All Chapters of MY BROTHER-IN-LAW: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

LIAM MILLER'S POVI stepped into Grayson Pittman's villa like a storm in stilettos — well, metaphorically — and as expected, a damn procession of servants lined up like obedient little ducks to greet me.One by one, they bowed slightly, murmuring soft welcomes, as though I were royalty and not the prisoner of circumstance that Grayson's sadistic little game made me.At the end of the line stood an old lady, stern but oddly warm. She stepped forward, hands folded and introduced herself."I am Ratna, head house help, madam."I stopped dead, my eyebrow arching high enough to scrape heaven."Madam?" I repeated, my voice dripping with disbelief."Yes," she said, unruffled. "You are Grayson sir's wife, so you will be madam of this house."The words hung there, absurd and suffocating all at once.My lips curled into a bitter smile as I took a step closer to her."I'm sorry, Ratna," I began, slow and deliberate, "but calling me madam is not only wrong, it's borderline homophobic. I'm a man. A

CONRAD WILLIAM'S POVIt's been three weeks since that night.Three weeks since I tried to hit that twat in the middle of the road, with the faint smell of burnt rubber in the air and Caisen's smirk burned into my retinas through the rearview mirror. He didn't even stop. Just watched me from far as I stumbled back onto the accelerator, chest heaving, fingers still trembling with the sick cocktail of jealousy and adrenaline that had left me half feral.And then— Nothing.No messages. No calls. Not even his shadow.It was almost funny at first—this absurd silence from a man who seemed to take up every corner of my life until now. His absence was a contradiction, a puzzle that didn't make sense. Every time my phone buzzed at 2 a.m., I expected it to be him, calling me to some dingy motel room or slamming my back into some wall just because he could.But it was never him.I stared at my phone for hours at my office today, ignoring the spreadsheets that needed approval, ignoring the way

CAISEN VALENTINE'S POVMy hands are graved into his hips — no, carved, like I'm trying to etch my name into his very bones. His skin is flushed, bare, slick under my palms as I drag him closer, closer, until there's nothing between us. Nothing but heat and teeth and rage and need.We're on the bed, naked, tangled, violent — kissing like the world is already ash and all we have left is this. Him. Conrad William. My beautiful, doomed obsession.I'm pressing him down, swallowing his breath as he claws at my shoulders. My teeth find his throat and I bite until he gasps — that perfect sound — and then I suck, hard, leaving a hickey so dark it looks like my mark of ownership. Because that's what it is. Mine.I lick the bruise before it even blooms fully, tease the skin with my tongue just to hear him hiss my name. He's trying to fight it — his pride, his shame, the part of him that still thinks he can deny me — but I feel it in his hips, the way they grind back against me when he thinks I'm

EDWARD MILLER'S POVThe office smells like leather and silence. I sit behind my desk, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, fingers drumming softly.The door opens. Not a knock. Not an announcement. Of course not.He walks in — Joshua Anderson, 45-year-old, my right hand. The only man in this cursed city who doesn't lower his gaze when he speaks to me."Edward," he says flatly, dropping a folder onto the desk like it's not worth holding another second.I glance at him. He doesn't flinch. Never does. That's why I keep him around — not just sharp, but unafraid.I pick up the folder lazily, opening it with one hand.Photographs. Reports. Ashes where there should have been empires."You know who it is?" I ask, voice quiet but heavy enough to fill the room.He adjusts his cufflinks, gaze level. "Grayson Pittman."My lip curls into something that isn't quite a smile. Of course it's him."He's thorough," I murmur, flipping to another page — the burned-out shell of one of my warehouses, still

CONRAD WILLIAM'S POVI opened the door — and froze.Sitting there in Lucian's chair, legs crossed, back perfectly straight and dripping menace like a black serpent coiled on a throne, was Edward Miller. The devil himself.He didn't even look up at me right away. Instead, he swirled the dark liquid in his crystal glass, watching it as if it contained the secrets of the world. Lucian stood behind his own desk, arms folded, jaw tight, his usually calm aura crackling with silent fury.Conrad. You should leave now. Every cell in my body screamed it — but my feet wouldn't move."Ah," Edward finally spoke, his voice smooth, bored, deadly. He set his glass down and raised his eyes to me, and it felt like someone had pressed a blade against the back of my neck."So," he drawled, "the secretary finally decides to show up. Do you always keep your boss waiting like this, or is this just your charming way of making an entrance?"I swallowed hard and tried to ignore how Lucian's gaze flicked at