Dressed in a sharp black suit with a silver tie, and a brown wool coat draped elegantly over his broad shoulders, Davis Allen exuded an aura of quiet dominance.
His presence wasn’t loud—it was commanding. Each step he took was strong, deliberate, and unapologetically graceful, sending a ripple through the growing crowd outside the Allen Group headquarters.
His long, measured strides and godlike features turned heads. The morning sun caught in his chiseled jawline, illuminating the piercing steel of his cold eyes—unreadable, yet arresting.
His aura was icy and intimidating, but captivating in a way that made people instinctively stand straighter and move aside.
Gasps and hushed voices trailed in his arrival.
"Wahoo! He is really the proud son of heaven."
"I thought it was the crippled Allen heir."
"If he’s the Allen grandson, why is he walking?
"Wasn’t he paralyzed after the accident?"
"Didn’t his fiancée leave him for another man?"
"Hasn’t he been relegated to the background since the accident and never taken part in the Allen family affairs?
"Wasn’t there a report that he’d willingly given up his position?"
"I heard he is no longer the favoured son of the old man and was forced to."
"It is not surprising, that is always the attitude of the rich families."
"I heard he willingly stepped down from his position. No way this man before us is him."
Despite the murmurs around him, Davis stood tall. His coat rippled slightly in the morning breeze.
He looked up at the towering Allen Group building—the embodiment of his parents’ sweat and blood, carried forward by his own effort.
He took a deep breath and made a silent promise to himself.
"You’re all wrong. He is the Allen grandson."
The crowd turned to see a man pushing through with his phone held up—on the screen, a grainy photo of Davis, seated in a wheelchair at the airport upon his return from Noveria.
A heavy silence fell.
Everyone stared at the man before them, then at the photo, then back again. The resemblance was undeniable—but the transformation was staggering.
For a second, everything stopped.
Davis stepped forward, his movements fluid and confident. There was no trace of injury, no hint of frailty.
Walking at his side were Ethan and two members of the elusive Shadow Team, cloaked in black suits, their expressions unreadable and aura—a clear warning, you don’t come further.
A glance at Davis testifies he was every inch the Allen family heir; reborn, imposing and untouchable.
The security guards at the entrance straightened as he approached.
Several executives heard the commotion and peered out from the glass walls of the lobby. Some adjusting their ties, others holding their breath.
He didn’t slow down. He didn’t speak.
He entered the building, every step calculated and controlled. Behind him, shocked whispers rose again:
"He’s walking without help."
"Isn’t he supposed to be stepping down today?"
"I thought Desmond had already taken over."
"Didn’t the press say he was incapable of taking over?"
"I thought Desmond was officially taking the reins today."
No one had answers. Only stunned silence followed as Davis stepped into the company’s lobby.
Then came the whispers. Shocked gasps as realization dawned. Cameras clicked rapidly behind him as he approached the lobby.
"Sir," Ethan said in a low voice as they neared the reception, "shouldn’t we take your private elevator?"
It was a fair question. The main entrance was for staff and visitors—not for the chairman’s heir and president of the Group. But Davis only offered a faint smirk.
"Announce the arrival," he said quietly, with a glint in his eye.
He wanted the world to see.
By the time the murmuring crowd began comparing the man before them to the once-frail Davis of the tabloids, he was already striding toward the general elevator. Heads turned, mouths hung slightly open in disbelief.
He stepped inside leaving them gobsmacked.
In the elevator, Davis took a deep breath. Ethan stood beside him. Silence filled the space, accompanied by the soft hum of the elevator as it ascended to the top floor—"the Presidential Floor."
With a ding, the elevator announced its arrival. Whispers and arguments filtered through the slightly ajar doors. Davis paused.
Desmond’s voice echoed from inside, quieting the room. "Since we’re all here, there’s no need to wait anymore. We can proceed with the handover and official appointment."
The door opened, and Davis entered the conference room. A stunned silence fell over the space. Some people drew sharp breaths.
Some board members gasped audibly. One man’s coffee cup slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
"Davis’s voice rang out—cold, deliberate, laced with fire.
"Uncle," he said, "I believe you forgot... the appointment cannot proceed without me present."
Desmond froze, eyes locking with Davis’s. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Heat crawled up his neck. For a second, he looked like he might faint.
"No... impossible," he whispered, unaware the words had left his mouth, unaware that his words were loud enough for the shareholders to hear.
Around the table, shareholders exchanged glances.
From the moment Davis stepped into the boardroom, Vera had not taken her eyes off him. Several emotions surged through her.
Never did she expect that after leaving the Allen family months ago, the next time she’d see Davis, he would be standing tall—dashing, composed, and regal.
Gone was the man who needed help to get in and out of cars. Gone was the brooding, broken heir turned recluse. In his place stood a force—stronger, colder, but entirely in control.
She couldn’t help but marvel at Jessica. How had a girl from the countryside pulled off this kind of miracle? It amazed her.
She remembered how Desmond had tried to manipulate her, how he’d attempted to control her—but failed. Jessica had drawn her boundaries clearly, made her position known.
She was far stronger than anyone had given her credit for. But for Vera, it hurt to admit defeat in this way.
She clenched her fists beneath the table, jealousy and regret tightening in her throat.
A mocking smile curled on her lips. Fate had been merciless. She had questions—many—but no right to ask them.
She had thrown away that chance, shattered the trust, and now dared not hope for anything more. She only hoped Davis would leave the past buried.
Meanwhile, Aaron’s fists clenched tightly beneath the table. His expression twisted, as if he had swallowed something foul. Among all the outcomes he had imagined for the day, this was not one of them.
Not seeing or hearing from Davis these past months had brought him immense relief. He had reveled in being called "Young Master Aaron," with people at his feet and women hanging on his every word. Now, he couldn’t help but feel defeated.
Davis’s lips curled into a mocking smirk as he scanned the shocked expressions on his relatives’ faces. He wished he could freeze this moment—frame it as a gift to his wife, the one woman who had believed in him when no one else did.
"Uncle," Davis said, his voice like ice, "don’t you think you’re sitting in the wrong seat?"