Todos los capítulos de The Heirmaker's Bride: Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

The elevator ride down was short and familiar.Nikolai stood straight beside Adrik, backpack secured, toy stethoscope peeking out of the side pocket like contraband. He watched the numbers tick down with the seriousness of a man heading into negotiations.“You’re quiet,” Adrik said, glancing at him. “That usually means you’re thinking something dangerous.”Nikolai frowned. “Golf is not dangerous.”Adrik smirked. “That depends on who you play with.”They stepped outside into the crisp air, the city still half asleep. Adrik opened the car door for him out of habit, and Nikolai climbed in without help, buckling himself carefully.“I am going to practice putting today,” Nikolai announced once they were moving. “You always miss from the left.”“That’s a lie,” Adrik said smoothly. “I miss from everywhere equally.”Nikolai considered that. “That is worse.”Adrik laughed, low and genuine, the sound filling the car. “You sound like your...” He stopped himself easily, like he always did. “..lik

Another sob tore through him. He pressed his palm flat against the stone, as if touch alone could bridge death.“You were real,” he whispered fiercely. “You mattered. You were mine.”The wind carried his words away, offering no answer.Damian stayed there long after his strength gave out, kneeling in the dirt like a penitent king, grief pooling around him like blood he could never wash off.Above him, the sky remained indifferent.And beneath his rage, beneath the vows of destruction, one truth gnawed endlessly at his heart.No amount of revenge would ever bring her back.But until the last enemy fell, Damian Blackwell would keep tearing the world apart anyway.Because vengeance was all he had left to offer her.Lysandra found her father in his study, the windows open to the late afternoon sun, the scent of cigars and old leather heavy in the air.He didn’t look up when she entered.She stood there for a moment, fingers clenched in the silk of her dress, pulse racing. For the first ti

The tires crunched against gravel as Damian’s car rolled to a stop.He didn’t look up at the house at first.He sat there, hands still on the steering wheel, chest raw and aching from the hours he’d spent kneeling in dirt that still smelled faintly of rain and regret. His eyes burned. His throat felt scraped hollow.Then he saw it.A familiar car parked where it didn’t belong.Lysandra’s.His jaw tightened instantly.“What the hell is she doing here,” he muttered, teeth grinding together.He had warned her. Clearly. Coldly. Repeatedly.Do not come here.Do not wait for me.Do not pretend this house is yours.Anger cut through the grief like a blade. Sharp. Focused. Welcome, almost. Rage was easier than the hollow ache clawing at his ribs.He stepped out of the car and slammed the door harder than necessary, the sound echoing across the estate. Guards stiffened but said nothing. No one ever stopped him anymore.As he walked toward the entrance, his mind betrayed him.Seraphina standing

Adrik held her gaze for a long moment, then nodded. “Alright.”He hesitated at the door. “Just… be careful. News like this has a way of stirring ghosts.”When the door closed behind him, the office felt too large.Too quiet.Sera remained standing long after he left, hands braced against the edge of her desk, breath shallow, heart restless in a way she refused to name.Five years.She told herself that number again, like it should mean something definitive.Five years since the fire.Five years since the ashes.Five years since she buried Seraphina Vale and became Dr. Sera Voss.And yet…She crossed the room slowly and stopped at the window.The city sprawled below her, orderly, alive, unaware of blood prices and vendettas. Snow dusted rooftops. Lights flickered on as evening crept in.Her reflection stared back at her in the glass. Calm. Composed. Untouchable.A lie.Her fingers curled against the window ledge.Regardless of what Damian had done.Regardless of how he had broken her.

A sound caught in her throat, sharp and unwelcome.For the first time in years, her eyes burned.“I’ve lost him,” she thought, the realization striking like a blade. My son is dying in front of me.She reached out, just barely touching the edge of the stretcher as the medics lifted it into the ambulance.“Severe blood loss,” one paramedic called out. “He’s in hypovolemic shock.”“We need trauma surgery immediately.”“ETA to hospital?”“Seven minutes if traffic cooperates.”Seven minutes.Her nails dug into her palm.She had ruled men who begged for mercy. Ordered deaths without blinking. Built an empire on precision and fear.But standing there, watching her son being loaded into an ambulance like any other broken body, she felt something dangerously close to helplessness.Tears pooled in her eyes.She did not let them fall.The doors slammed shut.The ambulance pulled away, sirens wailing into the night, carrying Damian between life and death.Lysandra sank to her knees on the drivew