Chapter Ninety One As the rip spread across the painting, Mr. Woods gasped, his face paling as he realized the damage he’d just caused. For a moment, he stared at the ruined canvas in stunned silence, his mouth hanging open in shock. But just as Henry thought his father-in-law might take responsibility for what had happened, Mr. Woods turned to him, his expression quickly shifting from shock to accusation.“This is your fault!” he spat, pointing his finger at Henry. “I told you to keep quiet and stand aside. If you hadn’t distracted me with your constant interference, this wouldn’t have happened!”Henry felt a flicker of anger. He had been doing exactly as he was told, standing silently, watching as his father-in-law waved that cane around with reckless abandon. But now, instead of admitting his own mistake, Mr. Woods was casting the blame on him. Henry opened his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word, the art gallery manager rushed over, his face a mixture of concern and
Chapter Ninety Two Henry barely had a chance to argue with the security guards who had gathered around him, their expressions tense and expectant, waiting for his confession. “Gentlemen, you have the wrong person!” Henry protested, trying to keep his voice calm but firm. “I didn’t destroy the painting. Mr. Woods was the one who—” One of the guards interrupted him, shaking his head. “Sir, we need you to cooperate. The gallery manager and several witnesses have stated that you were involved.” Henry’s frustration boiled over. But just as he was about to defend himself, his eyes drifted to the painting, now abandoned on the floor. His anger faded, replaced by an odd sense of wonder. There was something strangely captivating about the artwork, even with the fresh tear marring its beauty. Ignoring the murmurs of the guards, Henry crouched down, his hand reaching out as if on instinct. He gently lifted the edge of the canvas, examining the fine details up close. The brushstrokes were
Chapter Ninety Three Henry felt the weight of the manager’s gaze, a piercing suspicion that seemed to linger on his every move. He clenched his fist around the ring, aware that any sudden gesture could draw unwanted attention to it. The last thing he needed was trouble, especially with the strange power he sensed radiating from the ring. Keeping his tone low and steady, he turned to the manager. “I’ll pay for the damages,” he said, a quiet conviction in his voice. The manager raised an eyebrow, sneering. “You? Pay?” He scoffed, crossing his arms as he took a step closer, looking Henry up and down with disdain. “You expect me to believe nobody like you, a beggar who can’t even earn his father-in-law’s respect, can afford to pay $250,000? Is this some kind of joke?” Henry forced himself to remain calm, suppressing the anger that threatened to boil over. The manager’s words stung, but he kept his focus on the ring. As it seemed to pulse on his finger as though reminding him to
Chapter Ninety Four Henry was knee-deep in soap suds, mopping the glossy marble floors of the gallery. The irony was sharp, but he held his head high, trying to ignore the stinging humiliation that clung to him like the scent of cleaning chemicals. The ring on his finger pulsed faintly, as though reminding him of its presence, of the strange pull it held over him. And then, almost without thought, he found himself standing in front of the torn artwork—the one that had ignited this chain of ridicule and disbelief. Without understanding why, Henry reached out, his fingers hovering over the torn canvas. He could feel the texture of the fabric beneath his fingertips, the brushstrokes and pigments alive under the lights. Then, in a trance-like state, he lifted the painting from the wall, his hands moving instinctively. He didn’t even realize he was moving toward the back storage room until he stood before shelves of painting supplies, reaching for brushes, paints, and an assort
Chapter Ninety Five Henry barely noticed Léa’s scrutinizing gaze as she examined the restored painting. When she turned back to him, a flicker of intrigue lit her eyes, softened only slightly by the hint of a smile. "How did you know what to do?" she asked, her voice sharp but laced with genuine curiosity. “That technique—no one has used it in decades, and few have ever even heard of it. So, tell me, Mr. Knight, how did you do it?" Henry glanced down at his hands, still feeling the strange warmth from the ring. He opened his mouth, unsure how to explain something he didn’t fully understand himself. “Honestly… I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this before. It felt like… instinct. Something just guided me.” Léa’s brows lifted, a skeptical smirk playing on her lips, but before she could question him further, her eyes sharpened as though she’d remembered something urgent. She placed her perfectly manicured hand on his shoulder, the pressure light but commanding. Her n
Chapter Ninety Six Jasper leaned back, savoring the taste of smoke and the burn of liquor as he glanced around the room. The haze of shisha filled the air, clouding the small VIP lounge in a mix of spices and tobacco. He could feel the weight of eyes on him, the girls' laughter dancing around his ears, each one vying for a moment of his attention. One of the girls leaned in close, her perfume filling his senses, warm and floral, cutting through the dense smoke. Her hand brushed his jaw, her fingers lingering as she whispered, “So, tell us, Mr. Future CEO, when do we get to see this empire of yours?” Jasper chuckled, the sound deep and careless. "Soon, sweetheart. Soon enough, the world will be ours." His voice dripped with confidence, his eyes glinting with a cocky thrill as he threw back another shot, the fiery liquid trailing down his throat. Another girl, with dark eyes that seemed to spark under the low lights, slipped onto his lap, her fingers tracing the collar of his shir
Chapter Ninety Seven Henry’s phone buzzed sharply on his desk, piercing through the silence of his office. Glancing down, he saw Damon’s name flash across the screen, but when he answered, he was met with only ragged breaths and desperate gasps. “Damon?” Henry’s voice rose, laced with urgency. “Are you… are you okay?” Through the phone, he heard Damon’s strained voice, barely a whisper, as though each word took all the strength he had. “Henry… please… I—” The words faltered, then the line went silent except for Damon’s harsh, shallow breaths. Henry’s heart pounded, a knot of worry tightening in his chest. Without a second thought, he abandoned the stacks of paperwork before him, his hands moving on instinct as he activated the hidden switch for the private elevator in his office. The elevator descended silently, cutting through floors to the underground exit reserved for the inner circle of the HEXAGON CONSORTIUM. Emerging into the dim light, he dialed an Uber and waited, every s
Chapter Ninety Eight Damon took a deep, shaky breath, his voice raw and trembling as he looked at Henry. “She… she demanded the raw gold jar you gifted me, Henry,” Damon began, his hands trembling. “The one you gave me when I opened this pharmacy.” Henry’s eyes narrowed, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he listened. “When I told her I was going to divorce her… she didn’t even care. She just laughed, told me I was a ‘poor fool,’ and then… then, she had her new man—the senator—send his boys to beat the life out of me. My own wife just stood there, laughing as they kicked me, mocking me, calling me a ‘worthless man.’” Damon’s voice broke, and he clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. “She… she actually looked at me, laughing, like I was nothing. She insulted me, said I was lucky she even bothered to look in my direction. And while I was on the ground, Henry, beaten half to death… she let that senator put his hands all over her. He… he kissed her, grabbed her li