The CEO'S SECRET BRIDE のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 161 - チャプター 170

Carson sat alone in his office, the blinds half-closed, a bottle of whiskey beside him. The room smelled of alcohol and stale air. Papers were scattered across the desk, some stained with drops of amber liquid. His phone buzzed again, but he didn’t pick it up. He knew who it was—his mother, or maybe the company lawyer. He didn’t want to hear another lecture.He poured himself another glass, his hand slightly shaking. The first sip burned down his throat, but he didn’t care. It dulled the noise in his head—the voices, the news, the blame.The McCoy family’s downfall was everywhere now. The newspapers called it “The Fall of the Golden Empire.” The TV anchors spoke his name like it was a curse. His business partners avoided his calls. His friends stopped replying to his messages.The phone buzzed again. This time, it was a video call from Victoria. He sighed and pressed the answer button. Her face appeared, sharp and furious.“Carson, where are you?” she demanded.“In my office,” he s

Anabelle walked into the grand lobby of the Crestview Towers with calm confidence. The building was one of the tallest in the city, and now it was about to become one of her biggest projects. Her heels clicked softly against the marble floor as she moved, holding her tablet close. Workers greeted her respectfully, and some paused to listen for her next instruction.“Make sure the chandeliers align exactly with the center of the lounge tables,” she said, pointing toward the ceiling. “I don’t want even a two-inch difference.”“Yes, ma’am,” one of the workers replied quickly.She turned to another. “And those wall panels — the beige one should be replaced with the cream shade we discussed yesterday. The light will bounce better on that.”“Got it,” he said.Anabelle smiled faintly. She loved this — the sound of hammers, the smell of paint, the sight of people working together to build something beautiful from her imagination. It made every late night and every doubt worth it.Her phone b

Carson sat slouched on the edge of his couch, an empty glass dangling loosely from his fingers. The living room around him was dim and messy—half-empty bottles lined the table, old newspapers scattered across the floor. The television flickered quietly in front of him, the only light in the room.He wasn’t really watching—at least not until her name came up.“Tonight’s guest is Anabelle Brooks, founder of Belle Interiors, recently named ‘Designer of the Year,’” the host announced cheerfully.Carson’s hand froze. His heart gave a sharp, painful jolt. Slowly, he lifted his head, his bleary eyes fixing on the screen.And there she was.Anabelle walked onto the stage, elegant and confident, her smile calm but bright. The audience applauded, cameras flashed, and the host shook her hand. She looked nothing like the woman he had once shouted at, ignored, and taken for granted. This woman radiated strength.The host leaned forward. “Anabelle, your company has become a sensation in less than

Carson sat alone in his study, staring blankly at the glass of whiskey in his hand. The ice had melted long ago, leaving only a dull amber color swirling slowly in the dim light. His head throbbed, his mind heavy with thoughts he couldn’t silence.The room was cold. The fireplace across from him had gone out hours ago, leaving behind only ashes and faint smoke. He leaned back in the armchair, closing his eyes, but the silence pressed on him until he felt suffocated.Victoria’s words echoed in his mind — “Marry Bridget again. It’s our only hope.”He ran a hand down his face and groaned. “She’s lost her mind,” he muttered, though a part of him knew she hadn’t.The truth was simple. The McCoy empire was crumbling, and there was no one to blame but himself.He glanced toward the desk covered in documents — unpaid bills, rejected proposals, and warnings from the bank. He had once prided himself on being in control, on being the man who could handle anything. Now, even his reflection in the

Carson stood outside the large mahogany door, his palms damp with sweat. The cold air bit at his face as he shifted nervously on the front porch. He had been here before—years ago—when things were different. Back then, the family inside had welcomed him with smiles and warm hands. But tonight, everything felt colder, heavier.He adjusted his tie, trying to calm his pounding heart. Behind him, his car engine ticked softly, the only sound breaking the silence. He knocked. Once. Twice.The door opened slowly. It was Mr. Hargrove, Bridget’s father. His gray eyes were sharp and unreadable. “Carson,” he said flatly.Carson swallowed. “Good evening, sir. I… I came to speak with you. And Mrs. Hargrove. Please, just a few minutes.”Mr. Hargrove’s jaw tightened. “You should not have come.”“Please,” Carson said quietly. “It’s important.”After a long pause, the older man stepped aside. “Five minutes,” he said.Carson entered the grand hallway. The scent of polished wood and lavender filled the