Chapter 6 The Explosion of Revenge

# Chapter 6: The Explosion of Revenge

Morning light filtered through my blinds, casting stripes across Damon's sleeping form. I studied him in the quiet dawn—the bruises on his face more evident now, purple and yellow against his skin. What had happened during those days he'd disappeared? And why wouldn't he tell me?

His eyes opened suddenly, catching me watching him. Even half-asleep, his gaze was intense.

"How long have you been awake?" he asked, voice rough with sleep.

"A while." I traced a finger lightly over the cut above his eyebrow. "Are you going to tell me where you really were?"

He caught my hand, pressing a kiss to my bandaged knuckles. "Confronting my father."

"About?"

"Everything. The company. His illegal dealings." His jaw tightened. "You."

I sat up, pulling the sheet around me. "What about me?"

"He knows about us. Has known for a while." Damon's expression darkened. "He doesn't approve."

"I gathered that from our meeting."

"No," Damon shook his head, "it's worse than that. He sees you as a threat to his control over me. Over the company."

A chill ran down my spine. "What did he say?"

Damon sat up, the sheet pooling around his waist. "He gave me an ultimatum. End things with you, or he'd make sure you regretted ever hearing the name Whitlock."

"That's why you disappeared? To protect me?"

"Partly." His eyes met mine. "I also needed time to put certain safeguards in place. Financial transfers, security measures."

"You think he'd actually hurt me?" The concept seemed absurd—a corporate executive resorting to violence over his son's relationship.

Damon's laugh was hollow. "You still don't understand who my father is. What he's capable of."

Before I could respond, my phone rang. Charlotte.

"I have to take this," I told him, reaching for my phone. "It's my editor."

Her voice was tense when I answered. "Where are you? The board meeting started twenty minutes ago."

"What board meeting?"

"The emergency one. About your Victor Whitlock piece." She sounded incredulous. "Didn't you get my messages? They're deliberating whether to publish."

I glanced at my phone—six missed calls, all from Charlotte. I'd been too wrapped up in Damon to notice.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes," I promised, already sliding out of bed.

"Make it twenty," she replied before hanging up.

Damon watched me rush around the apartment, gathering clothes. "What's happening?"

"The board's meeting about my article on your father." I pulled on jeans and searched for a presentable blouse. "They're nervous about publishing it."

"They should be." He rose from the bed, unself-conscious in his nakedness. "My father won't go down without a fight."

I paused, one arm in my sleeve. "Will you come with me? Your testimony could make the difference."

He hesitated, then nodded. "I'll meet you there. There's something I need to handle first."

Forty minutes later, I stood before The Metropolitan's board—eight stern-faced men and women who held the fate of my career in their hands.

"Ms. Collins," the chairwoman began, "while your article is compelling, the legal department has raised serious concerns about publishing such accusations against someone as powerful as Victor Whitlock."

"Every claim is substantiated," I argued. "Multiple sources, documentation, financial records—"

"Obtained how?" another board member interrupted. "There are questions about your methods, Ms. Collins. And your relationship with Damon Whitlock creates a significant conflict of interest."

I felt my face flush. "My personal life has no bearing on the journalistic integrity of this piece."

"Doesn't it?" The chairwoman's gaze was penetrating. "You're romantically involved with the son of your subject, a man who stands to gain considerably if his father is discredited."

Charlotte, seated nearby, shot me a sympathetic look but remained silent. This was my battle to fight.

"The story stands on its own merits," I insisted. "Victor Whitlock has engaged in illegal business practices that have hurt countless people. The public deserves to know."

"And what about your own credibility?" another board member asked. "Victor Whitlock's lawyers have already contacted us, claiming you're being manipulated by his son as part of a corporate power struggle."

The boardroom doors opened then, and Damon strode in. He'd transformed from the disheveled man in my bed to the immaculate businessman I'd first met, though the bruises on his face remained visible.

"I apologize for interrupting," he said smoothly, "but I believe I can address some of your concerns."

The board members exchanged glances. The chairwoman nodded for him to continue.

"Everything in Ms. Collins's article about my father is true," Damon stated. "I know because I witnessed much of it firsthand. And yes, I provided some of the documentation—not to manipulate the narrative, but because I believe in corporate transparency and accountability."

"Even when it damages your own family's reputation?" someone asked skeptically.

"Especially then." Damon's voice was firm. "The Whitlock name should stand for integrity, not corruption. My father lost sight of that a long time ago."

For the next hour, Damon fielded questions from the board, his responses measured and compelling. I watched him in admiration—this was Damon in his element, commanding the room with an authority that seemed effortless.

By the end, the mood had shifted. The chairwoman called for a vote, and the result was unanimous: the article would run, with additional legal review but no substantive changes.

Outside the boardroom, Charlotte squeezed my arm. "That was impressive. Both of you."

"Thank you for standing by the piece," I said.

"It's good journalism." She glanced at Damon, who was speaking with the legal counsel. "Just... be careful. This story is going to make powerful enemies."

She didn't know how right she was.

The article ran the following Monday. By noon, it was the most-read piece in The Metropolitan's digital history. By evening, Victor Whitlock's lawyers had filed a defamation lawsuit against both me and the magazine.

"Don't worry," Damon assured me that night as we watched the coverage on his penthouse television. "Our legal team will handle it. The suit is just for show—he knows the evidence is solid."

I wasn't so sure. The stress of the past weeks had worn me down, and now the prospect of a protracted legal battle loomed ahead.

"What if he wins?" I asked quietly. "What if he destroys my career, the magazine?"

Damon pulled me closer on the sofa. "He won't. I won't let him."

His certainty should have been comforting. Instead, it unsettled me. The intensity of his protection, his willingness to burn down his own family name—it was both thrilling and terrifying.

"There's something you're not telling me," I said, studying his face. "About your confrontation with him. About the bruises."

Damon was silent for a long moment. "He sent men to follow you," he finally said. "The day after our fight at the club. They were instructed to... send a message."

My blood ran cold. "What kind of message?"

"The kind that would ensure you stayed away from me." His eyes darkened with barely controlled rage. "I intercepted them before they reached you."

"You fought them?" I whispered, imagining Damon facing down hired thugs.

"I did what was necessary." His voice was chillingly calm. "Then I went to my father directly."

I could barely process what he was telling me. "Victor hired people to hurt me?"

"To scare you off. Yes." Damon's hand tightened around mine. "That's when I knew I had to cut all ties with him. Completely and permanently."

The next day brought more fallout. Victor appeared on a financial news program, denouncing the article as "fiction" and me as a "vindictive journalist with a personal agenda." He hinted at my relationship with Damon, suggesting I'd been "compromised" both professionally and personally.

Worse, he announced a shareholder meeting to discuss Damon's future at Whitlock Industries, citing "erratic behavior and questionable judgment."

"He's trying to force you out," I realized as we watched the interview.

"Let him try." Damon's smile was cold. "I've been preparing for this showdown for years."

The shareholder meeting was scheduled for Friday morning. Damon spent the days leading up to it in constant motion—making calls, attending private meetings, barely sleeping. I watched him transform before my eyes, his focus narrowing to a laser point, his usual intensity magnified tenfold.

"You don't have to come tomorrow," he told me Thursday night. "It will be ugly."

"I'll be there," I insisted. "We're in this together."

His expression softened momentarily, and he pulled me into a fierce kiss. "Together," he agreed when we broke apart.

Friday dawned bright and clear. The meeting was held at Whitlock Industries' headquarters, a gleaming skyscraper in Midtown. Security was tight, with reporters gathered outside hoping for glimpses of the warring Whitlocks.

As Damon's guest, I was seated near the back of the boardroom. Victor sat at the head of the table, projecting confidence, but I could see the strain around his eyes. Damon took the seat directly opposite his father.

The tension in the room was palpable as the meeting was called to order. Financial reports were presented, showing a sharp decline in stock value since the article's publication.

Victor seized on this. "As you can see, my son's vendetta against me—carried out through his journalist girlfriend—has cost this company millions already."

Murmurs spread through the room. Damon remained expressionless.

"Furthermore," Victor continued, "his behavior has become increasingly erratic. Disappearing for days, physical altercations, an inappropriate relationship with a reporter covering our company—these are not the actions of someone fit to lead Whitlock Industries."

I watched Damon carefully, waiting for his defense. But when he finally spoke, it wasn't what anyone expected.

"My father is right about one thing," Damon said, his voice carrying effortlessly through the room. "I am not fit to lead Whitlock Industries—at least, not as it currently exists."

He stood, buttoning his suit jacket. "For years, I've watched my father corrupt everything our family once stood for. I've tried to work within the system to effect change. That was my mistake."

Victor's face darkened. "Damon—"

"I'm not finished." Damon's tone was icy. "Two days ago, I leveraged my personal holdings to acquire controlling interests in our three largest subsidiaries. This morning, I filed paperwork to separate them from the parent company."

Gasps and shocked whispers filled the room. Victor half-rose from his chair, his face contorted with rage.

"You can't do that!"

"I already have." Damon's smile was razor-sharp. "You taught me well, Father. Always strike where they least expect it."

What followed was financial carnage. Damon methodically outlined how he'd orchestrated Victor's downfall—redirecting key clients, securing support from board members, preparing for this moment for years.

By the meeting's end, Whitlock Industries' stock was in freefall. Victor, stripped of his CEO title by an emergency board vote, stormed from the room.

Outside, reporters swarmed as we emerged. Damon, surprisingly, stopped to address them, pulling me to his side.

"Mr. Whitlock, is it true you've essentially dismantled your father's company?" a reporter called out.

"I've saved it," Damon corrected. "By removing the cancer that was destroying it from within."

"And what about the allegations of your relationship with Ms. Collins influencing her reporting?"

Damon's arm tightened around my waist. "Ms. Collins is a journalist of the highest integrity. Her reporting stands on its own merits." He paused, his eyes finding mine. "As for our relationship—yes, it's true. And I want to be absolutely clear about something."

He turned back to the sea of cameras and microphones. "I destroyed my family's legacy, cut ties with my own father, and reorganized a multi-billion dollar corporation—all for her. To stand beside her." His voice carried clear and strong. "I would burn it all down again without hesitation."

The declaration, broadcast live across financial networks, sent shockwaves through the business world. But in that moment, looking into Damon's eyes, I saw the truth behind his words—the absolute conviction, the terrifying devotion.

He had promised to destroy everything for me. And he had kept that promise.