All Chapters of His To Ruin: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

Victor Wolfe didn’t believe in coincidence. He believed in patterns, subtle shifts in behavior, small changes in routine, the quiet rebellion of someone trying to carve a crack in a cage. And Ivy Lancaster, his fiancée, was shifting.He noticed it first in the way she moved.She wasn’t as brittle in the mornings. Her eyes didn’t flinch as much when their fingers brushed. She hummed, softly, unconsciously, while brushing her hair.Ivy never hummed.And then today, she smiled. Not for him. Not at him. Just… smiled, like something inside her had unfurled quietly in the night.It unsettled him more than any threat ever had. he Harvstood in the hallway outside her bedroom longer than necessary, listening to the silence. Not the absence of sound, but the type of silence that comes after a decision has been made. Ivy hadn’t made eye contact at breakfast, but her posture had been composed. Too composed. There was no tremble in her fingers, no distracted tapping of her spoon. She had thanked t

The estate was quiet when Victor returned, but not in the way that soothed him. It was a stillness that rang false, like a house holding its breath. Dusk poured gold over the marble floors and rich wood-paneled walls, making everything look too perfect, too preserved, like a museum of a life he could no longer control.He shrugged off his coat at the door, jaw tight, eyes already scanning the hallway for her.Ivy.She was always supposed to be waiting.But she wasn’t.The first thing that registered when he entered the dining room was the clink of cutlery. Not the presence of people. Not a greeting.Just that quiet, infuriating sound.And there she was. Ivy. Already seated. Already eating. Her hair tied loosely over one shoulder, her eyes lowered to the plate. A delicate fork moved to her mouth with calm composure, as if she didn’t know what she was doing to him.Victor stopped in the doorway. Heat climbed his spine like a second skin.She didn’t even look up.Not until his voice cut

The door clicked softly behind me, closing out dinner and leaving only the hum of the house settling into evening. I didn’t stay downstairs longer than necessary, and here in my room, I breathed a slow, ragged sigh. I tried not to think about hair I wore or how I’d held my fork. I tried not to think about how Victor had watched me all evening, like I was both prize and puzzle.The silence felt too loud.I told myself it was nothing. Just relief that the meal was over. Relief i am out of that animal gaze. But my fingers trembled as I unbuttoned the cuff of my dress, loosening the fabric I’d chosen. The black dress I deliberately worn to provoke him. I slipped into something looser, plain sleepwear, soft cotton, and slid under the covers, heart still roaring. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for my pulse to slow.It never did.The knock didn’t come.Of course it didn’t.Victor never knocked.My stomach clenched. I sat up in bed, breath caught in my throat. My hand trembled against the

The morning came too early.I lay there, eyes still closed, not wanting to leave the one small pocket of safety I’d found, the space between sleep and waking, where the walls around me didn’t exist yet.But the knock shattered it.It wasn’t Victor’s knock. No… he never knock,just walked in always. This knock was softer, hesitant, followed by the rustle of fabric and the creak of the door opening just far enough for someone to slip inside.I pushed myself up, the blanket falling to my lap.A young servant, a girl I’d seen before but never heard speak, came in carrying something that seemed out of place here. A tall, glass vase overflowing with blooms.White roses. Deep crimson peonies. Sprigs of eucalyptus.They looked like they belonged on a wedding table. Or in a lover’s arms.She crossed the room quickly, set the vase on my desk, and without meeting my eyes, left. No explanation. No note. Just the scent, already unfurling into the air, filling every corner of my room.I sat there f

The car’s engine was a low hum beneath the quiet of the street, the soft dusk settling like a shroud over the neat houses lined with trimmed lawns and flowering shrubs. I sat behind the wheel, the leather cool under my fingers, eyes fixed on the modest house across the street, white picket fence, flower boxes under the windows, a small porch swing where a child’s jacket hung limp.Marisol Vega’s home.I had read everything I could find about her. The old files painted a stark, ruthless picture, a woman who once moved in the shadows of Robert’s empire, involved in whispers I couldn’t yet confirm, someone who might have played a part in the erasure of my father’s name. But here, under this softening light, the woman I saw was different.Through the large living room window, I watched her move with easy grace, carrying a toddler in one arm, laughing as she handed a plate of food to another child at the table. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, the wrinkles near her eyes softened b