My Father's Rival Is My Lover のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 181 - チャプター 190

Thunder rolled across the Santorini skies, a cruel echo to the storm brewing across continents. Inside the stone-walled villa, cloaked in vines and shadows, the woman who had been presumed dead stood tall before a sprawling wall of screens. Each one showed footage, articles, and surveillance of her daughter and Julian Ashford.Lillian Rosenthal. Grace’s mother.A woman once hailed as a media empress and a ghost for the past ten years.Her emerald eyes glimmered as she watched the news of the Ashford-Rosenthal merger, her red nails tapping a rhythm on the desk like war drums.“She thinks she’s won,” Lillian whispered to herself. “She thinks this is love. But she forgets I built the empire her father tried to steal.”She turned to the man standing behind her, dark suit, sharp jaw, eyes too calm for someone trained to kill. Her most loyal fixer.“Begin the whispers,” Lillian ordered. “Leak the old footage. The private recordings. Target Grace first. I want the world to turn on her before

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the world soaked and quiet, like it, too, was holding its breath. Alma stood on the balcony of Hartwell Manor, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. The once-furious wind had calmed, but inside her, a storm still churned, one she hadn’t yet found the strength to name.Below, the gardens glistened under the pale orange hue of dawn. Leaves shimmered, droplets hanging like tiny jewels from branches. The silence outside was comforting, a sharp contrast to the conversation she’d had with Roman’s father just hours earlier, a conversation that left more questions than answers.Behind her, the heavy doors creaked. Roman stepped out, his presence like gravity pulling her back to earth. He wore a navy sweater and dark trousers, casual but crisp. His hair was damp, and his eyes, those steel-blue eyes, searched hers for a trace of understanding."You’re still out here," he said gently. His voice carried the weariness of a man who’d fought battles in the da

The rain poured down in silver sheets outside the courthouse, but inside, the atmosphere was electric with tension. Cameras flashed as reporters shouted questions, trying to peer through the haze of the unfolding scandal. Roman and Alma stood at the courthouse steps, a wall of security flanking them, their fingers lightly entwined.Alma’s voice was steady, but her heart beat wildly in her chest. “Do you regret it?”Roman turned to her slowly. “Exposing him?”“Yes.”“No,” he said without hesitation. “Not for a second. My father taught me how to build an empire. But you taught me how to build something true.”Just then, one of Roman’s assistants came rushing through the security detail. “Roman, urgent call from the board. They want a meeting. Tonight. Emergency session.”Roman exhaled. “They want to save the company from the fall.”Alma looked at him. “Can they?”He shook his head. “Maybe the business can survive. But the name? The legacy?” His eyes darkened. “Hartwell is burning.”Late

The wedding was chaos.Screams echoed through the Tuscan villa as guests scattered in gowns and tuxedos, diving for cover. Roman shielded Alma behind a marble pillar, her white dress streaked with dust and panic. Petra was down, but alive, pointing toward the shadows where Victor Albrecht had fled.Security swarmed the perimeter. Sirens howled from approaching Interpol vehicles. Drones whirred overhead. The trap they had set had sprung but not cleanly.Roman held Alma close. “Are you hurt?”She shook her head, dazed. “No. But Petra”“I’m not dead yet,” Petra hissed, her shoulder bleeding as two agents helped her to her feet. “Don’t let him get away. Victor’s the last thread in this web.”Roman turned to the agents. “Lock down the exits. No one leaves without being checked. I want eyes on every roof, every drone feed. If he gets out of Tuscany, he vanishes.”The lead Interpol agent, a no-nonsense woman named Inspector Desi Leclerc, nodded. “We’ve got the drive. Petra’s testimony. This

The mountain burned like a warning.From the helicopter, Alma could still see the last of the estate’s steel supports twisting in the blaze. Somewhere inside, Damien Hartwell’s empire of data of lies, had collapsed. But not completely.Not while he was still alive.And not while the masked shooter remained a ghost.Roman sat beside her, his expression unreadable. The rhythmic thrum of the rotors did little to ease the storm in his chest.“Whoever that was,” Petra said from the other side, reviewing footage from her drone cam, “they knew exactly where the server room was. The angles, the blind spots. It wasn’t just a sabotage, it was surgical.”Alma leaned closer. “Then someone on the inside helped them.”Roman’s eyes narrowed. “Or it was someone who knew Damien better than anyone else.”Petra turned the tablet around. “I’ve got something. Freeze-frame. There look.”They all leaned in.The masked figure, captured for a single, fleeting moment in the smoke and fire. Slender build. Agile