All Chapters of You Are Mine : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

The interior of Lance’s office is a mirror of his soul. Dark, exquisite, intimidating. Black oak shelves stretch along the far wall, holding rows of leather-bound ledgers and files classified enough to topple companies. The floor is polished obsidian, reflecting faint streaks of lightning from the storm outside. The wide pane of glass, stretching from ceiling to floor, reveals the restless sea and the restless city beyond. Rain streams down in crooked rivers, muting the neon lights until the world itself feels smudged.The storm suits him.Lance sits behind his desk, posture straight but heavy with the kind of stillness that masks chaos. His shirt sleeves are rolled, veins standing against his forearms. A glass of whiskey rests untouched near his hand, though the amber liquid catches the occasional spark of lightning. He doesn’t drink tonight. He needs his mind sharp. But his eyes—those unreadable, glacial eyes—betray the storm inside.For weeks, he’s been living in silence, using the

Bianca’s perfume lingers even after the door clicks shut behind her, heavy and cloying, as though the sweetness is designed to suffocate. Lance doesn’t move for a long time. His gaze fixes on the glass of water pushed to the corner of his desk, the surface still and untouched. His fingers tap once, then stop, a small, sharp twitch that betrays his irritation.She had said what she came to say — the Great Vallerand wanted him tonight. But the message wasn’t what stayed with him. It was her eyes, that gleam of calculation. Bianca never entered a room without an agenda. He knew that. She played a game of seduction and manipulation with everyone she touched, even him. Especially him.“Apologies,” Lance murmurs at last, his voice low, cool, dismissing the distraction. He turns his head slightly toward Brandon, who has been waiting patiently with his laptop open on the polished black table. “Go on.”Brandon nods, the glow of the screen illuminating his focused face. He types swiftly, finger

The heavy oak doors close with a dull, final thud, and the sound reverberates in Lance’s chest like the echo of a verdict.Philippe Vallerand — the Great Vallerand — is gone.Lance sits perfectly still, his spine rigid, his hands resting against the polished surface of the table. The room feels colder now, though perhaps it’s only him, the shiver running beneath his skin. During the entire meeting, he has spoken only one word, a simple “Okay.”One syllable. That was all he could allow himself. Anything more, and his anger might have broken through.Now, with the man gone, Lance exhales, the breath shuddering out of him like smoke escaping a cracked chimney. It is not only frustration but also a strange, unwelcome relief. The meeting is over, for now. The storm has passed — but the storm will return.The next time he sees Philippe will be on his wedding day. His wedding, rearranged and accelerated, to take place in just one month. The thought makes his chest tighten, like invisible han

The silence in the mansion pressed down on him like a weight. Lance leaned against the polished oak door of his study before pushing it open, every step feeling heavier than the last. His chest ached with a pressure that no amount of composure could mask, not even from himself. For years he had disciplined his mind to shut down unnecessary emotions, to kill longing before it could take root. But tonight, that armor was cracked. Tonight, the tide of memory was stronger than his defenses.He closed the door behind him and dropped into the leather chair at the center of the study. His hand ran across the smooth mahogany desk, but instead of paperwork or strategy, his thoughts landed somewhere else entirely — on her. Adrianna. The one person who managed to exist in his world like a living contradiction: the embodiment of betrayal and yet the pulse of something he could not stop yearning for.His chair squeaked faintly as he twirled it side to side. He let the motion ground him, eyes fixed

The air smelled faintly of copper and rot. Wade sat in a leather chair that had long since lost its polish, one hand lazily twirling the remote control for the mounted television, the other drumming against his thigh in rhythm with his laughter. The screen glowed against the dim, underground walls of his hideout. On it: a live CCTV feed of LAX, its arrivals hall buzzing with hundreds of travelers. Businessmen with briefcases. Families dragging toddlers by the wrist. Backpackers yawning into their phones. And in the middle of the crowd, among faces blurred by pixelation and poor camera angles, were his men—Ace, Black, and three others—moving like sharks among minnows.Four feet to Wade’s left sat Dr. Samuel Reed, tied to a chair so tightly that the ropes had carved deep furrows into his arms. His shirt clung with sweat. His swollen face, mottled with bruises and caked blood, looked more like meat than skin. His right eye had collapsed into a red slit, but the left remained open, locked