All Chapters of Wrecked by my enemy : Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

The rain had turned into a thick, needle-fine sleet that smeared against the windshield of the armored SUV as it tore down Route 17 toward Teterboro. Inside the darkened cabin, the hum of the twin-turbo engine was overshadowed by the steady, unblinking glare of three satellite terminals mounted into the leather console.Elias sat crammed into the passenger seat, his dark coat thrown haphazardly over his shoulders, his silk shirt open at the throat where Damien’s heavy grip had left a faint, lingering crimson mark. His hand rested flat against the center console, fingers interlocked tightly with Damien’s. Damien drove with a terrifying, icy efficiency—one broad hand anchored to the leather wheel, his knuckles stark white, his silver eyes tracking the slick asphalt ahead while the secondary monitors flickered with live market updates.Across every major financial network, the terminology had fundamentally shifted.The reporters were no longer debating proxy votes, compliance filings, o

The call did not come from the federal detention center, nor did it come from the sharp, frantic line of a corporate defense attorney.It came at 3:12 AM from a private, unlisted directory assigned to the palliative neurological floor of St. Jude’s Private Pavilion in Upper Manhattan. The voice on the other end was quiet, sterile, and measured—a senior nursing director delivering a short, unvarnished update that stripped away the corporate battleground, the proxy wars, and the threat of federal indictments in a single breath.Catherine Hawthorne’s cognitive baseline had declined sharply following the midnight media broadcast. Her vital signs were fluctuating.The black armored Mercedes cut through the wet, deserted avenues of Upper Manhattan in total silence.Damien drove. He didn't speak, nor did he offer empty platitudes or hollow assurances. He kept one hand firmly anchored to the wheel while his other broad, warm hand rested heavy over Elias’s knee, his thick thumb pressing steady

The eighth floor of the Lang & Associates building on East 53rd Street did not look like a corporate law firm anymore. Over the past eleven days, while the media obsessed over the wreckage of the Greenwich audio leak and the unsealed Zurich vault footage, the high-ceilinged floor had undergone a quiet, terrifying metamorphosis.The polished glass partition walls that once housed junior partners and antitrust associates had been cleared entirely. In their place stood thirty high-end workstation pods equipped with encrypted communications suites, real-time media monitoring displays, and dedicated data-analytics rigs.Dozens of young, sharply dressed operatives moved between the desks with absolute efficiency. They were not corporate litigators or compliance attorneys. They were veteran campaign strategists, digital narrative architects, and high-level opposition research operatives pulled directly from state-level political machines.Sophia Lang stood at the far end of the central floor

The private corner room on the twelfth floor of the Bellevue Federal Medical Annex was devoid of corporate luxury. There were no polished black granite tables, no velvet sofas, and no panoramic views of Midtown Manhattan. There was only the clinical glare of recessed fluorescent lights, the faint smell of antiseptic, and the heavy, continuous hum of a high-efficiency air filtration unit.Victor Hawthorne sat in a high-backed vinyl armchair near the reinforced window. He wore a heavy wool dressing gown over his grey flannel trousers, his silver hair neatly combed back, though his pale skin was thin and mapped with prominent blue veins. An IV stand dripped a saline solution into his left arm at a steady, silent rate.Even in federal medical custody, surrounded by court-ordered health monitors and court security officers standing outside the heavy door, Victor maintained a posture of absolute, aristocratic authority.The heavy door opened with a soft electronic buzz.A middle-aged man in

The conservatory on the ground floor of the Greenwich manor was built in 1920, framed by iron arches that had turned dark and pitted over a century of coastal damp. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass panes, the manicured lawn sloped away into the morning fog, the rain falling in a fine, silent mist that clung to the dark hemlocks.Inside, the long oak refectory table was entirely bare.No tablets. No encrypted sat-phones. No leather-bound legal briefs or iced carafes of water.Sophia Lang sat at the head of the table. She wore a high-collared knit dress in charcoal, her blonde hair pulled back into a low, flawless twist that drew the skin over her high cheekbones taut. Her hands were flat on the polished grain of the wood, resting side by side, completely still.To her right sat Nora Hawthorne. Edmund’s daughter wore a dark green silk blouse with the sleeves turned back once at the wrist. Her posture was relaxed, almost casual, but her clear, amber-tinted eyes moved continuously across