All Chapters of His Betrayal, My Redemption: Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

169 RONAN The text wouldn’t leave my head. My wife’s name glared at me from Brandon’s phone like a cruel tease. Ivana and I… hurry… followed by an address. My heart raced with every passing second. I didn’t even care if it was a trap. If there was even a sliver of hope that Dahlia had reached out to me, I had no choice but to go. “Let’s move,” I ordered firmly, rushing into the house and grabbing a hand gun I'd tucked away for a while now. Sliding into the driver’s seat once I got outside before Brandon could argue further. He shot me a worried look. “Ronan, think about it. This could be Kennedy. He could’ve sent this himself.” I gripped the steering wheel, jaw tightening. “And what if it isn’t? What if Dahlia risked everything to get this out to us, and we’re wasting time doubting it?” Silence. Brandon said nothing more, only slid into the passenger seat, his face etched with the same desperation I felt. The drive was suffocating. Every turn of the tires, every road we

chapter 174 RONAN The smoke stung my lungs, each breath dragging fire down my throat. My vision blurred, ears ringing from the gunfire and the hiss of the canisters. “Ronan!” Brandon’s voice cut through the haze, rough, urgent. I coughed hard, staggering along, gun still in my grip. “Here!” A shadow loomed through the smoke. Brandon, waving me down, his shirt smeared with dust and blood. He grabbed my arm, dragging me toward the ladder. “We have to move! They’ll circle back once the smoke clears!” "It's obvious, Dahlia is not here. I honestly do not think Kennedy knows about her whereabouts." I wanted to stay. Wanted to hunt Kennedy down in that choking fog until my bullets tore through his chest. But my shoulder throbbed, my lungs burned, and Dahlia wasn’t here. He had made sure of that. Clenching my jaw, I followed him down the ladder. The warehouse was chaos, bodies sprawled across the floor, bullet casings scattered like dead insects. Smoke curled in thick ribbon

Chapter 176 KENNEDY My men thought they were fast. They weren’t. By the time they reported back, the women had already slipped through their fingers. Amateurs. That was the problem with sending boys to do a man’s work. Tey celebrated too early and stumbled at the first real challenge. I moved quicker than the rest, my steps silent, my mind sharper. The air reeked of panic, and I knew panic when I smelled it. Dahlia was close. She had to be. “Any updates?” I asked, not slowing. The man at my side swallowed hard. “They’re in the west wing. Hiding. But…” I stopped. Just stopped walking. He almost ran into me, then froze when he realized his mistake. “But what?” I asked, my voice low. “There’s another man. We can’t confirm yet, but he fights like he’s trained. Could be Knight’s.” A grin tugged at my mouth. “Good. The more the merrier.” Because Knight’s men were loyal. Loyal men made interesting corpses. I pulled my gun free, turning it lazily in my hand. “Stay bac

Chapter 178KENNEDYThe west wing smelled of rot and dust. A fitting place to cage fragile things.I led them inside, gun steady, their shoulders brushing against the peeling walls. Neither spoke, though Ivana’s defiance simmered like heat off stone. Dahlia’s silence was brittle—every step she took could’ve been her last, and she knew it.I enjoyed watching them walk into the dark, as though the shadows themselves swallowed them.“Stop,” I said finally.They froze.The room was wide, windows boarded, moonlight leaking only in thin cracks. The air was heavy with the stench of neglect. My boots echoed as I circled them slowly, my shadow dragging across their faces.“This will do.”I motioned to my men, who had been waiting at the edge of the doorway, guns ready, faces unreadable. “Lock it down. No one comes in or out unless I say so.”“Yes, sir.”They moved quickly, barring the exits, sealing the space with boards and chains like a tomb. I watched the twins’ faces as they realized just

Chapter 180KENNEDYThe cold bit deeper as I stepped out into the corridor. Concrete walls. Iron doors. The smell of damp. Most men hated places like this. They called them cages, tombs, reminders of death.To me, it was theater.Every echo of my boots, every creak of rusted hinges, was music. Every locked door was a stage curtain waiting to be pulled back. And behind this curtain, my unwilling audience.I lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the stale dark, and let the smoke curl slow and easy into the air. Every drag sharpened the silence, made the world bend around the sound of my breath.Behind the thick steel, the sisters were quiet. They thought silence was safety. But I didn’t need to hear them to know what was happening.Dahlia, crying in silence, trying to make herself smaller, her shoulders curled inward, clinging to her sister like a child.Ivana, pacing, biting her tongue until it bled, wrapping herself in that brittle armor she called strength, glaring into sh