All Chapters of Ruin Me: Falling for My Best Friend’s Fiancée: Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

Alex’s POV (After Alessandra found out about Alex and their father.)The quiet was suffocating.I sat on the hallway floor, my back pressed against the cold wall, my knees pulled tight to my chest. My cheek burned, a dull throb where his hand had struck. I didn’t even feel the slap until I saw the blood smeared on the tile, a thin red streak from where my lip split. My hands shook as I wiped it away, the coppery taste lingering in my mouth.He was in his study now, the door closed, like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just shattered what little was left of me.But the worst pain wasn’t him. It was her.Alessandra.The way she looked at me earlier, before she left for France Her eyes were cold, sharp, filled with disgust—like I was something dirty, something to scrape off her shoe. “You’re just like him,” she’d said, her voice low and final, like a door slamming shut.She didn’t see the bruises hidden under my sleeves. Didn’t know how I’d screamed her name in my head all thos

Alessandra’s POVThe front door clicked shut behind me, but I stopped in the hallway, my hand lingering on the knob. The house was too still, like it’d been holding its breath while I was gone. My purse hit the console table with a soft thud, and I kicked off my shoes, my body heavier than it should’ve been. Seeing Alex again had left something behind—a weight I couldn’t shake, like a stone lodged in my chest.I padded into the living room and froze.Killian was on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. His jaw was set, his eyes locked on me the second I stepped in. They were dark, stormy, not with anger but with something worse—fear.“Where the hell did you go?” His voice was low, rough, like he’d been up all night fighting his own head.I blinked, caught off guard. “I—Killian, I just—”“You weren’t here,” he cut in, standing up, his movements slow but tense. “I woke up, and you were gone. No note, no text, nothing. Do you have a

Killan's Pov The air in Ronan’s Study was thick with cigar smoke and the sharp tang of whiskey. He didn’t offer me a drink, and I didn’t ask for one. We’d done this dance too many times — me chasing ghosts, him giving me nothing but more shadows to dig through.“I’m telling you, Killian,” Ronan muttered, rubbing a hand through his greying stubble, “if Lia’s own brother doesn’t know who the hell she really is, then we’ve got something far bigger than just some woman running from her past.”I leaned forward, elbows resting on my knees, jaw tight. “Then tell me. What do you know?”He looked at me, those tired, half-amused eyes boring into mine. “You really want to play this game again?”I didn’t say anything. He sighed.“There was someone,” he finally said. “A guy—military background. Russian. Went by Semyon. Quiet type. Disappeared years ago, but rumor is, he was tied to something deep. Black ops level. Government kept him scrubbed clean.”“Semyon,” I repeated, mind already spiraling.

Killian's POV The streets looked quieter than usual. Evening mist curled low, clinging to the gutters as Damon drove. I didn’t say much. He didn’t ask me to. I think he could sense I was holding something in—something sharp, something simmering just beneath the skin.Luke was already waiting when we got to the warehouse. Same spot we used to meet back in the day, before things got complicated. He was leaning against the hood of his car, arms folded, phone pressed to his ear.He hung up when he saw us. “You’re late.”Damon scoffed. “And you’re still a pain in the ass.”I ignored both of them and pulled the laptop bag from the backseat. “Kieran’s on his way? He asked to be dropped off somewhere. Said he’d contact you when you got here.”Luke nodded. “He should be here soon. You sure you want to show him the tape?”“I wouldn’t have dragged my ass out of bed if I wasn’t.”The door creaked open behind us. Footsteps. Then a voice, smooth, a little too confident for someone barely out of co

Alessandra's POV. I stirred to the low hum of the television, its screen flickering against the dim living room. The scent of warm vanilla and cinnamon still lingered from our baking earlier, faint but comforting. My eyes fluttered open, slow and groggy. I was on the couch, curled up under a soft throw blanket, the kind Stella always dragged out whenever we had movie nights. The first thing I noticed was that the house had grown quiet. Too quiet. I blinked a few times. Luna, our fluffy white dog, was curled up on the rug near the coffee table, breathing steadily in her sleep. Brie had slumped against the other end of the couch, her arm hanging off the side, a streak of flour still on her cheek. Stella lay on the floor with a cushion under her head, one sock missing. Vivian’s long legs were sprawled over the armchair, her phone tilted on her chest. The clock on the wall said 2:07 AM. The last time I’d looked, it had only just hit midnight. I shifted, stretching out my arm and rub