All Chapters of Damien's Willing Captive : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

“The Duncans.” That name was a match to gasoline. Every face turned sharp. Every jaw clenched. The Duncans…the city’s golden devils. The kind of people who bulldozed entire neighborhoods just to add another zero to their profits. Slumlords. Tycoons. Demolition kings. If you didn’t benefit them, you didn’t exist. And if you got in their way… they erased you. “They kicked my cousin out of his apartment last month,” Rafe growled. “No notice. Just sent a wrecking ball the next day.” “They fired my sister from the hotel after twelve years,” muttered another. “Just because they can!” Kyle let the rage simmer. Then he looked over his shoulder at Jessie, who hadn’t said a word. Her face was pale, but her eyes—those eyes burned. He took her hand. “Tonight,” he said, his voice cold, “we make them feel it.” The engines roared like thunder as they raced through the city’s back roads, darting through alleys and down boulevards like shadows on wheels. Jessie clung to Kyle, her c

ISABELLA’S POV I sat in front of my vanity, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The chaos and the dust from last week’s engagement party had died down. At least on my end. But between the Salvadors and the Duncans? Oh no. That tension was still smoldering like the remains of the Duncan mansion. And though the Duncans hadn’t openly addressed the incident…you know, the whole house-on-fire thing…Anastasia had plenty to say. Especially to Jessie. And I happened to witness it all. It started when Agnes and I went to visit Mrs. Salvador at the hospital. Jessie was already there, waiting in the visitors’ lounge with a coffee cup and her signature calm smile. She looked different. Still beautiful, but sharper. Like she’d shed something soft and picked up something a little…feistier. We were laughing about something ridiculous Agnes had said…something about Mrs. Salvador’s hospital sheets being too high-thread count to be legal…when the doors slammed open. “You bitch!

ISABELLA’S POV Linda blinked. “Uh… No. Why?” “What is it this time? Dead lizards?” I groaned. Linda gave me a weird look. “What?” I exhaled. “Never mind. You’re gonna think I’m insane. But this morning… My ex left a box of dead rats on my doorstep. With a blood-written message.” Linda’s jaw dropped. “WHAT? What the hell…wait…wasn’t that the guy from the engagement party? The one with the sad puppy eyes? Kept begging you to take him back?” “That’s the one.” “Ohhh, I remember his face. If I ever cross paths with that creep again, I swear…I’ll use his balls to make tea bags and serve it to him.” I burst out laughing despite myself. “Linda!” She grinned. “I’m serious. I got long nails and zero patience for psychos.” “God, I needed that. Thank you.” She winked. “Anyway, no dead rats this time. The thing that came is actually cute. It’s in your office.” My stomach turned with sudden unease. “Thanks,” I said quietly. “I’ll be right back. Just going to drop my bag.

Damien’s POV When I got that single image file some weeks ago, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer. Not for a second. I couldn’t shake the image. That single damned image file. It landed on my phone like a ticking bomb wrapped in silence. It was enough. Enough to know I couldn’t waste anymore time. Couldn’t stand the distance, the waiting game. I had to get her back. To bring her home. Where I could see her. Control her. Punish her. For what she did to me. For what she still makes me feel. She has been out there somewhere, like a wound I couldn’t reach…living her life like I was nothing but a scar fading into the dirt. Surrounded by new faces, new lies, people who made her think she was safe, like she could bury the hell she left behind. I wouldn’t be shocked if she didn’t remember me at all. If my name was just a whisper lost in the cracks of her reckless forgetting. After I discovered where she was hiding, I had someone watch her. Track her every move. Monitor her like a

Isabella’s POV The pounding came first. Not on the door…inside my skull. Heavy, rhythmic, like someone swinging a sledgehammer against the inside of my head. The second thing was the pull. A sharp, metallic tug on my wrist when I tried to move. I froze. Slowly, my eyes adjusted to the dim light. White walls. A king-sized bed with black sheets. No windows. Just a single, heavy door with a bolt that looked like it could keep a prison riot out, and another door at the other end. I tried to sit up, but the tug came again…louder now, with the cold bite of metal digging into my skin. Chains. Thick, silver cuffs around my wrists, connected to a short length of chain bolted into the bedframe. My ankles weren’t spared either…two more cuffs, each linked to opposite corners of the bed. Enough slack to move a little, but not enough to get free. I lay exposed…wrists and ankles bound tight to the bedposts, stretched out like a sacrificial lamb on some ancient altar. The cuffs