Chapter 272: Let’s begin!

Chapter 272: Chapter 272: Let’s begin!

Inside the private lounge of an upscale private club, Adrian Vale leaned against the leather bar, his phone pressed firmly to his ear. Outside the high floor-to-ceiling windows, the afternoon sun gleamed off the glass skyscrapers, but Adrian’s attention was entirely fixed on the trading monitors streaming live stock updates.

"Marcus," Adrian said into the mic, his brow furrowing as he watched the ticker symbols flash red and white. "What the hell is your family doing? The Sheele Group is sweeping up millions of secondary shares in Newman Enterprise Group. Jake is in the middle of tearing them apart—why are you guys stepping in?"

On the other end of the line, Marcus Sheele let out a low, weary exhale.

"I don’t know, Adrian," Marcus admitted, his voice tight. "My father had put up a five-hundred-million-mark support wall, but he pulled back support the second Jake pushed the short barrage. This latest move... buying nineteen point seven percent right as the stock hit rock bottom? It doesn’t look like something my father would do. Not like this."

Adrian’s eyes widened slightly as he took a sip of his drink. ’’f it isn’t Stuart...’ "Wait. Are you telling me it was her?"

"Yeah," Marcus said grimly. "Sylvia."

"Sylvia?" Adrian almost choked, setting his glass down hard on the coaster. "Why the hell would Sylvia suddenly be interested in Jake? She doesn’t touch secondary market squabbles. She doesn’t even look at companies with zero cash reserves unless she’s planning to strip them down."

"I don’t know," Marcus replied, his tone heavy with concern. "My guess? It was Dad’s five-hundred-million intervention. She saw Dad throw a half-billion-mark liquidity test at Rivers, and when Rivers smashed through it without blinking, it must have caught her attention. Sylvia doesn’t care about the Newmans. But a young billionaire tearing through market walls like a battering ram? That’s the kind of blood in the water she hunts for."

Adrian stared at the monitor as NEG’s ticker froze at its halted price. ’Jake isn’t just dealing with a broken family anymore,’ he thought, a knot tightening in his stomach. ’The Empress just entered the chat.’

---

Late at night, inside the dimly lit study of the main Newman manor, the air had been thick with the reek of spilled brandy and raw panic.

Richard Newman stood near the unlit fireplace, his hands trembling as he stared down his younger brother. Troy sat slumped in an armchair, his tie loosened, his eyes bloodshot and frantic.

"You damned fool!" Richard roared, slamming his glass onto the mantle hard enough to shatter the stem. Brandy dripped down the marble like blood. "We were clear! The situation with Sam was settled! Jake took his ten percent, the matter was kept quiet, and he walked away. It was handled!"

"Handled?!" Troy sneered, pushing himself up, though his voice lacked its usual sharp edge. "He humiliated our family, Richard! He forced his way onto our board with fifteen percent! I wasn’t going to sit back and let a young bastard act like he owned us!"

"So you leaked those media smears?!" Richard took three steps forward, pointing a shaking finger straight at Troy’s chest. "You thought you were being clever by attacking him in public? Sam made a stupid mistake out of arrogance, but you—you dragged a killer back to our doorstep! Sam’s mess cost us ten percent. Your pride just destroyed the remaining eighty five!"

Troy flinched. The fury in Richard’s voice wasn’t the usual calculated irritation of a Chairman; it was the hollow rage of a man watching his empire burn.

"I..." Troy swallowed hard, his posture slumping as the fight finally drained out of him. He looked down at the Persian rug, his chest heaving. "Richard, I... I never meant for it to go this far. Yes, I wanted the Chairman seat. I wanted to prove I could run this company better than anyone. But I never wanted... I never wanted Dad’s legacy to end like this. I swear to you, I didn’t think he could pull off a short campaign this fast."

Richard stared at his brother for a long moment. Hearing Troy—a man whose arrogance had fueled board meetings for three decades—sincerely apologize sounded almost unnatural. Richard let out a heavy, ragged sigh, his shoulders dropping.

"Apologies won’t buy back our market cap, Troy," Richard said softly, leaning his hip against the mahogany desk.

Troy looked up, a desperate glint in his eyes. "What about the Sheele Group? Did... did you set that up, Richard? Is Mr. Sheele buying those shares to shield us from Rivers?"

Richard shook his head slowly. "I spoke to Stuart Sheele when the short wave started. He didn’t promise me a rescue. All he told me was that he’d ’have a chat’ with Jake."

"Then maybe the chat failed," Troy said quickly, grasping at straws. "Maybe Stuart saw Jake wasn’t going to listen, so he stepped in and bought up nineteen point seven percent to keep Rivers from reaching an absolute majority! He’s blocking him!"

"I hope to God you’re right," Richard muttered, though his heart felt like lead in his chest. "Because if Stuart isn’t shielding us, we don’t have a company left."

"We’ll find out at the boardroom tomorrow," Troy said quietly, wiping his sweating palms on his trousers.

---

On Tuesday morning, by 08:30 AM, the plaza outside the Newman Enterprise Group tower was choked with media vans, satellite trucks, and hundreds of reporters waving microphones. Security guards stood in a dense line against the glass doors, physically leaning into the pressing crowd to keep them from spilling into the lobby.

Inside the grand 50th-floor boardroom, the air felt thin, cold, and suffocating.

The executive board sat around the massive oval mahogany table, divided into clear, hostile factions. On one side sat the shattered Newman alliance: Richard holding his thirty percent stake, Troy clutching his thirteen percent with a dark, bitter scowl, Mary sitting sternly with her seven percent, Joe Dane holding five point six percent, and Finn and Ray sitting silently with their four point three percent and zero point one percent.

Richard sat motionless, his eyes fixed blankly on the polished wood. ’Thirty percent,’ he thought, feeling a cold knot twist in his stomach. ’Thirty percent of a hollow shell. Everything I built, completely at the mercy of whoever walks through those doors.’

Opposite them, the Sheele Group delegation occupied six high-backed leather seats. But Stuart Sheele wasn’t there.

Instead, sitting right in the middle of the delegation was Sylvia Sheele.

She wore a crisp, dark designer coat tailored to perfection, her dark hair pinned back seamlessly. She calmly sipped espresso from a delicate china cup while two corporate attorneys organized stack after stack of legal briefs beside her.

When Richard had stepped into the room twenty minutes earlier and caught sight of her, the final remaining flicker of hope in his chest completely died. His step faltered, his jaw tightening so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek.

’Sylvia Sheele...’ Richard thought, feeling a cold, sickening numbness spread through his limbs. ’If Stuart had come, there might have been a bargain. A rescue package. But Sylvia? She doesn’t rescue people. She strips corpses.’

Her reputation as ’The Empress’ was earned in blood and hostiles; she was utterly ruthless to the core, completely devoid of sentiment. The idea that she had bought nineteen point seven percent to "shield" the Newman family was a delusional fantasy. She was here to claim her prize.

Ray Newman leaned over to Finn, whispering in a tense, nervous rush, "Why the hell is she here? Stuart sent Sylvia?"

Finn didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He just stared at her, his throat completely dry.

Sylvia glanced casually across the table, her sharp eyes flicking over the Newman family like a butcher inspecting cuts of meat. ’Look at them,’ she thought with a trace of icy amusement, setting her cup down without making a sound. Sweating through their tailored suits. They spent thirty years building a fortress, and now they’re waiting for someone to hand them a life raft. Disgusting.

At exactly 08:59 AM, the heavy double doors of the boardroom swung open with a deep, echoing click.

The entire room went dead silent.

Jake Rivers walked in.

He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his shirt immaculate, his tie tied with mathematical precision. His face was entirely unreadable—no anger, no triumph, just a terrifyingly calm focus. Behind him walked Silas Thorne, carrying a thin leather briefcase, accompanied by four senior corporate attorneys.

Troy’s hands clenched into tight, white-knuckle fists under the table. ’Look at this bastard,’ Troy thought, hatred burning hot in his throat as his blood pressure spiked. ’He walks in here like he owns the building. I would have buried him the second he stepped foot in the financial district if I had known.’

Jake didn’t look at Troy. He didn’t even acknowledge Richard or Sam, who sat like pale ghosts in their chairs.

His gaze swept across the room, locking onto Sylvia Sheele.

Sylvia didn’t flinch. She leaned back slightly, offering him a smooth, razor-thin smile over the rim of her espresso cup.

’Sylvia Sheele huh,’ Jake thought, observing the utter calm in her posture. ’So Stuart didn’t send Marcus afterall. He sent quiet a headache. But she’s about to find out what happens when you try to muscle in on my kill.

Without asking for permission, Jake walked straight to the head of the oval table—the massive leather chair explicitly reserved for the Chairman of the Board.

He pulled it out, stepped in, and sat down.

The silence in the room stretched until it felt like the glass windows might shatter from the tension.

Jake rested his hands flat on the polished mahogany, looking directly into Richard Newman’s bloodshot eyes, then shifting his gaze to Sylvia.

"Good morning, everyone," Jake said, his voice smooth, low, and terrifyingly clear. "Let me save us all some time. The Newman family no longer has the voting power to run this board. So let’s begin."

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