All Chapters of A Love Forged In Ruins : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Layla's POV The wind howled against the windows, rattling them as if it wanted to be let in. Rain lashed in sheets, running down the glass like silver rivers. The whole house felt swallowed by the storm, every shadow deeper, every creak of the walls a reminder of how small we were in the middle of it.The twins were fussier than usual. Maybe it was the pressure in the air, maybe the sound of the thunder, or maybe they were simply tired of the same four walls. Whatever the reason, their cries rose and fell like waves crashing against a cliff—unrelenting, wearing me down little by little.I bounced Kieran against my shoulder, my palm patting his tiny back. “Shh, baby, it’s okay,” I murmured, even though my own voice trembled from exhaustion.From the kitchen, I could hear Damian’s footsteps pacing as he tried to settle Amira. The storm had made the whole evening feel heavier. My shirt was already damp from earlier when Kieran had spit up, and now, as I tried to juggle the bottle and ke

Layla's POV The city hum fades behind us, swallowed by the low, golden glow of the hotel suite. The world outside is a blur of headlights and distant horns, but in here, time feels slowed, heavy with something unspoken.My heels are still on. My pulse is already uneven.Damian stands so close I can feel the heat radiating off him. It’s not just his nearness—it’s the way his gaze moves over me, slow and deliberate, like he’s committing every inch to memory before he dares to touch.When his fingers reach the small of my back, I stop breathing. The faint whisper of metal sliding against fabric—my zipper—feels loud in the hush between us. Each slow pull sends a shiver down my spine.The satin loosens, falling away from my shoulders in a slow cascade, brushing against my skin on its way down. His breath catches—just slightly—but I hear it. His lips follow the path the fabric leaves behind, warm and patient, as though he’s tasting the silence between us.“You’ve been killing me all night,

Third person's POV The pen in Jaden’s hand hovered above his notebook, unmoving. The hum of voices around him in the community center classroom felt distant, muffled, like someone had pressed his head underwater. The other teens in the mentoring session were laughing, trading jokes with one of the volunteers, but he sat rigid in his chair, eyes fixed on the same blank page he’d been staring at for fifteen minutes.He wasn’t hearing any of it. Not the tapping of sneakers against the tile floor, not the soft strum of an acoustic guitar from the music room next door. All he could hear was the echo of that night. The shouting. The shove. The way the truth had twisted before it ever reached daylight.His stomach knotted. Everyone thought Malik—the tall, easygoing seventeen-year-old with the crooked smile—was guilty. The media had already carved him into a villain in their headlines. But Jaden knew better. Malik hadn’t started that fight. He’d been defending someone. Someone who didn’t wan

Layla's POV The house felt wrong that evening.Too still.Too quiet.Like even the walls were holding their breath.I paced the length of the kitchen, my socked feet barely making a sound against the hardwood. The clock over the stove ticked louder than it had any right to. Every time I passed the counter, I caught sight of the half-empty coffee pot and thought about refilling my cup, but my hands were shaking just enough to make me worry I’d spill it.The board meeting earlier had left a sour taste in my mouth. Their polite words had been knives wrapped in silk—image, reputation, donors. Not once did anyone say “truth” or “justice.” They spoke about the accused teen like he was a stain they needed to scrub out quickly.The air shifted when Damian walked in. He didn’t say a word at first, just crossed to the coffee maker, poured himself a mug, and leaned against the counter across from me. His tie was loosened, his hair slightly mussed, but his eyes—those steady, unflinching eyes—wer

Damian’s POVIt was nearly midnight, but my office looked like midday.The desk lamp’s golden light spilled over piles of files and my open laptop, while the rest of the house lay in heavy, silent darkness. The air was still, thick with the faint smell of paper and printer ink. My eyes felt raw, like sand had been ground into them, but I didn’t stop. Stopping meant thinking about what would happen if I failed.The foundation’s books sprawled before me in a chaos only I could navigate — digital ledgers flashing cold numbers on the screen, printed bank statements stacked in uneven piles, and handwritten notes I’d scrawled in the margins when something didn’t sit right.On the surface, it was clean. Respectable. The kind of numbers that would make any audit nod with approval.But numbers lie. People make them lie. And I’d been in this game too long to trust the surface.I traced my finger along a neat column of donations. Fifty thousand dollars from a “community outreach initiative” in D