Alle Kapitel von The Phoenix Bride Rises: Trust Was Her First Mistake : Kapitel 31 – Kapitel 40

The days bled into one another, indistinguishable in their cruelty. Arla-Rosa lay on the cold concrete floor of the warehouse, her body aching from the constant abuse, the beatings, the neglect. Her once radiant skin was marred by bruises and cuts. Her muscles felt raw from hours of being restrained in the same position, her body pressed to the ground with nothing but the throbbing of her pain to keep her company.Her belly, big with the children that still grew inside her, ached with a different kind of strain. The hunger gnawed at her, her ribs were sore from lack of food, her throat was dry and parched from dehydration. It seemed that the warehouse had become both her prison and her grave, each day slipping further into the abyss of despair.But even in the depths of that pain, there was a flicker of something else, something she could not name, but something that refused to be extinguished. She had not given up, not yet. The idea of surrender was alien to her now. The bond she had

The boardroom erupted in applause. “Congratulations, Chairman Fleming,” his CFO beamed. “The merger with Trinex Global is complete. Your empire is officially out of danger.”Duke Fleming stood at the head of the long glass table, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his expression unreadable. Around him, champagne flutes clinked, laughter echoed, analysts projected skyrocketing shares. Two years of financial warfare had ended in victory. And yet he felt... nothing. He offered a tight nod, murmured something about gratitude, and walked out.His penthouse suite in the heart of Country D overlooked a gleaming skyline, but tonight, the lights seemed dimmer. As he poured a finger of whiskey, a sharp ache pressed against his chest. Not pain exactly, but something older, heavier. He loosened his tie and sank into the couch, trying to ignore the memory gnawing at the edges of his peace. A memory named Arla-Rosa.They had not parted well. She had been cold and dismissive. She treated him like a m

Arla-Rosa inhaled deeply, finding an odd comfort in the scent of antiseptic and ink, as she sat in a nearly empty lecture hall, her half-eaten sandwich forgotten on the desk. Her fingers trembled as she stared at the sunlight spilling in through the dusty blinds. It was warm. Very real and she could feel it. It was nothing like that frigid warehouse floor. With that thought, she gasped and her hands shot to her belly. It was flat again, lifeless, but no longer bleeding. Her skin was smooth. No bruises. No burns. No restraints. Tears welled in her eyes as her mind screamed in disbelief. The last thing she remembered was Duke’s sobs, the warmth of his arms cradling her broken body, and his tortured whisper: "I called you that morning. I was the father. I was going to tell you everything, Arla-Rosa..." She recalled seeing a bright light enveloping her lifeless body. A blinding, celestial light. And then... "A hundred lives," a voice whispered inside her. "Heal them with your soul, and

As Seth’s polished shoes disappeared down the corridor, Arla-Rosa lowered her cutlery and wiped her mouth delicately. The cafeteria was bustling, but she heard none of it. Her hands rested in her lap as her eyes glazed over, drawn into memory like the tug of a current pulling her back in time. A year. Exactly one year. She remembered the same season, the same lunch hour, except in her previous life, she was holed up in the drafting room, eating cold ramen between files while feverishly working on Seth’s Tokyo proposal. He had not even thanked her, just murmured a clipped, "Good job," while texting Aretha. She did not know then. She did not know he had been sleeping with Aretha. Her sister, no, not even her real sister. A fact she had not known then either. Her identity had been hidden, her inheritance locked behind layers of deceit. It was during the Tokyo signing, when she handed Seth the final pitch deck and the project soared beyond expectations, that he must have discovered the t

A few days later, Arla-Rosa received news that further shoved her into the limelight. The invitation arrived at dawn, delivered not with ceremony but with urgency, stamped with the golden insignia of the Ministry of National Defense. The university director, Dean Van Tross, stormed into the lecture hall mid-morning, clutching the envelope with trembling hands. "This is madness! You’re a student! How dare they summon you to the military hospital like you’re some state physician?!" Arla-Rosa, standing beside a whiteboard annotated with the intricate workings of the endocrine system, simply smiled. Her lab coat was slightly stained with ink and herbs from her early morning preparations. "Dean Van Tross," she said gently, her voice akin to calm water in a thunderstorm, "please don’t worry. I’ll return before sunset tomorrow." He gaped at her composure. "Do you even know what you’re walking into? These aren’t textbook patients, they're four of the country’s most decorated military veteran