Todos os capítulos de HIS TO RUIN: Capítulo 101 - Capítulo 110

IRIS.Together, we walked into the bank, our hands each holding a part of Derrick’s key bunch. My finger's brushed against the cool metal but not his skin. We had come to terms with my “touch problem”—a silent agreement that lived between us without needing further explanation.The moment the glass doors slid open, a rush of chilled air wrapped around me. The bank did not just look expensive, it felt expensive.The scent of leather and expensive cologne lingered in the air.To the left stood a waiting area furnished with deep brown leather couches, separated by glass tables with metallic gold legs. Fresh white lilies sat in tall vases, adding a delicate contrast to the authority the room carried.The counters were made of dark mahogany wood, smooth and intimidating. Behind them stood uniformed staff, each dressed sharply in tailored suits, their name tags gleaming under the light. Even their smiles looked rehearsed, uninformed and controlled. Security was not left out. Their guards l

IRIS.The guard blurred past me, sprinting toward the perimeter, but the intruder was already a ghost in the wind. I stood alone in the backyard, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, thoughts scattering like frightened birds.My mind raced through scenarios, each worse than the last. Either I was being watched, or the intruder had taken something vital from Anna’s house—something that might have been the key to everything.The guard returned a moment later, doubling over with his hands on his knees. Sweat beaded at his hairline and dripped steadily onto the dry earth. He didn't need to speak; he just waved his hands in a gesture of defeat.He’d lost him. The “spy” had been faster.A primal sound of frustration ripped through my throat. It wasn’t anger at the poor guard, but at the chaotic inconsistency of life. One minute, you think you have a handle on the truth; the next, the ground falls out from under you.I spun around and kicked the wooden cabinet beside the back

IRIS.“Help! Somebody help us!”The scream tore out of my throat, raw and unrecognizable, shredding the night air. It didn’t sound like me. It sounded like an animal caught in a trap.Derrick’s weight became dead and heavy against me. My hands pressed frantically against his chest, desperate to stem the tide, but the blood was relentless. It seeped through his fingers, hot and sticky, soaking into the pavement, soaking into me. The metallic tang of copper rose up, thick and suffocating, drowning out the expensive perfume and the stale city air.“Stay with me,” I choked out, my voice cracking. I shook him, hard. “Derrick, look at me. Do not close your eyes.”His eyelids fluttered, heavy with shock. His lips moved, shaping words that had no sound.“I’m… here,” he wheezed, a bubble of red forming at the corner of his mouth. “Iris… get back.”“I’m not going anywhere,” I sobbed, pressing harder on the wound. “You idiot. You stepped in front of me.”Sirens wailed in the distance, a rising s

IRIS.Who would have thought that the pursuit of truth came with sleeplessness stitched into its very lining?I hadn’t slept properly in days. Not the kind of sleep that restores, at least. Mine was shallow and brittle, a thin film of unconsciousness that shattered at the slightest thought. Every time I closed my eyes, my brain resumed its quiet, frantic arithmetic—names, timelines, phone records, headlines—arranging and rearranging them as though sheer persistence could force them into a confession.The dining table had transformed into a war room. Newspapers lay open in uneven, jagged stacks, their edges curling under the weight of my obsession. Glossy journals, crime reports, corporate filings—anything that whispered of offshore accounts or unregistered donations. I read them all. I annotated margins until the ink bled through the paper like a bruise.Anna used to say that patterns only reveal themselves to those patient enough to sit still.I was sitting. I was patient. And yet, e

IRIS.“Insomnia would have been kinder than this.”The thought dragged itself through the sludge in my skull before my eyes even opened. My head throbbed with a steady, merciless rhythm—heavy, wet pulses that felt less like a headache and more like a punishment. Each beat was intentional. Cruel.I inhaled tentatively, testing the air, testing my own limits. My tongue felt thick and coated in ash. My throat was a desert, parched and stinging.I forced my eyes open.The ceiling was wrong. It wasn't the minimalist white of my apartment. This was an ornate, high-gloss expanse trimmed with delicate gold crown molding that framed a chandelier hanging like a cluster of frozen rain. Pale, ash-colored curtains filtered the morning light, slicing the room into strips of blinding brightness and cold shadow.I didn't move. I didn't even breathe for a second.Where the fuck am I?The sheets beneath me were too smooth, silkier and cooler than my own. They carried the scent of expensive detergent, s