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Chapter Ninety -Six
Ramon rubbed a hand over his face, frustration burning like a migraine behind his eyes, and took a slow, steady sip of vodka. The liquor slid down his throat with a bitter punch, doing absolutely nothing to ease the pressure in his chest. He had asked his friend and business partner, Davis, out to a bar to talk about Silver Line Logistics—really talk about it—but so far, the conversation had spun in circles like the ceiling fan above them. The bar was loud, thick with perfume, cheap cologne, and the artificial sweetness of flavored alcohol, but Ramon barely heard any of it. His mind kept drifting back to numbers, contracts, and the cruel finality of a deal slipping through his fingers. “What do we do now?” he asked finally, his voice tight, the question scraping out of him like gravel. Davis didn’t answer immediately. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on his glass as if the answer might be hiding somewhere in the bottom. Then he sighed—an exhausted, defeated soun
Chapter Ninety-Five
Rico’s voice cut through the thick silence like a whip. “That is a lie!” he shouted, chest rising and falling sharply. “How can you stand there and say something like that? Grandfather, I donated that blood for Eliron. There is no universe in which I would steal it.”The Patriarch lifted his gaze slowly, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face like age carved into stone. “Rico… I don’t know what to say,” he said softly, his voice tinged with disappointment.“Well, say you believe me. I have the video footage showing Dr. Harry taking the blood. What I cannot comprehend is why this stranger would come in here and deliberately take the fall for something he clearly did not do.”Damian stiffened beside them, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. The tension in the room thickened like smoke, choking and heavy. He wanted to breathe, but each inhalation felt wrong—weighted, dangerous, uncertain.“Can we see this video?” Damian asked, his voice cautious, almost too careful, even to his o
Chapter Ninety-Four
The polished marble of the West estate gleamed under the overhead lights, but Damian barely noticed. His chest felt tight, constricting with every step, his hands curling into fists at his sides as he followed Rico and the patriarch down the hallway. The blood was in the Patriarch’s office, sealed in a cooler to hide its unnatural glow, to reserve it for purposes only a few knew. And Damian knew exactly what a single misstep here could mean. This was going to be more complicated than he had anticipated. Maybe—no, probably—Rico would figure out he had taken the blood. If that happened, every plan they had painstakingly built would unravel. The thought of it made Damian’s stomach twist. Finding Rico’s trust destroyed, navigating the fallout with the patriarch breathing down his neck… it was a bigger mess than he had wanted to imagine. Each footfall echoed too loudly in the hall, a grim reminder of the weight pressing down on him: the stolen blood, the shattered trust, the looming dis
Chapter Ninety- Three
Damian stared at Rico, his chest tightening as the word left his mouth. “Stolen?” he repeated, disbelief twisting every muscle in his face. The syllable sounded wrong on his tongue, harsh and accusing, yet impossible to deny. “That isn’t possible. It doesn’t make sense. Who would even attempt something like that?” Rico didn’t flinch. He held his gaze steadily, though exhaustion lined every contour of his face. “I don’t know who did it,” he said, his voice quiet but firm, “but I know for certain that someone took it. And Eliron never received the blood.” The patriarch’s eyes shifted to Damian, and the weight of his disappointment hit instantly, more suffocating than any shouted anger could ever have been. It was silent, suffused with expectation and judgment, and it pressed on Damian like a hand around his chest. He tried to straighten, tried to meet the gaze, but the force behind it made him feel small, incompetent, fragile. “That is quite an accusation, grandson,” the patriar
Chapter Ninety - Two
Melinda sat on the bed with her knees pulled to her chest, her cheek throbbing from the last slap he had given her. The room smelled faintly of perfume and fear—her own fear—because Ramon had made sure she would not dare try escaping again. He had dragged her by the arm, forced her into the room, slammed the door, and locked it with a finality that echoed in her bones. Her wrists still hurt where he had grabbed her, and her throat burned from the words she had not dared to scream. He had taken her phone too. He had snatched it right out of her shaking hand, stared at the number that had dared call her, and his face had twisted—not in rage, which she was used to, but in something far worse: calculation. “You won’t be talking to anyone,” he had said. “Not on my watch.” Then he had walked out, leaving her trapped in a room that felt smaller with every passing second. Now she lay on the bed, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, her eyes aching and her head pounding. Every bruise on
Chapter Ninety - one
Sonia held her breath as her father’s footsteps faded down the marble hallway. The echoes shrank, disappearing into silence, leaving only the steady thrum of her own heartbeat. She pressed herself closer to the wall, knuckles digging into the cold surface, trying to anchor herself as the knot in her stomach tightened. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she cracked the door open and peeked out.Her eyes immediately fell on the bag swinging lightly in her father's hand. The same one he had carried earlier. Her stomach dropped, a chill climbing her spine. Was that… the blood? The thought hit her in waves, each more suffocating than the last. She gripped the doorframe tighter, as if the act itself could steady the storm of questions racing through her mind.Did Grandfather know? Was he expecting this? Had Damian told him everything—or only what suited some plan she wasn’t meant to understand? Her chest tightened with a mix of fear and frustration. She wanted to run, to hide, to pretend she had n
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