Semua Bab A Love Forged In Ruins : Bab 21 - Bab 30

Layla's POVI sat at the edge of the bed, my fingers gripping the sheets so tightly my knuckles had turned white. It felt like the only thing anchoring me to this moment, to reality. My chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, each inhale a struggle against the storm brewing inside me.Across the room, Damian stood by the window like a statue carved from shadow—rigid, still, and unreadable. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his slacks, shoulders locked, jaw clenched. The city lights spilled over him, casting fractured reflections against the glass, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.It was like we were both frozen in the aftermath of something unspeakable.The truth was out now. There was no more pretending. No more carefully woven words or calculated omissions. Every dark corner of his plans had been dragged into the light, every manipulation dissected until there was nothing left but the raw, ugly truth between us.And yet, here we were.“You’re quiet,” he said at last, his vo

Layla's pov She wasn’t supposed to be here.She was supposed to be at the hospital, recovering.I stood frozen in the boardroom of Eclipse Corp, still gripping my phone. The words from Damian’s message blurred as I stared at the woman who stepped through the door like a phantom.Angelina Monroe.My grandmother.Healthy.Her eyes found mine, sharp and steady as ever. She wore a long, charcoal-gray coat, her silver hair swept into a tight bun, her posture regal like she hadn’t spent a single day in a hospital bed.“Hello, Layla,” she said, her voice like polished steel.My heart was a runaway drum. “How are you… how is this—?”“I told them to say I was dying,” she cut in smoothly, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind her. “Because I needed to see how everyone would behave when they thought the throne was empty.”I backed up a step, the weight of her words crashing over me. “You faked being on your deathbed?”“I was never dying,” she replied, walking past the long co

Layla's pov I stood in front of the mirror in my office at Eclipse, my reflection staring back at me like a stranger.The sharp black suit fit perfectly—tailored shoulders, crisp creases, not a single thread out of place. My hair was slicked into a low bun, my lips painted a bold, unflinching red. I looked like a leader. A woman in control. But the truth?Inside, I was barely holding it together.My stomach twisted like it had been caught in a vice. My heart thudded loud and uneven in my chest, echoing with all the questions I couldn’t silence.Was I doing the right thing? Would I regret it?Would she be proud of me?I turned from the mirror and crossed the room, heels clicking on the polished marble floor as I walked toward the tall windows. The city below stretched endlessly, glowing in amber and steel. It pulsed, alive and hungry. It didn’t care about my decisions. About my war.But I did.Today was the day.The day I would stop running from the weight of my family name. The day I

Layla's pov Even after I left the attic with the journal clutched to my chest, the weight of it followed me. I sat curled up on the edge of my bed, the leather-bound pages resting on my lap like something sacred and cursed at the same time. The words I had read earlier swirled in my head like smoke—hints of love buried under pain, confessions soaked in regret.I thought I was ready for more. I thought I could handle anything now.I was wrong.The next morning, I made tea just to keep my hands busy. I hadn’t seen my mother since the argument yesterday—since she told me I was dead to her. I could still feel those words lodged in my chest like splinters.But it wasn’t her voice that haunted me now. It was her writing.I opened the journal again.At first, the entries were simple—day-to-day observations, dinner parties, travel plans. But as I flipped further, the handwriting became messier. More emotional. As if her carefully built mask had started to slip.Then I found it.An entry dat

Layla's pov Outside, the air was thick with summer heat, but I felt ice in my bones. I walked without knowing where I was going, just trying to outrun the storm inside me.Angelina Monroe wasn’t my mother.Vincent Monroe wasn’t my father.I didn’t belong to either of them.All this time, I was a pawn in their perfect illusion. An accessory to a legacy that was never really mine.And Alexander Blackwood…Angelina's lover and Celeste's father.I had put the journal back in my bag.My phone buzzed.A message from Damian.“I miss you. Please. Just talk to me.”I stared at his name.I didn’t even know how to respond. The only thing I knew was this:The truth may set you free.But first, it burns everything you thought you were to the ground.And I was standing in the ashes.Later that day, I texted both Celeste and Damian to meet me at a quiet café downtown. I chose a booth in the back corner, far from curious ears. I arrived first and waited, heart thumping violently.Celeste came in fi