Silence."

The command, delivered with an unwavering calm, was absolute. The room fell still once more, the board members staring at me, their faces a mixture of apprehension and renewed hostility.

"Now," I said, my voice regaining its razor’s edge, "let’s address the untrue insinuations. Clara Langford and I... were never involved. Not in any capacity."

From the far end of the table, a voice, laced with the self-righteous indignation of a man who believed he knew better, chimed in. "But Mr. Walton, Clara Langford is far more suitable. Her father’s influence, her lineage... she would be a tremendous asset in consolidating power, in leading this company forward."

I rose slowly from my chair, the bandage beneath my shirt pulling tight, blood seeping faintly through the fabric—but no one noticed until Gray subtly shifted closer.

"I have tolerated your speculations," I said, voice low but unyielding. "But let me remind you of something you’ve forgotten. I built this all of this from the ground you and your fathers only pretended to own. You sit here today because I allow it."

The projector behind me flickered to life. Folders slid across the table, one by one, placed in front of each man by my aides.

"You want to talk about betrayal? Let’s talk about loyalty. You want to talk about image? Let’s talk about power. You want to talk about my wife?" my voice dipped, dangerous. "Then you better be ready to talk about every one of your skeletons too."

Silence.

I sat down again, wincing but refusing to show it.

"Now. Let’s begin."

I looked directly at the man who’d called Clara’s name earlier.

"You said Clara Langford is more suitable." I tilted my head slightly. "Let’s start with you."

Cameron began to read from the projection. "Thomas Haleworth," he read aloud, voice sharp. "Embezzlement. Bribes to silence whistleblowers. Two separate offshore holdings under his mistress’s name in Nomaco."

The silence that followed Cameron’s pronouncement was of a different quality than before. It wasn’t the quiet of shock, but the dead, airless vacuum of doom. Thomas Haleworth’s face, once flushed with righteous indignation, went the colour of spoiled milk. His lips moved, but no sound emerged.

I let the numbers and dates on the screen—transfers, shell companies, names—hang in the air like smoke. The projector’s hum was the only sound.

"The mistress," I said, my voice a low, conversational rasp that cut through the thick silence. "The one in the Caymans. How is she enjoying the villa you purchased last month, Thomas? The one your wife believes is a corporate retreat."

He flinched as if I’d struck him. A sheen of sweat glistened on his upper lip. The other men stared at their own folders, their hands frozen on the table. None dared to open them. They didn’t need to. They knew what was inside.

"Or perhaps," I continued, shifting my gaze with glacial slowness to the man beside him, a man named Reeves who had been nodding vigorously moments before, "we should ask Mr. Reeves about his rather... creative accounting with the Singapore subsidiary. The one that conveniently hid a nine-million-dollar loss right before the quarterly report."

Reeves’s jaw tightened. He looked at the folder in front of him as if it were a live serpent.

Cameron didn’t wait for my signal. "Gregory Henderson. Insider trading tied to last quarter’s acquisition collapse. Three hundred thousand dollars routed through a shell company your brother-in-law conveniently owns."

Gasps circled the table.

And then—my phone buzzed.

I raised a hand. Cameron fell silent mid-sentence.

Dr. Kassel’s name glowed across the screen.

For a moment, the chaos, the blood, the empire—all of it blurred into noise.

I answered. "Kassel."

"Adrien," the doctor’s voice crackled with an urgency that mirrored my own. "Isabella... she’s awake."