And now, standing in the same room with him, the fire reignited inside Marcos's chest. A quiet rage. A bitterness that had been boiling over time. The resentment wasn't about money or fame. It was personal. It was deep. And it was real.
He would never forgive Mark. Never, no matter how long it took, no matter the cost, if an opportunity ever came to bring Mark down, to make him lose, Marcus would seize it. Quietly. Calculated. But completely.
Yet in that moment, he said nothing. He didn't greet Mark. He didn't nod at him. He didn't even acknowledge his presence. He simply looked past him with a practiced air of detachment.
Then his eyes drifted to someone else in the room.
A woman standing quietly beside Mr. Zakaria's bed.
