All Chapters of SEDUCING MY ELDER BROTHER'S BEST FRIEND : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

BENJAMIN’S POV The penthouse corridor was dead. It was 3:00 AM on the eve of the wedding, and the clinical draft moving through the upper tier of the residence carried no warmth. I didn't knock. I stepped through the double doors of my mother’s private suite, my movements fluid, silent, and entirely devoid of life. My black tuxedo trousers brushed against the edge of the mahogany frame, the white silk shirt beneath my unbuttoned vest loosely covering the rigid compression wrap binding my fractured ribs. The physical pain from Leo’s jawline strike had settled into a dull throb—a minor systemic glitch compared to the void expanding behind my ribs. Eleanor sat at her grand writing desk, her rigid posture perfectly aligned against the high back of her leather chair. She wore a slate-grey silk dressing gown that fit her structural discipline even in the dead of night. She didn't look up from her tablet as the biometric lock on her door clicked closed behind me. "The European banking n

JANE’S POV ​The harsh, flickering fluorescent tube of the regional transit clinic hummed with a low vibration, casting a sickly green glare over the cracked linoleum floor. ​"Push, Jane! You need to push right now!" ​A violent, catastrophic spasm ripped through my lower abdomen—a white-hot, tearing muscle agony that made my vision blur into black spots. I threw my head back against the flat, thin plastic pillow of the triage cot, a jagged scream tearing from my throat as my sneakers slipped on the wet asphalt trail of blood and fluid pooling at the edge of the sheet. The winter rain was slamming against the high, frosted window of the Atlanta transit district, a stark contrast to the climate-controlled silence of Manhattan. ​"I’ve got you, Jane! Stay with me!" Leo shouted, his voice cracking into a high register of panic. ​He was leaning over the metal side rail, his heavy work boots covered in red clay, his hands shaking violently as he gripped my upper arm. His face was a

JANE’S POV The rhythmic clacking of my cheap plastic keyboard was the only network handshake left in my universe. Data Log: Entry 40922. Asset Classification: Regional Timber Invoice. Status: Processed. It had been six months since the Greyhound transport dropped us into the working-class district of Atlanta. There were no panoramic glass domes here. The air inside my small apartment smelled of wet laundry, radiator rust, and the cheap vegetable broth simmering on the electric hot plate in the corner. I lived under the assumed name of Matilda Malloy—a ghost worker balancing unlinked paper ledgers for a remote logistics clearinghouse, earning just enough loose paper cash to scrape by. My fingers paused over the keys as a soft gurgle came from the worn wicker basket beside my desk. I turned my head, the hard, defensive lines of my face instantly softening as I looked down at my son. Leo was wrapped in a faded flannel blanket, his tiny fingers clawing at the air. He was grow

BENJAMIN’S POV After an hour of her talking and venting her frustration without having any sympathy or concerns about her, she finally stood up and walked away. The oak doors hadn't even finished sealing her frantic, desperate exit before my fingers hit the primary encryption terminal on my desk. I didn't pause to filter the adrenaline out of my throat. I initiated a direct, unmonitored baseline bypass to my mother’s private European routing node. The connection didn't route through the building's server partitions; it lit up a secure, black-budget satellite link that ignored the room's ambient monitoring network. "It’s validated, mum," I growled softly, my voice dropping into a flat register. On the glass terminal interface, Senior Vance’s digital diary logs were still scrolling in cold green pixels, a definitive blueprint of patricide. "We have the hard file. We have the evidence. Our suspicion is correct all along. The insulin pump override logs match her biometric handshake

VICTORIA’S POV The underground parking garage beneath the abandoned Vance logistics terminal in Queens smelled of damp concrete, industrial oil, and decaying cardboard. It was 3:45 AM. Rain from the East River seeped through the cracked foundation walls, dripping rhythmically onto the hood of my unlisted black sedan. I sat in the passenger seat, the collar of my trench coat pulled up high against my jawline. My fingers were clamped tightly around an unlinked decryption ledger. After the catastrophic row in Benjamin’s study, my home had become a literal panopticon. He had descended into a subterranean bunker beneath the Manhattan tower, completely freezing me out of the primary residence infrastructure. He had made it clear: I owned his signature, but I was nothing more than a legal phantom living in his ice. The driver-side door clicked open, and Kaelen slid into the vehicle. He didn't turn on the interior lights. The only illumination came from the tactical, low-lux display o