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1. CAELEN IS KIDNAPPED
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2025-07-02 14:36:57CAELEN VALENTINE’S POV
Pain...
That’s all I feel.
A dull, soul-splitting kind of pain, dragging nausea up through my throat and crashing into my skull. The air is ice. It lashes my bare skin, each sting like a cold blade carving into me. And then— A blinding light. Focused. Hot. Cruel.I try to open my eyes. But all I see is darkness. Thick. Heavy. Infinite.
After what feels like forever, my vision sharpens—just enough to realize the horror.
I’m naked, strung upside down by thick jute rope, the fibers digging through my skin like thorns.
My body is a battlefield—bruised, scratched, covered in red and purplish welts. Like I fought a bear and lost. Badly.I squint into the blackness, trying to cut through it with my gaze.
And I feel him before I see him.Someone’s there. Watching me. Silent. Still.
But the weight of his gaze? It sends a cold crawl down my spine.“W-Who’s there?” I stammer, my voice shaking in the stillness.
Nothing.
“Who’s there?!” I ask again, stronger. But no response.
Then—
A flicker of flame. A cigar is lit.For a second, I catch a glimpse of the figure’s jaw—cut sharp like it was sculpted from stone. His lips curl into a dark smirk as the fire glows in the shadows.
He starts to walk toward me, smoke swirling around him. Cigar in his mouth. One hand in his pocket.As he steps into the light, I see his face fully.
And gods, I wish I hadn’t.Lucien Thorne.
To the surface world, he’s the celebrated heir to Thorne Industries, known for revolutionizing textiles and tech.
But to those who matter? He’s the true Godfather of the underground—ruthless, untouchable, and utterly emotionless.Rumor has it he never blinks. Never hesitates.
Even his own men call him “the Machine.”He stands at 6'5, massive, broad—like a god sculpted in iron and tailored in Armani.
Not that I’m short, but next to him? I feel like prey.I’ve heard women talk about him like he’s a walking fantasy.
And I get it now.Jet black eyes, devil-crafted bone structure, and a smile that makes you feel like sin.Even in agony, my heart does something stupid.
It skips.But behind all that beauty?
A monster. The kind you only read about in legends or see in nightmares. A man who’d kill you for breathing wrong.They don’t call him the Devil’s Heir for nothing.
As my brain scrambles for logic, he moves even closer—his face now inches from mine.
Just one shift and we’d recreate that infamous Spider-Man kiss.Except I’m not a superhero.
I’m a man about to be torn apart.And then—suddenly—I crash to the floor.
Mouth full of dirt and blood.Rope sliced.He must’ve cut me loose.
I writhe in agony.
Before I can move, he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanks me upright, drags me onto my knees.
The way he manhandled me, I am sure this man is into bdsm.
Brutal. Harsh. But Savagely handsome.
These words define him the best.
I scream.
Because I swear I felt every nerve tear.This man doesn’t hit.
He devours.“How dare you lay your filthy hands on my sister?”
His tone is nonchalant. Like he’s asking the time.Sister? What sister?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, voice trembling.
He just hums, takes another long puff of his cigar.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
His smirk grows.“You will. Very soon.”I’m doomed.
Whatever I’ve done—I'm about to pay for it.From behind him, a shadow moves.
One of his men—I assume—grabs me by the neck and drags me toward a steel tank filled to the brim.Water.
No.
No, no, no.Before I can struggle, my head is shoved down.
Submerged.I flail—panicking, choking.
My lungs scream for air.“Enough.”
Lucien’s voice slices through the chamber.The man lets go instantly.
I collapse, coughing, gasping, trembling on the floor.
Lucien crouches down beside me.
Too close again. His eyes burn like black fire.“Now you remember my sister?”
The words are razor-sharp.I nod.
Barely.Because yes—now I remember her.
FLASHBACK
Two months ago.
A club.It was called Dark Vibe—fitting name for a place dripping in smoke, neon, and sin.
The music was loud. The people wilder.Everyone was high on something—lust, alcohol, maybe both.
I sat in the corner, drowning in whiskey, freshly dumped by my ex.
She left me for my so-called best friend, Rayan.
The bastard.Maybe it was always in the cards.
Maybe she had eyes for him all along.I didn’t care.
I just wanted to forget.And then—I saw her.
A gorgeous girl, early twenties, wearing a black dress so short it didn’t bother pretending.
Cleavage on display, hips that didn’t lie, and a quiet storm behind her eyes.She sat beside me.
Ordered a whiskey on the rocks.Power move. I liked it.
Even through my haze, I noticed her light honey eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Hey, beautiful,” I said, flashing my best charming grin.
“Can I buy you a drink?”She turned her head. Calm. Controlled.
“No, thanks. I’m good. Just enjoying the music.”
Playing hard to get?
“Mind if I enjoy it with you? Maybe we could dance?” I pressed.
“I don’t know… I’m not really a dancer.” She hesitated.
“Then may I have the honor of teaching you, my lady?”
She chuckled.I was in.
We danced. We laughed.
Drinks flowed. Touches lingered. Heat rose.Eventually—we tumbled into bed.
It was intense.
Raw. Wild. No limits.No names.
No regrets.But when I woke up—
She was gone.
No number.
No goodbye. Just sheets that smelled like her.And now?
I’m here.Bruised. Beaten. Broken.And I finally know who she was.
Aria Thorne.
Lucien Thorne’s sister.
And I?
I’m the idiot who touched what was forbidden.
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MY BROTHER-IN-LAW 127. WHY DON'T YOU PAY WITH YOUR BODY?
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MY BROTHER-IN-LAW 126. DRUNK
LIAM MARTIN'S POVThe villa was silent when we got back. The kind of silence that wraps itself around your shoulders and makes you feel a little too aware of your own breathing. My head was already buzzing from the drinks at the club, but for some reason, I wasn’t ready to stop. The city lights still glimmered beyond the balcony, and the night felt too alive to surrender to sleep.I tossed my jacket over the couch and walked straight to the bar, pulling out a bottle I probably shouldn’t have been touching at this hour. The expensive kind, the kind Grayson always drinks with purpose, never for pleasure. He stood near the doorway, his tie loosened, his shirt cuffs rolled, looking at me like I’d just committed some minor sin.“You’ve had enough,” he said, his voice that familiar mix of authority and disinterest. Not angry, just… assessing.“Enough for who?” I muttered, already pouring the amber liquid into two glasses. “Come on, Pittman. Don’t be a bore tonight.”For a moment, I thought
MY BROTHER-IN-LAW 125. GRAYSON'S ENTRY
LIAM MARTIN'S POVThe private room’s door opened before we reached it. Two men stepped out, pale with the kind of fear that wears expensive shoes. They slipped past us muttering promises to improve. Inside, Namgyu lounged on a low couch like he’d invented comfort and licensed it. Dark suit, shirt open, a chain at his throat catching little moons of light. When he saw Sierra, his whole face changed, the posture of his mouth shifting from predator to man.“My wife,” he said, standing, voice like velvet cut on glass. She went to him without hesitation. He took her in with his eyes first, then his hands, as if to confirm the shapes matched. When his gaze flicked to me, the warmth didn’t vanish; it cooled. Not unkind. Appraising.“Liam Miller, Uhh Martin i mean.” he said. “You look like a trouble i am going to face soon.”“Definitely not responsible,” I replied, and earned myself a laugh.He poured drinks himself, which is how you know a king is in a good mood. “To art & my love,” he said
MY BROTHER-IN-LAW 124. KIM NAMGYU
LIAM MILLERSierra’s fork hovered in midair like a threat. “You’ve heard of the organization, right?” she said, low enough that the candle between us flickered like it understood secrets. “The one everyone pretends doesn’t exist but somehow makes half the city behave? Leader’s name is Grayson Pittman.”My appetite evaporated so fast the steam off my pasta looked offended. “Never heard of him,” I lied, twirling noodles anyway like performance art.She leaned in, eyes bright. “They say he sits at the top like a beautiful guillotine. That he’ll smile at you while you talk and by dessert you’ll be missing a piece of yourself. There’s a rumor about a guy who lied in a deal. Came back without a tongue. Another one about a pit in his mansion. People go in. Don’t come out. Someone said he fed a traitor his own hand.” She shivered. “Pure psycho.”The meatball on my fork suddenly looked like evidence. “Fantastic dinner talk.” I swallowed hard enough to bruise my pride. “You’re ruining marinara
MY BROTHER-IN-LAW 123. THE KILLER PAST
LIAM MARTIN'S POVThe pan hissed as the butter melted, thick and slow. My knife moved on its own—slice, scrape, drop—while my head wandered somewhere I wished it wouldn’t. That’s the curse of a quiet house: too much room for ghosts.Grayson Pittman was here tonight. Rare thing. Usually, the mansion just held his echo—meetings, flights, calls that never stopped. Lately, with Caisen in the mix, they were tearing themselves thin trying to leash a kingdom that didn’t want a leash. From what Conrad said, it was like herding wolves with a gold thread. Alliances where there used to be vendettas. Powerhouses who once spat in each other’s shadows now clinking glasses over the same table. Only those two could pull that off—Grayson with his cold precision, Caisen with that simmering steel in his veins.But all I could think about, standing there with garlic stinging my fingers, was how none of this started clean. Not for him. Not for me.I was seven when I met him. He was thirteen—already taller
MY BROTHER-IN-LAW 122. KIM SEIRRA
LIAM MARTIN'S POVThe cursor blinked at me like it knew I was a fraud. Ten chapters in, and my manhwa already felt like it was circling the drain. Not exactly the dazzling debut I had pictured when I signed that contract. The comments section was a battlefield of “The story's bland” and “No spice, could be better,” sprinkled with a few dagger-sharp reviews that still managed to live rent-free in my head. I pretended they didn’t bother me. They did. I was mid-sulk when my phone started vibrating across the desk like it had a personal vendetta against my coffee mug. I glanced at the screen: Kim Seirra.I swiped to answer. “Seirra. To what do I owe this disruption to my artistic misery?”“Liam! You sound like you just got evicted,” she chirped, her voice annoyingly bright for someone who probably had a functioning serotonin supply. “Are you working?”“I was, if you can call staring at an empty panel ‘working’,” I said, spinning in my chair until the room blurred. “What’s up? Did your
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