All Chapters of Tangled Truths: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

Lucas deletes her number.Not just from his phone—but from every contact list, every emergency file, every server she's ever touched inside his empire. One click. One command. One clean break. The blue light of his monitor illuminates the harsh planes of his face as he watches her digital presence vanish from his life, bit by bit. The deletion progress bar crawls across the screen, each percentage point another severed connection.No more Flora Hawthorne.Not in his world.Not in his heart.He leans back in the leather chair behind his office desk, the expensive material creaking softly beneath his weight. Shadows pool around his features, carving deeper lines into his face than were there just weeks ago. Rain smears the cityscape outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, transforming the glittering metropolis into a watery impressionist painting. Droplets race down the glass, merging and splitting in their chaotic descent, mirroring the turmoil within him. The silence in his vast office

The boardroom is airless—silent but simmering with power. Thick oak walls mute the storm battering outside, rain hammering against bulletproof windows like desperate fingers seeking entrance. The real storm, however, brews within. Lucas Arden stands at the head of the polished mahogany table, arms crossed over his charcoal Armani suit, shoulders rigid with authority. His jaw tightens imperceptibly as Evangeline presents her latest pitch: a bold, aggressive acquisition that would cement his dominance in Southeast Asia."The Singaporean market is ripe," Evangeline says, her voice smooth silk, each word carefully threaded with logic and allure. She gestures toward the projection behind her, numbers glowing in blue light that illuminates her perfectly composed features. "We acquire Meridian Tech now, while their stock is artificially depressed, and within six months, your footprint expands by thirty percent across five countries."The board listens intently, eight of the most powerful exe

The abandoned estate on the city's outskirts stands like a forgotten monument to better days, cloaked in mist and history. Tendrils of fog curl around crumbling stone walls where stubborn vines reach skyward, nature slowly reclaiming what was once a testament to human opulence. Windows—once crystal clear and gleaming—are now clouded with grime and time, their glass panes fractured like spiderwebs, revealing nothing of the shadows that move within. Every creaking floorboard, every shifting shadow, every whisper of wind through broken eaves feels like secrets being exchanged between the past and present.Flora stands at the center of the decaying ballroom, her silhouette stark against the faded grandeur. She's dressed in unrelenting black—a tactical choice rather than one of mourning. The fabric is lightweight, allowing for quick movement, hugging her frame without restricting it. Her eyes, sharp and alert, scan the space methodically, cataloging every entrance, every shadow, every pote

Flora's wrists ache where they're bound to the iron chair, raw skin chafing against unyielding metal. The room is dim and sterile—some kind of underground bunker that hums faintly with dormant power. A single overhead light casts long, dancing shadows across her bloodied face, illuminating the dried crimson trails that map her determination.Her lip is split, tasting of copper and defiance. Her breath comes ragged, each inhale a reminder of the bruised ribs beneath her torn shirt.But her spirit—unbroken. Unbending. Unyielding as the chains that bind her.The silence of the room is heavy, oppressive, until the metallic chains clink behind her as the heavy door creaks open, scraping against concrete with a grating finality.Evangeline walks in, heels clicking like precise gunshots against the floor, each step a declaration of power. She's flawless even in this place designed for cruelty—her black suit unwrinkled, her dark hair swept into an immaculate chignon, red lips curved in cold s

The steady beep of the heart monitor punctuates the silence with methodical precision—a metronome marking the fragile passage of time. Each sound confirms life, yet the stillness between reminds Lucas how tenuous that confirmation remains.White walls. Pale light. Sterile stillness. The antiseptic scent of hope hanging by threads.Flora lies unconscious, her body motionless against starched hospital sheets, her face eerily peaceful—too peaceful for someone who has always burned with such fierce intensity. An oxygen tube curves gently beneath her nose, the clear plastic a stark contrast against her ashen skin. Her arm is hooked to an IV, the transparent liquid dripping steadily, delivering medicine and sustenance to a body that refuses to wake. Beneath the stark white bandages and mottled purple-yellow bruises spreading across her visible skin, she looks fragile. Unbreakable in spirit, but painfully, devastatingly human in flesh.Lucas sits beside her, occupying the same vinyl chair he