All Chapters of A Love Forged In Ruins : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Layla's pov The air felt thicker with each passing day. Heavy. Toxic. It clung to my skin and coiled around my ribs like wire. Every breath I took carried the weight of a thousand eyes—judging, questioning, waiting for me to crumble.The storm hadn’t passed. It had only sharpened.And it started with another leak.It was just past midnight. Damian had gone to bed hours ago, but I sat curled up on the living room couch, buried beneath application files, trying to retrace every step, every decision. My laptop buzzed beside me with spreadsheet after spreadsheet of our applicant notes. I had read them all, over and over. Trying to prove to myself that we had done the right thing.Then my phone lit up.I almost didn’t check. But habit won."Exclusive: Leaked Ranking Docs Reveal Amara’s Pretty Preference?"I blinked at the headline, ice pooling in my chest.I clicked. I read.And I died a little.The article was scathing. Precise. Devastating. Screenshots of our internal notes—selectively

Layla's pov I sat in the corner booth of the café, heart pounding harder than it should’ve. The place was tucked between a bookstore and a tailor’s shop, far from the sleek chaos of downtown. Its windows were foggy from steam, the scent of roasted beans thick in the air, wrapping around me like a blanket I didn’t deserve. A young barista called out orders softly over the gentle hiss of the espresso machine. The quiet hum of conversations mixed with the clinking of mugs and teaspoons. The world outside this moment didn’t exist—just the hollow thump of my pulse and the sharp weight of what was about to happen. I checked my watch again. Five minutes past. My hands trembled slightly as I raised the mug to my lips. The coffee had gone lukewarm. Bitter and stale. Like everything I’d tried to build these past few months. This wasn’t a press interview or a strategy meeting. This was real. Raw. Unpolished. A confrontation without scripts or PR buffers. The bell over the door jingled. I l

Layla's Pov The courthouse smelled like cold marble and nerves. My heels echoed against the floor as I walked into the courtroom, chin high, hands slightly trembling at my sides. Damian was right behind me—Mr. Blackwood—his palm brushing the small of my back. But I needed to do this alone. For myself. For The Amara Initiative. For every young girl watching, wondering if her voice mattered when the world called it too loud, too soft, too late. The room was smaller than I imagined. Less like the scenes from movies, more intimate. A judge in a grey robe, sharp eyes, and the quiet murmur of reporters lining the back benches. The plaintiff sat at the opposite table—a young woman named Mia Greene. She had been one of our applicants. Her eyes were red-rimmed but defiant. Her lawyer, slick-haired and sharp-jawed, was already watching me like I was the villain of his story. The bailiff called the room to order. The judge nodded at me. "Mrs. Layla Blackwood. Please take the stand." I inhaled

Layla's Pov The air was soft with spring—warm and just scented enough to feel alive. The garden outside the new Amara Initiative headquarters buzzed with unfiltered life. No flashy press. No perfectly choreographed photo ops. Just people. Real people.Young designers laughed near the fountain, sketchpads balanced on their laps. Parents stood back with misty eyes, watching their children beam with pride. A little girl tugged at her mother’s sleeve, pointing excitedly at a mural painted by one of the mentees. Alumni mingled with newcomers, some of them proudly wearing their own designs—threaded with stories of struggle, stitched with the kind of dignity that comes only from fighting to be seen.And I—Layla Blackwood—was finally breathing again.“Mrs. Layla, five minutes,” a staffer whispered behind me, her voice sharp through the crackle of her headset.I nodded but didn’t turn around. My eyes remained on the garden, watching the last of the guests pass through the ornate wrought iron

Layla’s POVThe café was quiet. Almost too quiet.The kind of place with soft jazz playing in the background and dusty books lining the shelves like forgotten memories. I chose the table by the window. Not because I liked the view, but because I wanted to see her coming.Verena.Even thinking her name left a bitter taste in my mouth. I hadn’t slept properly since the gala. My thoughts were tangled knots of rage and confusion. She’d shown up like a ghost dressed in black—then vanished just as quickly. But not before leaving behind something even worse than her absence.Questions.Now she wanted a meeting. “Just to talk,” she’d said. Just to “explain.”I shouldn’t have agreed.But curiosity is a dangerous thing when it’s tied to old wounds.The bell above the café door jingled, and I looked up.She walked in slowly, like she wasn’t sure if she’d be welcome. She wasn’t.Her red scarf was gone tonight. She wore a grey coat over a faded blue blouse, her hair pulled back tight. She looked o