All Chapters of THE BILLIONAIRE HIDDEN SIN : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Daniel's POV The room was packed. Not just with my team, but with the entire company’s upper management, department heads, and even a handful of journalists lurking at the back, eager for the announcement they already suspected but hadn’t yet heard. I felt the weight of their eyes on me as I stood at the podium, the cold metallic surface pressing against my palms.I took a deep breath and looked out over the sea of faces, knowing that what I was about to say would change everything perhaps for the worst, perhaps for the best. I didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but in my line of work, honesty was the only option. The truth, however brutal, had to be faced.“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, my voice steady but tinged with a heaviness I couldn’t fully conceal. “Today, I am here to announce a difficult but necessary decision.”The room fell silent. I saw the subtle shifts in posture, the quick exchange of glances. Everyone knew this was coming Edwin’s name had been whispered abou

Certainly! Here is Chapter 94 from Daniel’s point of view, with a minimum of 1000 words:Daniel's POV The silence in my office is deafening. No phone calls, no emails, just the faint hum of the city outside my window and the pounding of my own thoughts. I stare at the wall, trying to keep my mind from spiraling, but the truth keeps creeping in an ugly, relentless truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks.Edwin’s confrontation in the rain haunted me. His eyes, his anger, his pain they all reflected my own. But beneath that, beneath the betrayal and the heartbreak, there’s something else I need to face. Something I’ve kept buried, even from myself.I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. I need to get this off my chest. I need to understand it, to own it. Because no matter how much I want to deny it, the plan was never just about protecting the company or exposing the truth. It was darker more manipulative than I ever wanted to admit.And I owe Edwin that much, at least.I remember the fi

Edwin's POV The days blur together in a haze of gray. I wake up each morning with a heavy weight pressing down on my chest, as if the air itself has thickened overnight turned dense with grief and disappointment, difficult to breathe, impossible to escape. The alarm never wakes me anymore because I never really sleep. I just drift in and out of a shallow, restless half-consciousness, suspended between the exhaustion of yesterday and the dread of another day I don't know how to fill.The apartment feels colder, emptier—like a tomb sealed shut by my own despair. The heating works fine; I checked. It isn't the temperature. It's something else entirely, a coldness that lives beneath the skin, in the marrow, in the space between one thought and the next. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the cracked ceiling, tracing the familiar fault lines with my eyes the way I have every morning for the past two weeks. I try to summon some semblance of hope, some small ember of the person I used

Edwin's POV The next morning, I wake up feeling numb, like my feelings have been drained away overnight, wrung out of me by the hours of dark and silence that followed my vigil on the couch. For a moment just a moment I don't remember. There is a brief, merciful gap between sleep and consciousness where the weight hasn't settled back yet, where I am just a person in a bed, in a room, blinking at the ceiling. Then it comes. The familiar rush of remembering, heavy and immediate, like a stone dropped into still water. The internship. The silence. The weeks that have blurred together into a single grey stretch of nothing.I lie still for a while, staring at the hairline crack that runs along the corner of the ceiling. I've memorized it in these past weeks. I know exactly where it starts, near the light fixture, and how far it travels before disappearing into the wall. It's a small, stupid thing to know. But this is what my mornings have become — an inventory of imperfections in the roo

Edwin's POV I am at my lowest point. Nothing remains but the hollow shell of who I was. No job, no purpose, no direction. Just a man drowning in his own grief and regret, treading water with arms that have grown too tired to keep moving, in an ocean that has long since stopped caring whether I sink or swim.I sit in the darkness of my apartment, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of my loneliness pressing down on me like a physical thing — like stone, like soil, like the lid of something I was never meant to be buried in. The silence is deafening. Not the peaceful silence of a quiet evening, not the comfortable silence shared between two people who no longer need words. This silence has teeth. It fills every corner of every room, settles into the cushions of the couch, pools beneath the door. It is the silence of absence. Of everything that used to be here that isn't anymore.The apartment itself feels like a museum exhibit dedicated to someone else's life. There are coffee