All Chapters of Wrecked by my enemy : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

124 Chapters

Chapter 1: The Perfect Son

"To my son," Victor Hawthorne said, raising his glass, "and the future that finally makes this family complete."The applause started immediately. Three hundred people in a room that cost more per square foot than most people earned in a year, all of them clapping for a toast that wasn't a toast at all. Elias Hawthorne knew the difference. He had been learning the difference his whole life.He smiled and lifted his champagne. He looked at Sophia beside him, her hand warm and steady on his arm, her diamond catching the light. She was beautiful and brilliant. She was exactly what his father had ordered."You look perfect tonight," she said quietly, leaning close."Thank you," he said, and he meant none of it.The problem with being good at performance was that it left you alone inside it. Elias had been inside this particular performance for twenty eight years. The dutiful son, polished heir. The boy who knew how to sit straight, speak precisely and never let anything real show on his f

Chapter 2: The Predator’s Night Off

The Maybach cut through the downtown rain like it had a personal grudge against the city.“Tell me again,” Damien said, voice flat and low. “How close did Victor actually get?”Rafe didn’t look up from his phone, thumb flicking across the screen too fast, like the speed could change the numbers. “Close enough that if the SEC filing had landed yesterday instead of tomorrow, I’d be sitting here googling which countries still hate America enough to skip the extradition paperwork.”Damien pressed two fingers hard into the hinge of his jaw. The ache there had been building for days, a dull throb that no amount of coffee or rage could kill. Outside the tinted window, the city bled past in wet streaks of red taillights and white headlights. Eleven straight days of silent war calls at 3 a.m. to people who owed him favors they’d rather forget, buried trails, threats that never made it onto any official record. And still it had come down to fucking barely.Victor Hawthorne.The name landed in t

Chapter 3: No Turning Back

Elias’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking.Not the small, polite tremor he could hide in board meetings. This was full body, teeth rattling shit that made the black silk blindfold feel like it was already cutting off his air. He’d paid the obscene membership fee, heart beating so hard he could taste copper at the back of his throat. The handler’s grip on his elbow was firm but impersonal, guiding him through a door he couldn’t see, down a corridor that smelled faintly of leather and something colder underneath.No turning back now. He said to himself.The second the handler’s hand left his arm, the world went completely black. Not dim or shadowy. Pitch fucking black. The kind of dark that pressed against his eyelids and made every other sense scream louder. Silk sheets whispered under his bare feet when he took a hesitant step forward. The air was cool against his skin, carrying the faint scent of clean linen and something sharper, ozone, maybe, or the ghost of sweat from whoever had been i

Chapter 4: The Point of No Return

The stranger didn’t let Elias catch his breath.Elias lay there on the silk sheets, chest heaving, come cooling on his stomach, the blindfold was still tight against his eyes. His body felt wrecked already, legs shaky, ass throbbing from that first brutal round. But the stranger’s hands were back on him, rough and sure, flipping him onto his back like he weighed nothing.“Too much?” the low voice asked against his ear. Teasing and testing.Elias shook his head before he could think. “No. Don’t stop.”He hated how desperate he sounded. Hated that his cock was already twitching back to life just from the stranger’s breath on his skin. *I’m not gay. This is just stress. It is just one night.* The lie looped in his head like a warning siren, but his body wasn’t listening.Calloused fingers wrapped around his spent cock and stroked slow, too slow. Elias bucked up into the touch, a broken moan slipping out. The stranger chuckled, dark and satisfied, and kept edging him. Every time Elias got

Chapter Five: The Mask

The heavy silk press of the blindfold remained a warm, black wall against Elias’s eyes, but the shifting layout of the room told him the dynamic had irrevocably altered. The bruising, desperate force of the last hour had slowed, replaced by a dense, suffocating stillness that made his lungs burn. He lay flat on his back where the stranger had left him, his legs still trembling from the dual assault of the man's fingers and mouth, his thighs slick with the cooling, wet remainder of their shared undoing. Beside him, the mattress groaned. The stranger hadn't stood up to dress yet. He remained hovering in the dark, his broad, hot chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged intervals against Elias’s shoulder. The scent of raw cedar, river rain, and rich, unlit tobacco was thick on his skin—a signature so distinct it felt like an explicit clue, a corporate cipher waiting to be decoded. Elias turned his head slightly, his swollen lips parting against the damp silk. "You said it was time." "I

Chapter Six: The Weight of the Unseen

The rain in Manhattan never fell cleanly; it smeared against the glass of the Hawthorne Tower like grease, blurring the sharp, neon geometric lines of the city into a chaotic, watery gray. Elias stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his executive office, his forehead pressed against the cold glass. It was nearly midnight, hours after his father had left the building, yet the corporate air-conditioning continued to hum its low, mechanical drone, keeping the floor at a freezing, clinical temperature. He couldn't sit down. Every time he shifted his weight, his trousers rubbed against the raw, dark bruises blooming across his hips—a persistent, throbbing ache that felt less like an injury and more like a permanent eviction notice from his own body. He closed his eyes, and the darkness immediately filled with the sensory overload of the night before. His mind, usually a hyper-efficient calculator for asset distribution, had spent the last fourteen hours looping the exact same data poin

Chapter Seven: The Reveal

The fifty-first floor of the Hawthorne Tower was quiet, but it was the heavy, suffocating silence of a pressure cooker seconds before the seal fractures. Elias Hawthorne sat at the head of the massive, polished walnut conference table, his fingers curled tightly over the grain of the wood. The room was flooded with the harsh, clinical light of a Manhattan Thursday morning, cutting through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casting long, sharp shadows across the legal teams gathered on either side of the aisle. Today was the final closing sequence for the $2.3 billion northern port acquisition. The Newark terminal contracts were laid out in pristine, leather-bound folders, waiting for the digital signatures that would consolidate the Hawthorne Group’s absolute monopoly over the eastern seaboard. "The Delaware underwriters have cleared the compliance tokens," Victor Hawthorne announced, his deep, commanding voice cutting through the rustle of paper. He sat to Elias's right, his posture

Chapter Eight: The Architecture of a Lie

The fifty-first floor of the Hawthorne Tower was a cathedral of glass, steel, and hushed voices. It was a sterile, architectural marvel where silence operated as a high-value currency, and every heavy footstep on the polished Italian marble echoed like a gavel hitting a block. Normally, Elias moved through these soaring, sunlit halls with the natural, unthinking ease of a man who owned the very air he breathed. Today, he felt like a ghost haunting his own life. The emergency adjournment of the Newark signing sequence had left the boardroom in a state of absolute, chaotic whiplash, but Elias had retreated. He sat rigid behind his mahogany desk—a massive, imposing slab of rare wood that Victor Hawthorne had gifted him upon his ruthless promotion to Chief Operating Officer. It had been engineered to project an image of immovable dynastic power to anyone who stepped through the threshold. Instead, it felt like a barricade. It was a physical wall separating the perfect corporate prince

Chapter 9: The War Room

The heavy oak door had barely clicked shut behind Damien before the suffocating silence of the boardroom fractured into absolute chaos. "What the hell was that, Elias?" Victor’s voice didn't just command the room; it demanded blood. He slammed his heavy hand onto the obsidian table, a sound like a gunshot echoing off the glass walls. He stood up, his massive frame casting a long shadow over his son. "That wasn't a corporate negotiation. That was a public execution, and you were holding the rope for him!" "He knew things, Elias," Sophia interjected, her fingers flying across her tablet as she pulled up internal security logs. Her voice was sharp, clinical, and laced with panic. "The specific regulatory loopholes he cited regarding the harbor silt—those weren't in the public filing. Those were encrypted in our primary server. And worse..." She paused, looking up with a face pale with disbelief. "Our digital vault was accessed forty-eight hours ago. Someone used the twin security key.

Chapter Ten: The Blue Tie

The silk felt like a confession against his skin. Elias stood in the oppressive luxury of his dressing room, the air thick with the scent of his custom sandalwood cologne and the sterile, razor-sharp chill of the air conditioning. Laid out across the velvet-topped island was his armor for the evening: a midnight-navy tuxedo tailored so precisely it practically forced his shoulders back into a posture of absolute defiance. But right beside the jacket lay the true weapon. It was the tie Damien had demanded. Not the predictable corporate silver his father had approved to match Sophia’s gown, but a deep, iridescent blue. It was the heavy, suffocating color of a late-night sky just before a storm breaks—the exact color of the shadows that had cloaked them forty-eight hours ago in the velvet dark of *The Veil*. Elias picked up the silk fabric, his knuckles whitening as he gripped it. His mind was an absolute battlefield. Every logical instinct he possessed—the twenty-eight years of con

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