Semua Bab You Are Mine : Bab 91 - Bab 100

The scent of cedarwood polish and faint cologne hangs in the air as Lance Vallerand stands inside one of Los Angeles’ most exclusive tailoring houses. The shop, known among the elite simply as Leclair’s, is more sanctuary than storefront. Its walls gleam with dark walnut panels, the lighting soft but precise, falling over rows of bespoke suits in muted grays, midnight blues, and obsidian blacks. Confidentiality is the cornerstone of this place; no paparazzi, no gossip. Men like Lance come here not only for perfection in their attire but for the assurance that what happens here will never slip into the outside world.The tailor himself, Marcel Leclair, is a man in his late fifties. He is compact, precise in movement, with a thin frame that seems designed for efficiency. His face is lined, not from weariness, but from years of intense concentration, his gray hair combed back neatly, his glasses sitting firmly on the bridge of his nose. Marcel has clothed men who ruled industries, politi

The dining room holds its breath after Lance’s words.His tone had been firm, colder than the silverware glinting beneath the chandelier, and for a brief second it seems even the maids standing in their poised line at the wall stop breathing. The only sound is the faint clink of crystal, the shimmer of firelight reflecting across golden cutlery.Great Vallerand does not move immediately. His fork rests neatly on his plate, the lines of his face as hard as marble. His silence is not weakness—it is power. He lets it weigh over the table until the air thickens with discomfort. When he does speak, his voice cuts through like a blade sliding from its sheath.“You speak of business,” Great Vallerand says, his French accent clipped, his tone measured but carrying a resonance that fills every corner of the room. “But you forget, Lance… family is also business. Legacy is business. Do not mistake the two as separate.”Lance’s jaw flexes. “Marriage is not a contract, not a boardroom deal. It is

The roar of the jet’s engines faded into the salt-heavy air as the Vallerand jet touched down on the sleek runway of Malé International Airport. The humid wind rushed in the moment the aircraft doors opened, warm and fragrant with the scent of seaweed, coconuts, and brine.The world here was a painting come to life. The sky glistened like polished glass, its deep blue horizon cradling the ocean below. The sea fractured into a thousand shades of turquoise and emerald, jeweled with sunlit ripples and dotted with islands the size of pearls. White sand gleamed in the distance, impossibly pristine, as if untouched by time.Paradise. A word whispered in glossy travel brochures. But for those descending the jet stairs, paradise was an illusion, a stage where unspoken dramas were about to unfold.Lance was the first to step down, his tall frame cutting a figure of absolute control. Dark sunglasses concealed the storm in his eyes, but inside, he was boiling. His jaw flexed once as he scanned t

The sun hangs high, blazing gold against the endless blue sky. The water sparkles like liquid glass, every wave breaking into diamonds beneath its light. Around the lagoon, the group is alive with laughter, splashing, and the occasional shriek of excitement as someone dives beneath the clear surface to chase after the fish swimming in bursts of color.Bianca is the loudest of them all, her laughter carrying over the water, her hair catching the sun. She dives and resurfaces like a child unburdened, her smile as wide as the horizon. Adrian is beside her most of the time, teasing, racing her through the reef, and pulling her into little water fights. Their sibling energy fills the air, infectious, keeping everyone smiling.Everyone except Adrianna.She sits on the shore, legs stretched forward, the fine white sand soft and cool beneath her hands. Her bikini is modest compared to Bianca’s, her cover-up lying forgotten beside her. She stares out at the water, at the endless stretch of blu

Adrian’s gaze lingers on her, steady yet unbearably sad. His eyes, usually warm and filled with a quiet strength, now look hollow, as if some part of him has been stripped away.Adrianna grips the blanket tighter, her knuckles white. She cannot bear the way he is looking at her, as though he is the one guilty, as though her mistake has wounded him more deeply than herself.“Adrian…” her voice cracks, fragile. “I… I don’t even know what to say. I…”He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his broad shoulders hunched under the weight of the moment. For a long time, he does not speak. When he finally does, his tone is soft, careful, but it trembles at the edges.“Don’t say anything yet,” he murmurs. “Don't do anything yet. Don’t decide tonight. Don’t decide tomorrow. Just… breathe. One breath at a time.”She blinks, startled. “But—”He raises a hand gently, not to silence her, but to reassure. “I know what you’re thinking. What does this mean? What Lance will say… what everyo