Todos os capítulos de My Ex-Boyfriend is my New Step-Brother: Capítulo 91 - Capítulo 100

"I'm not playing defense anymore, Scar. I’m tired of running from a ghost when I have the matches to burn the house down," Roman said, his voice coming out as a low, terrifyingly calm vibration.I shivered, but not from the draft coming through the floorboards. I sat on the edge of the metal cot, watching him. He wasn’t the hunched-over, bleeding survivor I’d pulled into this shack. He looked different. The light from the laptop was reflected in his eyes, making them look like cold blue glass. The frantic energy from before had settled into something heavy and predatory."What does that mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "Roman, you’re still hurt. You can barely move your arm.""I don't need my arm to bankrupt him," he said, and for the first time, he wasn't just typing; he was smiling. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the kind of look a wolf gives just before the snap. "He’s trying to freeze your mother’s accounts? Fine. I’m going to make sure he can’t even buy a cup of coffee

"He’s panicking, Scar. I can see the metadata moving in real-time. He’s trying to scrub the archives, but the more he deletes, the more the mirrors flag it as an admission of guilt," Roman said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated through the small space of the shack.I sat on the floor with my back against his legs, watching the tiny, cracked screen of the second tablet. On the live news feed, Marcus was stepping out of a black SUV in front of his Manhattan headquarters. He wasn’t wearing his usual smug smile. His tie was slightly askew, and for the first time in my life, I saw a bead of sweat on his temple that the cameras didn’t hide."Look at his eyes," I whispered, leaning closer. "He looks like he’s looking for an exit that isn't there.""He’s calling in every favor he’s bought in the last decade," Roman said, his fingers clicking rhythmically, a steady beat of digital war. "I'm intercepting the outbound pings. He just tried to reach the Attorney General's private line

"Look at the red, Scar. It’s not just a dip anymore; it’s a hemorrhage," Roman said, his voice a low, vibrating hum against my ear.I leaned into him, the scratchy wool of the blanket still draped over my bare shoulders. We were tangled on the cot, the cold morning air of the shack biting at our skin, but the heat coming off the tablet was enough to burn. On the screen, the Reed Global stock ticker was a jagged, falling knife. It hadn't just opened low; it was plummeting so fast the circuit breakers were tripping every ten minutes."Is that because of the Northcrest files? The ones Miller sent?" I whispered."It’s everything," Roman muttered, his fingers ghosting over the screen. "The Switzerland logs, the 'Angel' audio, and now the Apex manifest. The market doesn't care about morality, but it hates a liability. And right now, Marcus is the biggest liability on the East Coast.""What are they doing? The people in the building?""They’re turning on him," he said, a dark, jagged sliver

"You think you’re so clever, don't you? Hiding in the dirt like a pair of rats while my life's work burns!"The voice didn't come from a distance. It was a jagged, breathless snarl from just outside the shack's door. I jumped, the tablet sliding from my lap and clattering to the floor. I hadn't heard a car—he must have left his vehicle down the ridge and climbed the rest of the way like a man possessed, driven by a rage that wouldn't let him breathe.Marcus stumbled into the light of the doorway, and my stomach turned. He wasn't the polished god of the Reed Tower anymore. He was sweating, his expensive silk shirt torn at the shoulder, and his eyes were bloodshot. He’d tracked the ghost-ping on Lydia’s cloud, following the digital trail of his own betrayal right to our doorstep."How did you find us?" I breathed, backing away until my heels hit the edge of the cot."I built the systems you’re using to destroy me, Scarlett! Did you really think I wouldn't have a backdoor into your mothe

"Are the lights too bright? We can adjust them, Scarlett. We want you to be comfortable," the interviewer said, her voice dripping with that rehearsed, soft-shell empathy that usually made my skin crawl.I looked at her—a woman named Sarah who had built a career on 'exclusive' emotional bloodletting. I looked at the three cameras angled toward my face, then down at my own hands. I wasn't wearing the five-carat diamond Marcus had forced on my finger for every gala. I wasn't wearing the silk Dior sheath or the heavy, pore-clogging foundation that made me look like a porcelain doll. I was wearing a faded black sweater of Roman’s and a pair of jeans. My hair was tied back in a messy knot. I looked tired. I looked like I hadn't slept in three years, which was the most honest thing about me."The lights are fine, Sarah," I said, my voice sounding foreign in the quiet studio. "And I don’t think I’m ever going to be 'comfortable' again. Let’s just talk.""People want to know about the 'Angel,