All Chapters of A Love Forged In Ruins : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Third person's POV The kitchen door swung open without warning, the hinges creaking in protest as Damian stepped inside, gun already in his hand. The house had been quiet—too quiet—but the faint shuffle of footsteps had pulled him from his study like a trigger.“Turn around,” his voice cut through the dim light, steady but low. “Slowly.”The figure at the counter froze, back rigid, hands hovering over the marble surface. A long second passed before they obeyed, turning just enough for the light from the small lamp over the sink to catch their face.Jaden.Damian’s breath hitched, the rush of adrenaline in his veins hitting a hard wall of relief. He lowered the weapon at once, the metallic tension in the room deflating just slightly.“Jesus, Jaden,” he muttered, shoving the gun back into its holster. “You don’t wander around this house at night without saying something.”Jaden’s expression didn’t change much—just a flicker of something between irritation and guilt. “I was just getting

Third person's POV The room was quiet except for the soft hum of Jaden’s laptop fan and the muted clicks of his keyboard. He sat hunched over the desk, a half-empty coffee mug growing cold beside him. The twins’ muffled giggles drifted up the stairs, a faint, comforting background to his focused work.He was deep into his search—digging through public records, sifting through obscure forums, and cross-referencing encrypted archives that most people didn’t even know existed. Every lead mattered now. He felt it in his gut — the person they were after was close.Jaden found a promising link and his pulse quickened. This could be it. He leaned forward, ready to click.And then… the screen froze.At first, he thought nothing of it — his system sometimes lagged when he ran too many heavy files at once. But the lag didn’t go away. The cursor began to move.On its own.Jaden’s hand hovered over the mouse, but he didn’t touch it.The arrow glided across the screen, slow and deliberate, like s

Damian’s POVThe zipper’s teeth scraped shut slowly, each pull deliberate. Not rushed. Not careless. The kind of sound that lingered just long enough to be carried through the hallway, into the wrong ears. The bag was small—a black leather holdall, polished from years of use, and exactly the size that suggested a quick, routine business trip. Nothing dramatic. Nothing suspicious… at least not to someone who didn’t know better.Inside, I’d arranged everything with surgical precision. Three neatly folded shirts—white, pale blue, charcoal. One pair of slacks. My dark grey blazer, pressed so sharply it could cut paper. A second pair of shoes, polished to a shine. I tucked my watch into the side pouch where it would bulge slightly, a quiet hint for any prying eyes. The details mattered. Lies always fell apart when the details didn’t make sense.The tablet slid into the outer pocket with a soft thud. That part was bait. If anyone happened to glance inside, they’d assume it was for some high

Third person's POV The echo of Damian’s car engine had barely faded from the driveway before the silence inside the estate began to change. It wasn’t the peaceful kind of silence — it was the heavy, waiting kind.From the outside, the Blackwood estate looked as it always did: sprawling gardens, immaculate stone walls, the distant shimmer of the fountain catching the late afternoon sun. But inside, every hallway felt like it had ears, and every shadow seemed to lean forward to listen.In the living room, Layla sat on the edge of the cream sofa, one ankle crossed over the other, pretending to scroll through her phone. Jaden lounged across from her in the armchair, flipping through a newspaper he wasn’t really reading. The golden light from the wide windows made them look like two people just passing a lazy afternoon.Neither of them spoke for several minutes. They were waiting.Then Layla’s phone buzzed, the sound small but sharp in the quiet. She picked it up quickly, lowering her voi

Damian’s POVThe rain hasn’t stopped since last night.It’s relentless—hammering, whispering, hissing—tapping against the safehouse windows like an impatient messenger. Every drop feels like it’s counting down the seconds, reminding me that time moves whether I’m ready or not.The safehouse is still. Too still. No hum of traffic, no horns, no street chatter—just the constant percussion of rain on the tin roof and the occasional sigh of the old wooden beams. The kind of quiet that’s not peaceful, but loaded.I sit at the scarred metal table in the middle of the room. A battered laptop glows in front of me, its screen filled with encrypted data. Two burner phones lie side by side, their black casings slick from the humidity. Between them sits the thickest file folder I’ve ever compiled—overstuffed with pages, the edges fraying like they’ve been handled a thousand times.Months of planning.Weeks of baiting.Days of watching the enemy take the lure without realizing the hook was already