All Chapters of Wrecked by my enemy : Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

The heavy, bruised quiet hanging over Manhattan felt like a trap waiting to spring. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass of Elias Hawthorne’s top-floor sanctuary, a freezing drizzle smeared the skyline into jagged, ghostly shadows. Inside, the air was dense, smelling of cold marble, stale coffee, and the lingering, intoxicating memory of Sophia’s skin—a ghost of warmth that made Elias’s chest ache with a dark, dangerous hunger.Seventy-two hours. That was the deadline she had demanded. Three days of absolute silence, three days of standing down while the woman he loved walked straight into the lion’s den alone.Every second that ticked past on the wall clock was an agonizing execution. His body still carried the raw, visceral ache of her touch from their last secret encounter—that frantic, breathless surrender in the dark where their forbidden romance had burned away every corporate lie between them. Their passion was a dangerous, steamy fire, born of blood feuds and corporate warfare,

The penthouse suite on the eighty-fifth floor of the Hawthorne Tower was shrouded in a heavy, suffocating stillness. Low, dark storm clouds scraped against the reinforced glass, blotting out the Manhattan skyline and plunging the sprawling office into a dim, slate-gray gloom.Victor Hawthorne sat behind his monolithic desk of polished obsidian, completely unmoving.He did not pour a drink. He did not look at the glowing financial tickers streaming across his secondary monitors. He did not check his encrypted comms. He sat with his hands resting flat on the cool stone surface, his dark eyes fixed on the empty space ahead of him.To an outsider, he appeared passive—a tired corporate patriarch resting after weeks of relentless warfare. But those who knew Victor understood the truth: this absolute stillness was his most dangerous state. He was a master tactician who had spent forty years turning silence into a weapon.He had everything he needed.Every variable had finally aligned. The s

The private study on the top floor of the Blackwood estate felt less like an executive retreat and more like a war room built for a siege. Outside, the freezing sleet had turned into a thick, clinging snow, blanketing the dark grounds in a suffocating white shroud. Inside, the only light came from the low embers burning in the massive stone fireplace and the harsh, cold glare of three high-definition monitors displaying real-time market liquidations.Damien Blackwood stood behind his dark mahogany desk, his coat off, his black dress shirt unbuttoned at the neck. His sleeves were pushed up to his forearms, revealing the tense, wired muscles of a man who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. His jaw was set, his dark eyes fixed on the entrance doors.When the heavy oak double doors glided open, Elias Hawthorne stepped into the room.He looked haggard, a phantom of the corporate titan who had once ruled boardrooms with effortless arrogance. His dark coat was soaked with melted snow, his hai

The heavy, soundproof doors of the subterranean command bunker beneath the Hawthorne-Blackwood secondary holding facility swung shut with an airtight seal. Outside, the news of Edmond Wilson’s devastating publication had thrown the international stock exchanges into absolute freefall. Inside, the world narrowed down to glass whiteboards, glowing monitors displaying real-time market liquidations, and the unbearable, suffocating heat between two men who were born to be enemies.Four days.That was all the time Elias Hawthorne and Damien Blackwood had before the joint board of directors triggered the forced liquidation of their holdings. With Victor Hawthorne unaccounted for after the sudden raid on his top-floor sanctuary, and the federal prosecutors descending on every corporate asset tied to their names, Elias and Damien had been forced into an unthinkable, high-stakes alliance: constructing the Consortium Defence.It was an intricate, ruthless hostile takeover architecture designed t

The subterranean archives beneath the Alpine estate smelled of damp limestone, aged parchment, and cold steel.Located three levels below the master residence, the vault had remained undisturbed since the late nineties. It was a concrete bunker designed to withstand a siege, lit only by low-voltage recessed halogen strips mounted along the moisture-stained ceiling.Elias Hawthorne stood before the central row of heavy steel filing cabinets, his fingers coated in a light layer of grey dust. He wore a dark wool sweater, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows, his posture tight with an intense, quiet focus.While Damien spent the early morning hours coordinating security protocols ahead of Victor’s Plaza press conference, Elias had followed a faint lead—a set of legacy reference codes buried deep within the Singapore ledgers he had turned over days prior.He pulled open the lowest drawer of the central cabinet. The metal runners groaned in the stillness.Elias reached inside, turning over