All Chapters of My arranged marriage : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Emma Watson I didn’t sleep. Even after everything settled—the doctors’ assurances, Lucas’s steady breathing, Ray’s quiet confession—I couldn’t close my eyes. Every time I tried, I saw flashes. Blood on marble floors. Gunpowder in the air. Benita’s voice twisting around my thoughts like smoke. You're just another fool in Ray’s web. I stood barefoot on the balcony, the cool breeze brushing against my skin, the city lights flickering in the distance. Below, the world moved on—cars crawled through intersections, streetlights blinked through cycles, and lives continued, blissfully unaware of the storm we’d just survived. Behind me, Ray slept, finally. One arm draped over the empty side of the bed like he knew I’d be back. I wasn’t sure when I had fallen this deep, or if I ever had a choice in the first place. Ray Maverick wasn’t just a man—he was a gravity I couldn’t fight. But loving him came with scars. I pressed my hand over my heart, as if I could still feel the way it

Emma The silence after the storm is the loudest thing I’ve ever known. Ray’s penthouse is a mess of shattered glass, scorched walls, and the faint smell of smoke lingering like a ghost. The emergency team had come and gone, whisking Lucas away, confirming Moreau’s death, and declaring the place temporarily off-limits. But I stayed. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t walk away just yet. I stood in the center of the living room, barefoot on cold marble, my arms wrapped tightly around myself as if I could hold all the pieces of my world together just by sheer will. My phone buzzed incessantly with calls from the press, from my assistant, from numbers I didn’t recognize. I’d silenced it hours ago. There were more important things on my mind. Like how Ray hadn’t said a word since the ambulance took Lucas away. He stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to me, blood dried on the cuff of his shirt. The golden light of sunset spilled in through the broken glass, casting

Emma There were still mornings when I woke up expecting to find it all gone—the penthouse, the calm, Ray. Like I’d blink and be back in my old apartment, hunched over cold coffee, writing crime columns for a paper that didn’t care about the truth. But then I’d roll over, and he’d be there, arm draped around my waist, the smell of cedar and something darker—something distinctly him—filling the space between us. Today was one of those mornings. Ray had already slipped out of bed. I could hear him moving around the kitchen, probably making the strong coffee he claimed was “just enough to keep his sanity intact.” I sat up, pulled the sheets around me, and watched the sunlight filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Spring was starting to settle over New York. Trees bloomed cautiously in the park below, and people were beginning to trust the weather again. There was a new energy in the city—hopeful, tentative, like we were all just relearning how to live after a long winter.

Ray Maverick The smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. Cold. Clinical. Sterile—so unlike everything I felt churning inside. I stood at the far end of the hospital hallway, staring through the window into Lucas’s room. Machines beeped steadily, marking time in a rhythm that had become maddeningly familiar over the past forty-eight hours. He looked small in that bed—pale, bandaged, still. Too still. “You’re not bulletproof, you know,” Emma had said after the paramedics pulled us from the wreckage of that night. Neither was he. I flexed my hand, the knuckles still scraped and raw from the fight with Moreau. The bruises didn’t hurt as much as they should have. Maybe because I deserved every one of them. The door opened behind me, soft footsteps clicking against the tiles. I didn’t have to turn to know it was her. “Ray,” Emma said quietly. I turned slowly. Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, and dark circles shadowed her eyes. She hadn’t left the hospital sinc

Emma Watson When I woke up, Ray was still holding me. His arm was wrapped protectively around my waist, his breathing soft and even against the curve of my shoulder. The morning light filtered in through the tall windows, casting golden shadows across the sheets. There was a stillness in the air I hadn’t felt in weeks—maybe even months. A stillness that didn’t feel like danger or silence before the storm. It felt like peace. I turned my head slowly to watch him. His face was relaxed, younger somehow in sleep. The hard lines of tension that always lived between his brows had softened. His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, and I let myself synchronize with it. Just for a moment. We had survived. Not just the chaos and gunfire, not just Benita and Moreau and the ghosts of everything Ray had tried to bury—but the doubts. The fears. The slow, suffocating dread that we wouldn’t make it out of this whole. But we did. And now, somehow, we had to learn how to live again