Lahat ng Kabanata ng The CEO’s Vengeful Bride: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

The night stretched before me like a shadow, thick and suffocating. I sat in Damien’s study again, this time with an entirely different purpose. The files that usually occupied the space, neat, had been swept aside. I wasn’t looking for evidence of his corporate wrongdoings, nor was I searching for ways to bring him to his knees. No, tonight was different. Tonight, I was hunting something far more personal, something that spoke to the heart of the man I was trapped with.I had found it by accident, of course. A slip of paper in the back of a drawer, buried beneath other meaningless notes. It had been too tempting. The curiosity that had led me into his study before was a beast that couldn’t be tamed. And when I had pulled the drawer open, I had discovered something unexpected: a small velvet box.At first, I had convinced myself it was nothing more than a keepsake. A trinket from his past—perhaps a token of his previous relationships, but nothing that would affect the present. But the

The storm had passed, but the clouds hadn’t.They lingered over the countryside estate like a warning. Ominous and low, pressing against the sky as if the heavens themselves was reluctant to breathe.I stood by the window of the guest room, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. The countryside should have been a reprieve, a lull in the chaos of our marriage—a place to breathe.But the silence here wasn’t peaceful. It was loud with questions I couldn’t answer.Damien had been different since the night of the almost-kiss. That moment in the library—storm outside, firelight dancing across the scar on his chest—had left something unfinished between us. I hadn’t let it happen. I couldn’t. But the look in his eyes when I pulled away haunted me more than any ghost from my past.There was pain there. Not rejection.Something else. Something deeper.I hadn’t seen him since breakfast. He said he had meetings to attend via video call, but I didn’t ask questions. He didn’t offer explanations. Th

Elena Montrose’s POVThe silence between us was thick enough to choke on.Damien hadn’t said a word since we returned from the city, and neither had I. The air in the car had been tense, tight, like a bowstring drawn too far back. Now, in the quiet of the estate, it felt even more unbearable.He was pacing in front of the fireplace, sleeves rolled up, jaw clenched. Every movement screamed restraint like he was holding back something volatile.And I couldn’t take it anymore.“You haven’t said a damn thing since we got back,” I snapped, arms crossed as I leaned against the doorframe of the library.“I didn’t realize silence required your permission,” he replied without looking at me.It was infuriating—the way he wielded his control like a shield. A fortress. Always composed. Always in command. Even now, with that threatening note still burned into both of our memories, he acted as if nothing could touch him.But it had touched me.It had cut through the steel I’d built around myself.S

Elena Montrose’s POVI didn’t sleep.After the question, after the look in Damien’s eyes, I slipped past him and shut my bedroom door. But I couldn’t sleep. Not even close.That flicker of fear I saw when I said “Viper”… it wasn’t just recognition. It was dread. The kind of dread that doesn’t come from hearing a name, it comes from “living with it”.I sat by the window for hours, staring into the blackness outside, the small flash drive heavy in my coat lining like a ticking bomb. Every thread I’d pulled had only revealed more knots, and I was starting to wonder if any of this would ever unravel cleanly.It was nearing 3a.m. when I heard:A sharp, muffled noise down the hall.Not footsteps - “Glass shattering”.I was on my feet instantly. I opened my door in silence, barefoot, the cold floors biting at my skin as I padded through the corridor toward the west wing. The light beneath Damien’s study door flickered.I paused, pressing my back to the wall. No guards. No staff.Just him.I

Elena Montrose’s POVI’d never been to a party that felt like a funeral.But then again, this wasn’t just any party.This was the “annual Crest Industries charity gala”, hosted on the exact date my father’s empire began to collapse. The press called it a coincidence. Insiders called it poetic justice.But I called it what it was: A public spectacle dressed in philanthropy. A reminder that no sin went unpunished.And tonight, I was at the center of it all.“Elena,” Damien said, his hand firm against the small of my back as we stepped out of the car and onto the red carpet. “Smile”.I did. Barely.Cameras flashed. Questions were hurled like knives.“Mr. Crest! Is this your new wife?”“Elena, how does it feel to be back in society?”“Any comment on the Montrose trial reopening?”I ignored every voice and kept walking.The entrance to the glass-domed ballroom rose like a shimmering mirage ahead of us, gilded in gold, light, and silent judgment. Inside, the crowd buzzed - socialites in fl