Claiming His Heart (English Version)

Chapter 7

The boardroom was a battlefield, though no swords clashed and no blood spilled. The war here was fought with suits, polished shoes, and the weight of a family name that had carved its mark into the city’s skyline.

And today, the battle ended with a coronation.

“From this day forward,” Alexander Anderson declared, his deep voice carrying like a judge’s verdict, “My son, Drake Anderson, will serve as the new Chief Executive Officer of Anderson Group.”

The words struck like the ringing of a ceremonial bell. A wave of polite applause rolled through the room. Some clapped with genuine respect, others with cautious reluctance, and a few with the kind of forced enthusiasm that came from people who knew they had just lost power.

Drake rose from his seat at the far end of the long mahogany table. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a tailored black suit that sharpened his already severe presence. His expression was unreadable, his eyes steady and unflinching.

He didn’t need to speak loudly; his voice carried naturally, quiet but certain, like someone who had never needed to beg for attention.

“Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother. And to the members of the board, don’t worry. I won’t let the Anderson Group falter. We’ll rise higher, stronger, and sharper than ever before.”

Miranda’s smile was subtle but proud, the kind of smile only a mother who saw her child achieve his destiny could wear. Alexander gave a firm nod, satisfied.

And just like that, the crown was set upon Drake’s head. Invisible, but heavy all the same.

That night, the Majestic Club pulsed with music and neon lights.

Drake and his circle had taken over the VIP lounge, a glass-walled space overlooking the dance floor below where bodies swayed to the rhythm of the night. Waiters wove through the crowd, bringing bottle after bottle to their table.

“To the new king!” Leandro shouted, standing on the couch and nearly spilling champagne on Gary’s shoes.

“To the king!” the others echoed, raising their glasses in a noisy chorus.

Drake raised his own glass lazily, smirking. “Careful with that word. ‘King’ sounds like too much responsibility.”

“Says a man who just inherited billions,” Gary shot back. “You’re thirty years old, CEO of a multinational empire. That’s the dream. My dream.” He took a long swig of his drink and sighed dramatically. “Why wasn’t I born an Anderson?”

“Because fate loves me more,” Drake said dryly, sipping his whiskey.

Leandro slung an arm around him. “If you weren’t my friend, Anderson, I’d hate your guts. Thirty and already CEO? Meanwhile, I can’t even keep a girlfriend for more than three months.”

The group burst into laughter.

All night, women in glittering dresses drifted toward Drake like moths drawn to fire. Some offered their congratulations, slipping their numbers into his hand, brushing their fingers against his arm. Others didn’t bother with subtlety, leaning close and whispering suggestions that promised heat and forgetfulness.

Drake declined them all with the same calm smile. Polite. Distant. Untouchable.

He wasn’t here for pleasure. He wasn’t here for warmth. He was here to drink, to celebrate the crown that had finally been placed on his head, and maybe to remind himself that he was untouchable, that nothing, not even loneliness, could touch him.

Hours later, the lounge quieted. The bottles were half-empty, the ashtrays littered, the laughter thinning into tired chuckles.

Drake slipped away to the balcony, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. The city stretched beneath him, a thousand lights flickering like stars caught in glass.

It should have felt like victory. Like triumph. Like destiny fulfilled.

Instead, it felt like iron. Heavy. Cold.

He inhaled deeply, exhaled smoke into the night, and muttered to himself, “King of nothing.”

Morning came, sharp and unforgiving.

Drake returned to his penthouse expecting silence, but silence was the last thing he got.

“Seriously?” Miranda’s voice echoed through the living room. She stood there in a silk blouse, looking glamorous even before noon, her arms crossed in disapproval. “You didn’t even call us to celebrate last night? Not even a dinner with your parents?”

“I was celebrating,” Drake said, loosening his tie as he kicked the door shut. “At Majestic. With friends.”

“With friends who can’t give you a future,” Alexander said, emerging from the kitchen with a mug of coffee. His voice was as sharp as the morning light cutting through the glass windows.

Drake groaned. “Oh, here we go…”

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” Miranda scolded, stepping closer. “Do you think we don’t notice? You’re alone. You always come home alone. No wife. No children. No one to keep you from drowning in work.”

“I’m thirty, not eighty,” Drake countered, tossing his jacket over the couch. “Why are you both acting like I’m about to expire?”

“Because legacy matters,” Alexander said firmly. “You’re the CEO now. But a king isn’t complete without a queen. You need someone beside you. Stability. A family. Heirs.”

“Or maybe,” Miranda cut in slyly, “you’re avoiding love altogether. Do you even remember what it feels like, Drake? To care for someone? To let them care for you?”

Drake froze. His jaw tightened. He didn’t answer.

Miranda’s tone softened. She reached out, her hand resting gently on his arm. “Son, don’t shut it out when it finally comes. Love has a way of slipping through even the toughest defenses. When it happens, don’t push it away.”

His chest ached faintly, the words pricking at scars he thought had long since healed.

Finally, he sighed. “Fine. If it happens, it happens. But don’t expect me to go chasing it. I’m not built for fairytales.”

Alexander grinned, satisfied enough. “That’s all we ask. Just don’t let her go when she comes.”

Drake shook his head, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You two really won’t give me peace, will you?”

“Never,” Miranda said sweetly. “Not until you give us grandchildren.”

That evening, Drake sat alone in the penthouse once more.

The city sparkled outside his window, but the crown on his head felt heavier with every passing minute.

The whiskey burned in his throat, but it didn’t warm the emptiness.

Somewhere across the city, a woman named Lucy Cordova was probably laughing about something absurd, praying to the universe for a man to finally fall into her lap.

And if fate had its way, their worlds were about to collide.