Wrecked by my enemy のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 1 - チャプター 10

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

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

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

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

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