All Chapters of You Are Mine : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The boutique gleams like a palace. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, their light spilling onto polished marble floors that reflect the shimmer of diamonds and the soft sheen of Italian leather. The air is cool, perfumed with subtle notes of vanilla and oud, the kind of fragrance that whispers money and exclusivity.Bianca moves through the showroom like she owns it, and in a way, she does. Her heels click against the marble—measured, regal. Three sales attendants trail behind her, their postures straight, their smiles wide but cautious, as though they’re in the presence of royalty.“Madam, this is the latest Hermès Birkin, limited edition,” one of the attendants says, lifting a cream-colored bag reverently, as if afraid it might dissolve under too much touch. “Hand-stitched, imported from France, only five pieces released globally this season. The price is one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”Bianca doesn’t even glance at the price tag. She tilts her head, her manicured fingers

The silence between them hums like a live wire. Bianca exhales sharply, shaking her head. “Enough of this nonsense. I don’t need to listen to your sick fantasies.”Her fingers brush the door handle again, but Wade’s next words stop her cold:“You really should, Bianca. Unless you want me to tell Lance what you did to his brother.”Her whole body stiffens. For the first time in years, Bianca feels the blood drain from her face. Slowly, she turns back to him, her hands trembling in her lap. “What… Did you just say?”Wade’s smile is razor thin, cruel satisfaction etched into every line of his face. “Six years ago. German Vallerand. The golden son. The family’s pride. Your little secret, Bianca.”Her throat goes dry. The memory slams into her like a physical blow—German’s laugh, the night that went horribly wrong, the way she’d buried it so deep she convinced even herself it wasn’t real. And played the perfect role of a mourner. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispers, t

The room feels like a tomb.Victoria sits by the window, her body wrapped in a blanket that has stopped warming her long ago. The Houston mansion is a quiet monster, a beast that stalks her memory with every creak in the floorboards, every whisper behind the wallsVictoria moves through it like a ghost with a name. She no longer wears the careful elegance that used to be armor; now she favors loose sweaters and the same soft trousers, as if comfort could sew together whatever the world has torn from her. The nurses say she sleeps a lot, then wakes with that same blank expression — eyes that look out through the day rather than into it. It has been almost a month since she lost the baby; in that time the world has narrowed down to two rooms and one conversation: the slow, clinical rhythm of the hospital wing and the slow, predatory presence of Wade.He comes by rarely. Twice, in the early weeks, he has sat at the foot of her bed and read her the reports the doctors hand him, his voice

The flat-screen glows in Lance’s office, the host’s practiced smile radiating under the studio lights. Applause swells from the audience, sharp claps rolling like thunder. Wade and Victoria sit side by side on the plush cream sofa, framed by golden spotlights.Adrianna’s breath hitches. Her nails dig into the armrest of her chair, eyes wide and unblinking. Lance leans back in his seat, legs crossed, remote dangling loosely in his hand as if none of this matters.“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host beams, “today we have a very special couple. A family whose name is carved into the pillars of our society. Please welcome—Mr. Wade Carlisle and his beautiful wife, Victoria Houston!”The crowd erupts.Wade smirks, giving a casual wave like a king acknowledging loyal subjects. Victoria smiles too, lips trembling at the corners before settling into something camera-perfect. But Adrianna sees it instantly—the slight shake in her sister’s hands folded in her lap, the rapid blinking. She knows tho

The mall is alive in its usual chaos—bright lights pouring down from glass chandeliers, advertisements flashing across digital screens, and the endless chatter of footsteps and laughter echoing in the wide, open halls. Shoppers drift in and out of luxury boutiques, their arms weighed down with glossy bags; perfume lingers in the air, mixed with the smell of roasted coffee from a café nearby.But Bianca Giovanni doesn’t hear any of it.Her heels strike against the marble floor in clipped, purposeful steps. She moves through the crowd like a shadow, her head held high, her designer coat brushing elegantly at her knees. On the surface, she is the picture of a socialite, doing what she does best, shopping without care. But beneath the flawless mask, her chest tightens with each step. She knows Lance. She knows the way his world works, his reach, his influence, the men who answer to him. Nothing stays hidden forever.And if he discovers that Wade Houston dared approach her once, let alone