Alle Kapitel von Unworthy No More : Kapitel 131 – Kapitel 140

Isla’s POVThe next morning broke gray and heavy, the kind of dawn that smelled like rain and retribution. Chicago’s skyline shimmered faintly beneath the clouds, glass and steel veiled in mist. I stood before my living room window, a mug of coffee cooling in my hand as I scrolled through the morning’s briefing on my tablet.Alexander had already gone, a quiet kiss before sunrise, a promise to meet later. Another call with his international partners, or so he said. I had stopped pretending not to notice how every “routine” meeting of his carried the undercurrent of security threats and covert updates. He moved like a man born into danger, and maybe that’s what drew me to him, that shadowed steadiness I could never fully decipher.My phone vibrated on the counter. “Senator Hart,” came Marjorie’s clipped voice. “We’ve received new files from the federal task force. You’ll want to see this in person.” I frowned. “Are these about the missing minors?” “Yes, ma’am. And there’s more, two of

Author's POV Meanwhile... at the Blakes residence, Viola was not having it easy. The twins wouldn’t stop crying. Their wails echoed through the marble halls of the Blake mansion, bouncing off chandeliers and portraits of a family that had long since crumbled. Viola paced the nursery floor, her silk robe clinging to her damp skin, her hair unkempt from sleepless nights.Outside, the rain beat relentlessly against the glass. The same storm that had drenched Isla Hart during her rise to power now seemed to settle permanently above Viola’s roof, grey, heavy and almost accusatory.She stared down at her daughters, their small faces scrunched in hunger and exhaustion. Little angels born into a gilded cage. But the truth clawed at her gut. They were not Nathaniel Blake’s angels. They were Dante’s. And soon, no one would know that but her.The door creaked. Viola turned sharply, her heart stuttering, but it was only her reflection in the mirror. She did not recognize herself anymore: designe

Author's POV The Blake mansion no longer felt like a home. It felt like a mausoleum. A grand, echoing monument to everything Nathaniel Blake had built and lost.The corridors were too quiet now, servants whispering behind half-closed doors, avoiding his eyes. The newspapers had already called it “The Fall of a Titan.” Blake Corporation’s stocks were plummeting. Investigators had uncovered discrepancies, millions missing from offshore accounts. Nathaniel’s empire was bleeding from within.And someone had been cutting the veins for months. He stood in his study, staring at the open safe behind his desk. Empty. His knuckles whitened around a tumbler of whiskey. “Dante…” he muttered, the name leaving his mouth like poison. The betrayal was complete. His right-hand man, the man he had trusted more than his own brother, had siphoned millions, and worse, had vanished.But the greater blow came an hour ago. A single envelope left on his desk, unsigned. Inside, was a DNA report. His world til

Author's POV Nathaniel Blake’s private compound loomed under the gray sky, a fortress of stone, steel, and glass, as cold and imposing as the man himself. Inside, the hum of security systems, guards, and surveillance cameras was the only accompaniment to his plotting mind. The Blakes’ fall had been spectacular, but Nathaniel’s fire had not yet dimmed. He would rebuild, starting with Viola.Viola sat in the center of a stark, high-ceilinged room. Viola cursed her luck. Of all the people to capture her, it turned to be Nathaniel Blake, her worst nightmare. The door had barely closed behind her when she realized there was no escape. She had anticipated confrontation, even anger, but nothing had prepared her for this. The walls seemed to press in, and the faint hum of the compound’s machinery made her feel like prey inside a cage. Her robe, once a symbol of elegance, now felt like a costume mocking her failure.“Viola,” Nathaniel’s voice echoed before he appeared, cutting through the sil

Isla I did not realize how badly I needed silence until Alexander drove us out of the city. For the first time in months, Chicago’s sirens faded behind us, replaced by the smooth hum of tires on open road. Sophie sat in the back seat with her sketchbook, humming under her breath, her little feet swinging freely. Alexander’s hand rested on the center console, close enough that I could feel his warmth even without touching him.I had been working nonstop: senate briefings, investigations, press interviews, endless strategy meetings. Every time I blinked, there was another crisis waiting for me, Nathaniel’s collapse, Dwight Harlan’s evasiveness, the trafficking reports piling up on my desk like a mountain of nightmares. But today, for once, Alexander didn’t ask me to work. He simply said: “Let me borrow you for the weekend.”Borrow. As if I were something fragile he was afraid to break. When we reached his lakeside estate, the air felt different. There was no noise, no phone reception w