All Chapters of Beg no more married to his enemy : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Chapter 52: Damian’s POV​The leather chair in my downtown office felt stiff against my back. I stared at the financial reports spread across the mahogany desk, watching the numbers flash on the screen. Richard’s eighty million dollars was moving through our shell companies just like we planned. Every short-term debt we bought from Elena’s distribution partners was locked down. By the end of the week, her new independent music label would have nowhere to press CDs and no digital network willing to touch her catalog.​The office door pushed open without a knock.​Chloe walked in, wearing a sharp red blazer and sunglasses pushed up into her blond hair. She dropped a leather handbag onto my desk and sat across from me, crossing her legs with an impatient huff.​"The security guards at Carter’s estate actually had the nerve to walk me off the property," Chloe said, her voice sharp and bitter. "I tried to serve them the distribution injunction papers in person, and Carter acted like he own

Chapter 54: Elena’s POV​The morning sun cast pale, sharp lines across the hardwood floor of the estate’s breakfast nook. I sat at the small table with a tablet propped against the coffee pot, scrolling through the early morning entertainment headlines while I waited for Carter to finish a call in his study.​The screen blinked, refreshing with a push notification from CityPulse, one of the industry's most read digital gossip blogs.​My thumb hovered over the notification banner, and my stomach dropped.​Headline: The Real Thief? Inside the Plagiarism Scandal Hitting Elena Whitmore’s New Independent Label.​I tapped the screen, my breath catching as I read the first paragraph. The article claimed that my upcoming label launch wasn't built on my mother's catalog at all. Instead, it cited "leaked session logs and anonymous insider sources" alleging that I had stolen unreleased demo tracks recorded by Chloe Blackwell during our marriage years ago, attempting to pass them off as my own in

Chapter 56: Elena’s POV​The digital clock on the bedside table read 2:14 AM.​I stared up at the dark plaster ceiling of Carter’s bedroom, listening to the steady sound of the wind rattling the heavy windowpanes outside. My phone lay face down on the nightstand, silent, but the words of the text message I had received earlier still burned behind my eyes.​I know you think Carter is protecting you, Elena. But you belong with me. This isn't over.​It was from Damian. Even after everything—after the divorce papers, the public exposure of his corporate frauds, and the failed smear campaigns—he still believed he had a claim on me. He still thought he could reach past the security gates and rattle my nerves whenever his obsession flared up.​I turned onto my side, pulling the duvet tighter around my shoulders.​A gentle shift in the bed caught my attention. Carter rolled over, his arm sliding naturally across the mattress to pull me against his chest. His breathing was slow and even, but t

Chapter 58: Elena’s POV​The digital master files uploaded to the global streaming aggregators at exactly midnight.​I sat alone at the mahogany desk in the estate's study, watching the live transmission monitor. For the first twenty minutes, the screen showed standard traffic: steady baseline requests from local listeners and regional playlist curators. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my tired eyes, waiting for the inevitable wave of legal challenges or distribution flags that Damian and Richard's lawyers usually threw our way.​None came.​Instead, at 1:15 AM, the numbers on the streaming dashboard spiked.​It started as a sharp incline, then turned into a vertical wall. By 3:00 AM, my mother's remastered catalog had broken into the top ten on the global digital charts. By 7:00 AM, the lead single—the track I had spent weeks mixing and engineering in secret—had surged straight to number one worldwide, outperforming every major commercial pop release backed by corporate cartels.​

Chapter 60 Elena’s POV​The lobby of the Mayfair hotel was quiet. The marble floor was polished clean, and the crystal lights overhead cast a soft glow. I stood by the concierge desk to check my schedule for the afternoon distribution meetings while the receptionist printed my badge for the media showcase.​"Everything is confirmed for the afternoon session, Miss Whitmore," the receptionist said, handing over the laminated pass. "Your car will be waiting outside at twelve sharp."​"Thank you," I said, putting the pass into my case.​I took the elevator up to the fourth floor and walked down the hallway to my suite. Inside, I opened my laptop, plugged in the drive with the audio files for tomorrow's broadcast, and sat at the desk to look over the European contract terms.​My phone buzzed on the desk. It was a direct call from Carter. I swiped to answer, and his voice came through the line.​"You have been in that room for hours," Carter said. "How is London treating you?"​I leaned ba