All Chapters of Wrecked by my enemy : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The rain falling over Wall Street was cold, sharp, and unrelenting. It smeared the city lights into streaks of harsh amber and red against the wet asphalt, running down the glass face of Blackwood Tower like liquid ice.Inside the private executive suite on the eighty-second floor, the silence was absolute.At 4:00 AM, the digital edition of The Financial Times broke the story.It wasn't a standard corporate leak or a vague speculative piece. It was an exhaustive, thirty-page investigative exposé backed by the complete primary archive of Edmond Wilson’s leaked documents. The wire transfer logs, the offshore dummy accounts in Liechtenstein, the forged 2008 Singapore clinical trial permits, and the full 2001 Joint Patent Accord co-signed by Victor Hawthorne and Arthur Blackwood were published in high-resolution digital clarity for the global public to see.The illusion of a thirty-year corporate war between two rival empires had evaporated overnight.In its place stood the cold, horrify

The silence in the wake of the feed going dark was far worse than the roar of the explosion.Inside the private executive suite on the eighty-second floor of Blackwood Tower, the static white noise from the severed satellite link hissed softly before dying out completely. For twenty agonizing minutes, the air remained frozen. Rafe Morale worked with razor-focused precision, mobilizing two tactical medical choppers and an emergency suppression unit to Greenwich. The confirmation arrived via an encrypted band: Nora had thrown herself through the sunroom's glass doors a fraction of a second before the primary gas flash, escaping with severe lacerations and smoke inhalation. She was alive, transferred to a secure private facility under armed guard. Victor had vanished into the treeline before local units reached the perimeter.Now, at 2:00 AM, the suite was bathed in the pale, sharp wash of the Manhattan skyline.Elias sat behind Damien’s massive obsidian desk, wrapped in his dark coat. H

The private Gulfstream jet cut through the dense cloud cover four thousand feet above the dark, jagged expanse of the Swiss Alps, heading south toward Milan. Inside the darkened main cabin, the steady hum of the twin engines was the only constant, a heavy vibration that rattled the crystal scotch glasses resting in the recessed armrests.Elias Hawthorne sat tucked into the leather corner of the rear conference divan, a tablet resting on his knees. His charcoal wool coat was thrown over the seatback, his dark shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the faint red marks Damien’s fingers had left on his pale skin during those frantic final moments in Manhattan. His dark eyes were wide, strained, reflecting the endless rows of financial schematics flickering across the glass display.Across the low mahogany table, Damien Blackwood stood in the narrow aisle. His dark suit jacket was gone, his dark gray dress shirt clinging to his broad shoulders and corded back as he leaned over the encry

The sudden reverse thrust of the Gulfstream’s engines roared through the cabin, a deafening mechanical scream that rattled the dark mahogany panels and shook the glass light fixtures overhead. The aircraft decelerated sharply along the rain-slicked runway of Malpensa, the sudden forward force pulling at their bodies.Neither man moved an inch.Damien’s broad, calloused hand remained anchored around Elias’s throat, his thumb pressed against the frantic, erratic pulse beneath the pale skin. His silver-gray eyes burned with a cold, terrifying intensity, waiting for the single word that would either mend their fragile world or shatter it into dust.Elias stared up at him, his dark eyes wide and drowned in unshed tears. His breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, his chest heaving against his unbuttoned shirt."No," Elias choked out, the word torn raw from his throat, shivering with absolute, desperate honesty. "No, Damien... I didn't sign it. I swear on my life, I didn't know about the Caym

The six minutes that had ticked down beneath the dark floorboards of Lake Como had ended not in fire, but in a cold, silent surrender.Rafe’s tactical breach unit had reached the cellar conduit with forty seconds to spare, severing the thermite relays before the structural charges could ignite. Catherine Hawthorne had been pulled from the dark vault, her pale face bruised, her ivory cardigan torn, refusing medical transport until she saw her son. The three patriarchs—Victor, Arthur, and Edmund—had been extracted from the dark drawing room under heavily armed Blackwood escort, separated into three different armored transports and held in isolation as the cold rain gave way to a harsh, gray morning over northern Italy.Now, thirty-six hours later, the war had returned to its true theater: the glass-and-steel monolith of Blackwood Tower in Manhattan.At 9:00 AM, the emergency joint session of the Blackwood Holdings Board of Directors was convened on the eighty-second floor. The air insid