All Chapters of Runaway Bride to his Billionaire Rival : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

Scott knew the hit had landed before his lawyer even finished saying the word delayed.He stood by the office window, the city stretched out beneath him like a lattice of possibility and risk, and listened as numbers, signatures, and carefully timed disclosures were turned into a weapon by a man who had finally stopped pretending that love or desire was part of the story.“The Harbor file is frozen,” the lawyer said through the speakerphone, voice clipped, precise, devoid of inflection. “Not dead. Frozen. Somebody pushed a reputational concern packet into the review chain at exactly the right hour.”Scott’s jaw tightened. “Somebody.”“Do you want the name or the proof?”“I want both,” he said evenly, eyes moving to the conference table where the contract folder lay open. The pages gleamed in the overhead light, sterile, innocent of the poison embedded in their intent. Harbor mattered, not because Scott craved another public victory, but because the project sat at the center of the nex

Randy did not come to her door this time.He came to the screen.Freeda knew before she even looked because Teni walked in holding her phone with that subtle mix of urgency and calm that meant something had landed and no one had yet dared to comment aloud.“You need to see this,” Teni said, voice low, measured.Freeda took it.On the screen, Randy sat alone at a long table. The room behind him was empty. No assistant, no camera crew, no overworked intern pretending neutrality. He wore a dark suit, jacket buttoned, no tie. Hands clasped, fingers interlaced, the subtle angle of his shoulders suggesting humility without ever giving in. His eyes lowered just enough to appear penitent while keeping the distance that made him untouchable. A glass of water caught a slight reflection from the overhead lights, carefully angled to suggest sincerity without artifice.The caption above the clip read: A statement from Randy Owen.Winnie leaned over from behind Teni and caught the edge of Freeda’s

Freeda did not speak in the car.She sat with the signed page in her bag, feeling the weight of it settle against her side. Not applause. Not recognition. Better than that. The kind of certainty that pressed itself into her bones and stayed there. That room had chosen her without hesitation, without wobbling, without glancing toward the door the second Randy’s name was mentioned. The approval had landed like gravity, and she could feel it in the way her chest carried itself, the subtle straightening of her shoulders, the way her fingers flexed against the bag strap.Scott drove with one hand on the wheel, his eyes on the road, leaving her alone with it. That alone—that quiet space of respect—was more meaningful than anything he could have said. No commentary, no reflection, no advice. Just letting her feel the victory for herself.By the time they reached the apartment, the city had melted into gold beneath the setting sun. Windows in high-rise towers reflected it like molten light, s

Randy heard the sentence and did not leave.That was how Freeda knew it had landed exactly where it needed to.Not on his pride. That had been cut too many times already to rely on. Deeper. Far below the surface, in the place where men like him stored certainty. The quiet certainty that whispered, if I keep pushing, keep arranging, keep speaking, eventually the room will bend, and everyone will tire before I do.You should’ve left me alone.The tablet in his hand suddenly looked heavier. Not physically—he could still lift it—but it carried the weight of realization, the unspoken acknowledgment that the calm of truth had stolen the control he’d so carefully curated.Nadine stayed by the open door, body rigid but patient, a sentinel prepared for escalation. Marianne Harrington stood with one palm pressed flat to the back of her chair, her expression neutral but sharp as a blade. Mina Dorsey, harboring her own quiet authority, sat perfectly still with her folder closed, the kind of absol

Freeda hid the test before Winnie came home. Not because Winnie would betray her. Because joy made noise if you gave it to too many mouths too early. She wrapped the stick in tissue, slid it into the back of her top drawer under old receipts and a dead charger cable, then stood for a second with her palm flat on the wood, as if that could lock the truth in place. Scott watched from the bedroom doorway. “You look like you buried evidence.” Freeda closed the drawer. “I did.” His mouth shifted faintly. “That is a terrible way to describe our child.” “Our child is not the evidence,” she said. “The test is.” He came into the room, jacket off, tie loosened, joy still not fully hidden in his face despite how hard he was trying to behave like a grown man with sense. Freeda looked at him. “And that face is exactly why nobody hears this yet.” Scott exhaled. “I know.” “You look one sentence away from telling the concierge.” “I would never tell the concierge.” “You would absolutely t