บททั้งหมดของ My Father’s Enemy, My Obsession : บทที่ 121 - บทที่ 130

The courtroom feels different when it’s his name on the docket and not Vince’s.Smaller, somehow. Less like an arena and more like a ledger being balanced.“On the matter of The People v. Damian Kade,” the judge says, adjusting his glasses as he scans the stack of papers before him, “the court has reviewed the prosecution’s motion to dismiss the remaining major counts in light of newly discovered evidence implicating Valen Cross and certain Moretti‑aligned entities.”A hum ripples through the gallery.Ava sits in the front row, hands clasped so tightly in her lap, her knuckles ache.Damian stands beside his counsel at the defense table, shoulders squared, expression carefully neutral.“Given the extent of that new evidence,” the judge continues, “and the defendant’s documented cooperation with law enforcement in dismantling that network, the court grants the motion. Counts One through Six are hereby dismissed with prejudice.”It lands like a soft blow.No gavel crash. No gasp. Just wo

The letter arrives on thick paper, like Vince has tried to smuggle a piece of his old life past prison intake.Ava finds it on her desk when she returns from a meeting—no return address, but the postmark says enough. A faint chemical smell clings to the envelope, the institutional soap and bleach of incarceration.For a minute, she just stands there, staring at her own name in his precise handwriting.Ava Loren Moretti.He’s never written it on an envelope before.He’s always had people for that.Cass’s voice crackles in her earpiece, oblivious. “We’ve got the draft on the Brooklyn project ready, if you want to—”“I’ll look at it later,” Ava says, throat dry. “I need…a minute.”“Copy,” Cass says lightly. “I’ll be in my glass cave, plotting.”The line clicks off.Ava picks up the envelope.Her hands don’t shake.Not exactly.She closes the office door, lowers the glass blinds halfway, and sits on the couch instead of at her desk. This isn’t a desk thing.She slides a finger under the f

They turn the top floor into a stage.By late afternoon, the raw concrete and cables are hidden under sleek black platforms, LED panels, and a modest forest of cameras. The glass walls frame the skyline in winter light; the city itself becomes their backdrop.Rows of chairs fill the main hall—front rows reserved for investors and board members, middle for press, back for “community partners” and a few very curious enemies with hastily printed badges.Riley orchestrates the chaos like a conductor, tablet in one hand, headset on.“Media into section B, shareholders to A, don’t let the councilman anywhere near the open bar yet,” she tells her staff. “And someone make sure the livestream lower third doesn’t say ‘Empire of Sin – Cult Meeting.’ I *will* fire you.”Nolan hovers at the registration table, double‑checking RSVPs against his own internal list of people they actually want in the room.“Three aliases for the same hedge fund,” he murmurs, crossing out names. “Persistent.”“Let them

Nolan’s new place doesn’t look like somewhere Riley Torres would live.Not yet.It’s all clean lines and restrained colors—steel, slate, dark wood. The kind of apartment you could photograph for one of those “minimalist executive” spreads, if you swapped the double monitors for a coffee table book.Riley stands in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips, surveying it like a general assessing an empty battlefield.“You own more throw pillows than this,” she says.“I own exactly two throw pillows,” Nolan says, locking the door behind them. “They came with the couch. I haven’t found a reason to throw them out yet.”She points at him. “That is a cry for help.”He smiles, faint, setting his keys in the tray by the door.“You’re here,” he says. “Help acknowledged.”She makes a pleased noise and wanders into the kitchen, opening cabinets and lifting lids.“You’ve got four of the same mug,” she calls. “You do realize there are colors that aren’t white, right?”“I had them delivered,”

The doctor’s words echo in Ava’s head all the way home.*You’re pregnant.*She hears them over the cab’s radio, through the hum of traffic, under the buzz of her phone.Pregnant.It’s too big a word to fit in her skull.By the time she steps into the penthouse, her movements feel automatic—coat off, bag on the console, heels kicked halfway under the bench.The place is quiet.Damian’s still at the office. Leo is with a security team at a site visit. Cass is, presumably, terrorizing the grid.Ava stands in the hallway a moment, listening to the hush.Her purse feels heavy on her shoulder.She walks it into the bathroom.The little white stick is still in the inner pocket, wrapped in a tissue like contraband.The doctor didn’t *have* to send her home with it. The bloodwork and office tests were enough. But when the nurse had asked if she wanted to keep it, Ava had heard herself say yes.Proof.She unwraps it now, fingers careful.Two lines.They’re as pink and solid as they were under f