All Chapters of The Biker's Bride Wants Revenge: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

RHEAEveryone’s been working nonstop. The deadline is close enough to feel, like it’s breathing down our necks.And for some reason, I’ve had this constant sense of doom sitting in my chest. I can’t explain it. Nothing’s technically wrong. We’re on schedule. The team is delivering. Still, something feels… off.Everyone here is exhausted. Overworked. Over-caffeinated. Running on fumes and spite.Strangely, morale isn’t terrible.I shake off the spiral for what has to be the fifth time today and toss my empty bottle of caffeinated water into the bin.We finally locked in the campaign models last week. Since then, I’ve basically been living on set. Working with the crew. Adjusting lighting. Reviewing prototypes and samples. Scrapping most of them. Starting again.If there’s a special place in hell for perfectionists, my name is probably already engraved.I know they’re cursing me under their breath. The picky daughter of a bitch who won’t approve anything unless it’s exactly right.Can I

RHEAShe lifts her chin stubbornly. “Damien is—”“Careful,” I cut in softly.Because I don’t like the way she says his name. I don’t like the way she looks when she says it. And I definitely don’t like her calling him hers like I’m some temporary inconvenience.“You’re a stripper,” she pushes on. “You could’ve just slept with my uncle and moved on. Instead you ruined everything. When people find out a man like him is associated with someone like you—”My hands curl into fists at my sides.“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Or what delusion you’re living in,” I say evenly, even though my blood is boiling, “and I don’t care enough to figure it out.”I lean forward so we’re eye level.“But you will watch your mouth. You will not speak about my husband like that.”The word comes out sharper this time.“And you will never call him yours again.”My husband.Mine.The possessiveness in my chest surprises even me, but I don’t fight it.“You walked into my office to call Damien a liar?

RHEA“That’s imposs—” Eric begins, but he doesn’t get to finish.I cut him off before he can gather momentum. If he gets even a full sentence out about timelines and logistics, I might as well start packing up my office. Christian would dismantle every weak point in my plan in seconds — and maybe dismantle my career along with it.“Everything,” I say firmly. “Design. Production. Visuals. We redo it all. We complete it within a week. At most, we’ll only be a few days behind schedule.”“The quality?” Christian asks, as if Eric never spoke.His tone is simple. Direct. That’s the only thing that matters to him.“It will surpass the original campaign,” I reply without hesitation. “We’ll shift creative direction entirely.”I glance briefly at the iPad still clutched in Eric’s hands.“If Wardrobe was bold enough to steal our designs knowing they don’t even align with their brand identity, that’s their mistake. We’ll lean harder into ours. We’ll refine the Voss Atelier signature so sharply th

RHEARoofus opens the door looking slightly confused and very flushed.I wrinkle my nose immediately. “You didn’t get back with that bastard, did you?”“What? Of course not,” he says quickly, cheeks turning even redder. “It’s… someone else.”I click my tongue. I’m already tired. “So soon? And he’s not still here, right?”“What happened to hello?” he protests.Out of habit, I push past him into the flat, waving Damien in behind me.Roofus goes even pinker at the sight of him, and I suddenly remember the very enthusiastic comment he once made about Damien being “extremely hot”.I narrow my eyes at him.“Damien, it’s great to see you again,” Roofus says a little too brightly. “I didn’t properly thank you last time.”Damien smiles at him. Warm. Easy.I arch a brow.What is happening?“I should be thanking you,” Damien replies smoothly. “I had a look around before we came in. It’s good to see the place is in better condition.”“It really is,” Roofus says, almost glowing. “I only have you t

DAMIEN“No.”“Thank God I wasn’t asking, then,” Dot mutters, unbuckling her seatbelt.She’s barely looked at me all night. Not in the car. Not when we left the house. Not since the knitting kit.That’s how I know something’s wrong.That, and the way she keeps rubbing her wrist like she’s trying to scrub something off her skin. Every time I reach over to stop her, she flinches away from my touch.My hands tighten around the steering wheel.Damn it.It’s always like this. I get close—close enough to chip at those carefully built walls—and she rebuilds them twice as high.I replay the evening in my head, searching for whatever I did wrong so I can fix it. So I can apologise.I come up with nothing.Then again, since when have I needed a reason to apologise to her?She practically ran out of the house after grabbing the kit, leaving me behind to reassure Roofus and act like her behaviour was perfectly normal.“Neither was I,” I reply.My gaze burns into the side of her face. She still doe