All Chapters of Wrecked by my enemy : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The private dining room at the back of the townhouse was cold. It was always cold, built into the shadow of a limestone courtyard where the afternoon sun never quite reached.Elias sat at the end of the long dark table, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone. The room smelled of seared duck, thyme, and the faint metallic tang of rain leaking down the glass of the French doors.Across from him sat Nora.At twenty-four, she looked so much like their father it was almost sickening—the same high, sharp cheekbones, the same dark eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. But unlike Victor, Nora’s intensity was quiet. She wore a simple charcoal sweater, her dark hair pulled back into a loose knot, a heavy silver ring spinning continuously around her thumb as she stared down at her plate. She was finishing her graduate degree in environmental policy, building a life as far away from the boardroom as she could manage, ye

The grand ballroom of the Plaza was an ornate cage of gilded leaf, crystal chandeliers, and polished white marble that reflected the shifting, tuxedoed sea of Manhattan’s elite. Flashbulbs popped in steady, blinding rhythm near the grand entrance, casting long, stark shadows across the room. The scent of black orchids, expensive champagne, and warm silk hung thick in the air, masking the cold, desperate tension underneath.On paper, tonight was the Hawthorne-Lang annual spring charity gala—a carefully orchestrated public spectacle meant to showcase unity, wealth, and the upcoming merger of two corporate juggernauts.In reality, it was a battleground.They managed the evening. They managed it perfectly.Sophia Lang stood near the towering glass champagne pyramid, holding a thin flute of crystal. She wore a backless dress of dark midnight silk that clung to her curves like liquid night, her skin pale and luminous under the warm glare of the chandeliers. Her posture was flawless. Her smi

The air inside the safehouse penthouse was thick, warm, and static-heavy, smelling faintly of heated circuit boards, old rain, and the metallic tang of dried blood. Outside the floor-to-ceiling double-paned glass, Manhattan was completely submerged in a blinding downpour, the city skyline turned into a grey, melting smear of concrete and distant yellow lights.Elias sat on the edge of the unmade king bed, wrapped in nothing but a dark charcoal blanket that had fallen low across his hips. His ribs were bruised a deep, tender violet from their chaotic escape down the service stairwells three nights prior, but the pain in his bones was nothing compared to the slow, burning heat lingering deep within his muscle tissue.Beside him, the heavy mattress shifted. Damien Blackwood lay on his stomach, his bare, broad back a map of long, jagged pale scars and fresh, reddish-purple nail marks that Elias had driven into his skin hours ago. Damien’s hair was dark, damp, and tangled, resting against

The penthouse foyer was frozen in a cold, suffocating silence. Catherine Hawthorne stood near the sleek marble threshold, her tailored black coat unbuttoned just enough to reveal a high-collared silk blouse underneath. She didn't look like a woman who had just trespassed into a high-security safehouse. She looked like a sovereign monarch inspecting a poorly managed province.Elias remained rooted to the spot by the mahogany desk, his breath caught tight in his throat, his hand still trembling against his phone. Across the room, the air-gapped tablet lay flat on the wood, its screen still displaying the digital hash of her signature—the elegant, slanted proof that his mother, the fragile, shell-shocked woman of Bedford, had authored the execution orders that triggered a corporate war."You look terribly pale, Elias," Catherine said softly, her voice carrying a crisp, ringing clarity that made the hairs on his arms stand up. She set her small silver velvet case onto the entryway console

The rain fell over Red Hook in heavy, dark sheets, blurring the skeletal outlines of decayed brick warehouses and rusted shipping cranes along the East River.The SUV’s tires tore through standing water, coming to an abrupt halt in the flooded alleyway behind the old Blackwood Archive Building. The engine cut, leaving only the deafening rhythm of storm water hammering against the roof.Damien Blackwood stepped out into the freeze without a coat, his white dress shirt clinging to the broad expanse of his chest. His jaw was set like forged steel, his silver-gray eyes fixed on the rotting copper doors of the structure ahead.He didn't open the rear door. He yanked it wide.Lila Voss sat huddled on the leather seat, her body shivering from the violent collision of truth, trauma, and exhaustion. Her clothes were disheveled, her lower lip swollen where Damien had bruised it hours earlier."Out," Damien commanded, his voice a low, iron rasp that left no room for debate.Lila swallowed hard,