bhapter /bb210 /b

ADRIAN’S POV

“Mr. Westwood! Is it true you’re being investigated for murder?”

That was the first voice that cut through the morning air the moment I stepped beyond the heavy front door of my bhouse/bb. /b

“Mr. Westwood, do you have anything to say about the usations?” another shouted, words tumbling over each other bas /bcameras clicked like insects.

The noise rose quickly, a tidal wave of demands and spection crashing into me from all sides. The words murder, usations, and betrayal sliced through the chaos, standing out like knives no matter how quickly the rest blurred binto /bba /bsingle, jumbled hum.

Microphones, ck and silver and branded in gaudy colors, pushed closer, brushing against my top and blocking the path ahead. Their bearers leaned in, eyes bright with hungry anticipation, waiting almost willing me to falter, to say something they could twist and throw onto tomorrow’s front page.

But I didn’t give them that satisfaction.

I’d been through enough boardroom ambushes, enough corporate smear campaigns, to know exactly what even a single careless word could cost. The difference now was that instead of suits and ties hiding daggers, it was shing bulbs and

cameras searching for cracks in my expression.

I kept my head slightly bowed, my face set in cold, polite indifference, and walked forward.

The officers on either side moved just enough to clear a narrow path through the crowd, their presence firm but silent. The moment felt surreal: walking through the neatly paved driveway of my own estate, past carefully pruned hedges and marble statues, escorted like some criminal while reporters screamed questions that had no answers.

I didn’t look at them. Didn’t even spare them a nod. Instead, I focused on the dark shape of the police vehicle waiting beyond the estate’s iron gate. Step by step, I walked toward it.

Only when I sank into the back seat of the car did I allow myself to exhale, the door shutting out most of the noise in an

instant.

Through the tinted ss, I watched as the crowd began to thin. Some reporters lowered their cameras, disappointment spread across their faces as they realized they’d gotten nothing not a statement, not a slip, not even a scowl worth

printing.

A small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of my lips, but it quickly faded.

Because then it struck me: in all my years living in this house, reporters had never once stepped foot onto my property uninvited not for business, not for rumor, never. It wasn’t luckb, /bit was by design, a wall of legal threats and private security

that kept them at bay.

Yet today, not only had they arrived, but they had done so in perfect timing lined up just as bthe /bpolice were bwalking /bbme /b

out.

b1/4 /b

The speed at which the news had spread… It was too fast. Too bconvenient/b.

Someone leaked it.

Not the police, they wouldn’t tip off the press before an arrest. No, this was deliberate, someone in the shadowsb, /bbpulling /bstrings to paint me guilty before I could even open my mouth.

A slow, cold realization sank into my chest. Whoever it was, they weren’t just satisfied with an investigation. bThey /bbwanted /bto burn my reputation down around me.

My fingers curled around my phone, the screen lighting up under my thumb. I dialed James

“James,” I said once he picked up, keeping my voice even. “The officers are taking me to the central station downtown. Meet me there.”

I paused, then added, “No, don’t bring thewyer yet. It won’t be necessary. Once I speak to themissioner, this will die before it even starts.”

James’s voice was quiet on the other end, a single word of acknowledgment before the call ended.

The car ride to the station felt longer than it really was. Outside, the city rolled by streets I’d driven a hundred times before, but which now seemed somehow different, darker, like they no longer belonged to me.

When we arrived, the officers guided me through the station’s front doors, past curious nces from bystanders and junior officers who quickly turned away the moment I met their eyes. They took theptop and notebook from earlier, carrying them like trophies, and led me straight toward themissioner’s office.

But when we got there, the room was empty.

“He’s not here right now,” one officer muttered, almost apologetic. “You’ll need to wait.”

I didn’t reply. Instead, I stepped inside, sinking into the leather chair opposite themissioner’s desk.

Minutes crawled by, each second stretching longer than thest.

Then, atst, the door opened.

James walked in, his suit crisp despite the urgency, his expression carefully neutral. He closed the door behind him, then

ced a steady hand on my shoulder–a quiet show of support, the same one he’d given me in boardrooms before hostile takeovers and at funerals when words were too heavy to say aloud.

He sat down beside me.

“What’s going on?” James asked, his brow furrowed. His voice was low.

I let out a slow exhale, a dryugh almost slipping through at the absurdity of it all. “I’m just as surprised bas /bbyou/b,” bI /btold him, my tone steady despite the irritation simmering beneath. “They showed up at my doorstep bthis /b

bng/bb, /bbwaving /bba /bwarrant, iming I was somehow involved in a murder from a few years ago. They didn’t even bother bbeing /bbspecific/bb./bb” /b

James’s eyes narrowed further, his gaze flickering across my face, searching for cracks, as though hoping bthis /bbwas /bball /bbsome /bborate misunderstanding I could exin away. “Did they at least tell you anything else? bThe /bbvictim/bb? /bbA /bbdate/bb? /bbSomething /b

b71/b%0

to give context?”

“They said they’d question me here,” I replied, the words clipped. “But from the look of them, they’re either newly transferred or ipetent. They have no idea who they’re dealing with. And after interrupting my morning routine, they’ll be lucky to still have badges by the end of today.”

James nodded slowly, lips pressed into a thin line, though the concern in his eyes remained. Before he could reply, the door creaked open behind us.

Themissioner stepped inside, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket, an uneasy half–smile tugging at his lips as his gaze settled on me. “Mr. Westwood,” he greeted, voice a practiced blend of apology and authority. “Hope my boys didn’t cause you any trouble.”

I turned toward him, letting silence stretch just long enough ito /imake my displeasure clear before speaking. “They made a scene at my house,” I said evenly, though my jaw tightened slightly. “Nowi, /ithanks to them, I’m going to be stered all over the news. And you know very well how much I hate that kind of attention.”

Themissioner gave a quick nod, his forehead creasing. “I’m very sorryi, /isir. Truly. I’ll see to it that the media backs off immediately. And as for the detectives who brought you in, they’ll be dealt with properly.”

“I expect nothing less,” I replied, voice low but heavy with finality. Then, turning slightly, I nced toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a business to run and my time is worth considerably more than ying games in this office.”

Halfway to the doorway, I paused, turning my head just enough to look back at him. “This shouldn’t happen again, Commissioner,” I said, my tone almost casual but carrying a weight that needed no exnation.

Without waiting for his reply, I pushed the door open, stepping out into the corridor. James fell into step behind me, silent

andposed.

We walked through the station, honestly I wished I had seen those detectives faces before I left, but I didn’t have that time, Once outside, the sun felt harsher

“Were you able to find out the name of the person who tipped them off?” James asked, his voice careful, as though trying not to press too hard.

I shook my head, sinking into the leather couch, my hand brushing against the armrest as though grounding myself. “No,” I said, a slight edge creeping into my words. “Whoever did this nned it carefully. They didn’t just throw random usations–they aimed for something buried. Something only a handful of people would even know existed.”

James hesitated, then spoke again. “So it’s one of your enemies. Could it be Marcus?”

My gaze drifted toward the windowi, /isunlight spilling across the floor in long, angled stripes. “No,” I replied after a moment. “This person brought up something from before Marcus even entered the picture. Back then, I didn’t even know him. It’s deeper than a business rival with a grudge.”

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