Todos los capítulos de Married by Mistake, Loved by Fate: Capítulo 101 - Capítulo 110

“Downstairs.”Austin’s voice was steel, even as the shrill alarms rattled the chandeliers above them. He was already on his feet, pulling on his shirt, blood from the earlier blast still staining the fabric. His jaw was locked, his eyes blazing with the kind of fury Lucy had only ever seen when Greg’s name was spoken.Lucy clutched the sheet to her chest, her body still trembling from the desperate way they’d clung to each other moments ago. “Austin, wait, what if it’s another trap? He wants you to charge blind.”“I don’t care.” His tone was lethal. “If Greg thinks he can invade my house, my bloodline, and spit in my face, then he’ll see how fast I burn him out.”She slid from the bed, dragging on her dress with shaking hands. Her body still ached from their passion, her heart torn between fear and the raw memory of his vow. She caught his arm before he could storm out. “You’re not alone in this. If you go down there, I’m at your side. No more secrets. No more clauses between us.”For

“Fine.”The word came out of Austin’s mouth like a detonator. The boardroom stilled instantly. Glasses froze mid-air, pens hovered over notepads, breaths were caught in throats.Lucy jerked her head toward him, eyes wide, as if she hadn’t heard him right. “Austin”But he didn’t look at her. His gaze was locked on Greg, and it was the kind of stare that could carve a man’s spine into splinters. Austin leaned forward, his elbows pressed against the mahogany table, his voice slow, deliberate, and dangerously calm.“You want a seat, Greg? You’ve clawed, begged, blackmailed, and threatened your way into this room. Take it.”The silence that followed was like a vacuum sucking the air out of space.Greg blinked twice before realization dawned on him. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair, lips curling into a serpent’s grin. “Finally. Reason. A DiMarco who understands survival.” His laugh slithered through the room, filling every corner like smoke. “Oh, Austin, you don’t know how good thi

The next morning, the boardroom gleamed with glass and steel, but the air was thick with something rotten. The long polished table reflected the overhead lights, but not even the shine could mask the tension humming through the walls.Outside, the flash of cameras had already set the tone. Paparazzi clustered at the building’s steps, capturing every moment as Greg strutted up with Vanessa on his arm. She paused deliberately, tilting her head just enough for the photographers to catch her diamond bracelet sparkling under the sun. Her laugh, shrill and practiced, echoed against the marble as if the day itself belonged to her.Inside, silence.Greg strolled into the boardroom like he owned the place, his arrogance louder than the click of his designer shoes against the marble floor. His suit wasn’t just tailored, it screamed excess, stitched in a shade of navy so sharp it made some of the older directors squint. He tugged Vanessa forward, displaying her as though she were part of his new

Chapter 107The violins had softened into a lullaby, chandeliers dimming as if the night itself had sighed. Guests slipped into the corridors in glittering clusters, carrying whispers like perfume. The gala was ending, but its aftertaste was sharp in Lucy’s mouth.She clung to Austin’s arm, feeling eyes pierce her even as the crowd thinned. Somewhere behind her, cameras still flashed, hungry for just one more headline.“Keep walking,” Austin murmured, his hand steady against the small of her back. His voice wasn’t loud, it didn’t need to be. It anchored her, cutting through the noise like steel.Lucy’s throat tightened. “They’re laughing at me,” she whispered, raw, broken.Austin’s jaw flexed, his lips brushing her ear as he leaned close. “No,” he said firmly, every syllable weighted. “They’re watching me prove you’re untouchable.”Her breath hitched. The way he said it, like a vow, like a curse, it set something burning low in her stomach.By the time they reached the car, reporters

The Maybach eased into the glazed subterranean lot as if it owned the air. Greg stepped out, sunglasses shielding a face smudged with jet lag and victory, his suit still smelling faintly of champagne and private jets. He straightened with the practiced gait of a man trying to convince a room he’d already taken it all.“Greg Durojaiye,” the reception monitor blinked in polite sans-serif across every desk in the DiMarco tower, an internal alert with a little bell attached. The message didn’t just appear; it pulsed like an invitation to spectacle: GUEST ARRIVAL, GREG DUROJAIYE, 09:12.Maya, the receptionist, hadn’t meant for the notice to sing like that. She’d typed it in the system as a courtesy, but the sentence had slipped wry and small into the auto-broadcast: “Heads up: The dragon is in the building.” She’d hit enter and bit her lip, then watched the text ricochet across a hundred screens.By the time Greg reached the elevator, half the office had seen it.The whispers began like th