บททั้งหมดของ Reborn to Marry My Ex's Enemy: บทที่ 131 - บทที่ 140

POV WarrenFrenetic knocking pierced through my dream and made me bolt upright like a startled animal. Each impact of a fist against the oak door of my bedroom resonated inside my skull like a grenade exploding in a tunnel. I opened my eyes—or tried to—but the brightness filtering through the velvet curtains felt like a blade of light blinding me.My mouth tasted of bitter bile and cheap gin. I rolled to my side, feeling the once-pristine silk sheets tangled around my body like a sweat-damp shroud. The room stood as a monument to my decay. Whiskey bottles—some empty and overturned, others half-full—littered the Persian rug. The smell of evaporated alcohol and the acrid stench of stale smoke hung in the air, creating a suffocating atmosphere. I, the man meant to rule an empire, lay there, shipwrecked by my fury.“Warren, open this door right now!”Aser’s voice cut through the wood, carrying that frigid authority I had spent my life trying to emulate and, simultaneously, destroy.I grun

POV AmyTime seemed to have slowed down, losing that frantic urgency of flight that had defined my days since the registry office. For the first time in years, I woke up without the weight of an anvil on my chest. The sunlight streaming through Simon’s bedroom window didn’t feel like a spotlight on my misery; instead, it felt like an invitation to the future.Warren had vanished. No messages, no suspicious vehicles idling on the corner, no shadows cast under the moonlight. His silence acted as a balm I applied to my wounds every day, believing—in my deepest naivety—that the monster had finally found another labyrinth to haunt.The news from the outside was entirely positive. Simon and my father had consolidated their partnership masterfully. Seeing Antony smile again and noticing the spark of vigor in his eyes while he discussed market strategies with Simon over video calls was my greatest trophy. Megan and Nora had reached their destinations safely; the short, coded messages we excha

POV WarrenThe camera flashes fired like artillery rounds, but for the first time in months, I would rather not take cover. I bathed in them. Every shutter click composed a note in the symphony of my triumph—evidence that the Warren West the world saw humiliated at the altar by Amy Romano was dead. In his place stood a man reborn, clad in an impeccably tailored suit and accompanied by a bride who, though merely a consolation prize to fools, served as my Trojan Horse into the empire that was mine by right.I had orchestrated the spectacle down to the last millimeter—from the choice of flowers in the cathedral to the exact tilt of Maia’s head as we walked out of the church. I wanted the press to see every detail. Not only that, but I wanted social media—the very platforms that had turned me into a meme and an object of scorn—to swallow the image of my redemption.“Warren, a word for Vogue!” a reporter shouted, nearly toppling the barricade.I stopped. I wrapped my arm around Maia’s wais

POV SimonI entered that room feeling the air crackle with tension, as if lightning were about to strike the boardroom’s expensive carpet. The moment I saw Warren leaning over Amy, inches away from her personal space, a primal instinct—something I had spent years trying to tame beneath well-tailored suits and a diplomatic stance—roared inside me.I walked toward her with strides that admitted no interruption. As I wrapped my arm around Amy’s waist, I felt the tremor coursing through her body. She was ice cold, a marble statue on the verge of shattering under the weight of that oppression. I pulled her closer, merging her body with mine, wanting her to feel my strength, my warmth, and above all, my unwavering presence.“She is not alone,” I said, and my voice sounded like distant thunder, laden with a promise that only a man who had already seen the abyss could fulfill.I followed Warren’s gaze. I saw the exact moment his conqueror mask cracked. His face contorted—a grimace of pure hat

POV AmyThe lobby’s air conditioning at April Enterprises always carried a specific scent: a blend of expensive coffee, industrial cleaners, and the metallic tang of power. That morning, however, the air felt thick with something heavier, something that made it hard for my lungs to expand. The glass and steel of the reception area, once my father’s proud legacy, now resembled the bars of an arena where they would throw me to the lions.I wasn’t alone, and that was the only reason my legs still held me up. Simon walked beside me, his presence radiating a glacial calm that contrasted with the chaos roaring inside me. His hand, firm and protective against my back, acted as the sole anchor preventing me from being swept away by the current of fear.We entered the reception area, and time seemed to freeze. Warren and Maia waited for me like two trained hounds.Warren leaned against the marble counter, looking impeccable in a suit that likely cost an average employee’s annual salary. Beside