All Chapters of My Father's Rival Is My Lover : Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

The cold Geneva night seemed to press against the reinforced steel of the panic room. Blood still trickled from Damien’s wound, staining his sleeve, but his eyes remained sharp, focused, calculating.Elena pressed a towel against his shoulder. “You need stitches.”“We don’t have time,” he muttered, glancing at the security monitors.The once-impenetrable penthouse was a warzone. Flames licked the edges of the hallway. A few of their guards were still standing, holding off Miguel’s men. But it wouldn’t last.“We have to get out of here,” he said, wincing.Elena looked down at the silver drive in her hand. “Do they know it’s still with us?”“They will soon.”Suddenly, the screen above them flickered, then turned to static. A face replaced it.Miguel Rojas.Elena gasped.He was older than she imagined. Clean-shaven, salt-and-pepper hair, eyes as cold as a vulture. But it wasn’t his appearance that chilled her.It was his smile.“Damien,” Miguel said, his voice smooth and serpentine. “Sti

The words echoed in Elena’s ears like a bomb detonating deep in her chest.Your father paid for that drive.“No,” she whispered, staggering back. “That’s not possible.”Valentina’s eyes, so haunted, so broken, held none of their usual cruelty. “He funded the operation. The shell company that housed all of Miguel’s offshore accounts, it traces back to a trust fund with your father's name on it. He’s not just involved, Elena. He built it.”Elena clutched the dresser for support, her world spinning. “Why are you telling me this now?”Valentina lowered her voice. “Because I owe you. You saved me once when you could have left me to die.”“That was before I knew what you were,” Elena hissed.Valentina didn’t flinch. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But Damien’s missing. And I think I know where your father took him.”Elena's breath caught. “He has Damien?”Valentina nodded grimly. “He’s been tracking him for months, watching him through private surveillance, following your every move. The momen

The sun had barely risen over the volcanic mountains of Bali when Elena jolted awake.She’d dreamt of fire. Of ashes.And of her father.But it wasn’t the dream that made her chest tighten.It was the blinking screen of her phone beside the bed, casting a cold blue light in the dark room. One new message.MIGUEL: “Every king falls. It’s your move, Elena.”Her pulse surged.She scrambled to her feet, barely remembering to wrap Damien’s shirt around her. He stirred in bed, blinking as she unlocked the screen.“Elena?” he said, his voice gravelly from sleep. “What’s wrong?”She didn’t answer. Instead, she handed him the phone.Damien’s expression darkened. “He’s taunting us.”“He wants us scared,” she said, voice shaking. “But what does he mean, ‘your move’?”Jonah’s voice crackled through the encrypted intercom in their suite. “Elena. Damien. You need to come down. Now.”In the secure operations room beneath the villa, the entire team was assembled. Valentina was pale, her eyes glued to

The sunlight crept through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ashford Enterprises like a shy lover, illuminating the luxurious boardroom where Julian Ashford sat, staring at the city skyline with a calm expression that masked the storm brewing inside him.Grace hadn’t returned his calls for two days.Two. Damn. Days.Julian had never been the kind of man to beg for attention. He commanded it, expected it. But Grace had turned the tables on him in a way he hadn't anticipated. Her silence was like acid on his soul. Every hour she didn’t respond, the void inside him widened, reminding him that for the first time in his life, he wasn’t in control.He rose abruptly from his leather chair and strode toward the window. Below him, the world carried on. Cars zipped by, people rushed to work, birds soared above buildings and yet, everything felt still. Hollow. Meaningless.His phone buzzed.He snatched it off the table like a man drowning and finding a rope, but it was only a calendar reminder: Me

“In the war of thrones, it's not the sword that strikes first, it’s the hand that moves the pawn.”The wind howled over the Ashford Estate as Victor Ashford sat in his leather armchair, swirling a glass of hundred-year-old brandy with the air of a man orchestrating the future. Beside him, on the oak table, lay a manila folder, its edges worn, contents dangerous.“Have you delivered it to the press?” he asked.His right-hand man, Dalton, nodded. “The media outlets will go live with it in forty-eight hours. Offshore accounts. Bribes. Deals made under Julian’s name, just enough to raise questions.”Victor smiled, though it was as cold as the storm beginning to rage outside. “Good. Let him squirm.”Dalton hesitated. “Sir… what about Miss Rosenthal? Public sympathy might lean toward her if this becomes a battle of love against legacy.”Victor scoffed. “Then we change the narrative. Make it look like she knew. That she helped him hide it.”Dalton gave a respectful nod, but there was a flick