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Chapter 110
publish date:
2026-10-23 10:45:29
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BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN Chapter 125
Clara's POV By the time I rounded the corner of the east concourse, mopping, these two radio nerds were arguing about a man's shoulders and I couldn't really do anything. It was Tuesday night and just after 11 o'clock. It was very quiet and dark in the building except for the long strip of yellow light spilling across the press table. Two sophomores were putting up microphones for this Saturday's radio show. They both had the same Briar Radio hoodie on so I knew who they were. They both were very familiar to me like most people who work late in this building. I could tell who they were by the trash they left from their sneakers. The tall one had a habit of drinking oat milk and left empty cardboard cups in the cup holder. The other one, who wore glasses, had a habit of eating sunflower seeds and left an impeccable pile of shells. They were practicing their introduction for before the game and they were both acting like they were famous. "That's fine, but we have to do the Redwoo
BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN Chapter 124
Viktor’s POV The post had been up for eleven days when I finally let myself read the comments. I do this at 5:40, before the eggs. I have eaten the whites of three eggs and a half cup of blueberries at 5:55 every morning for thirty-one years, and I read the news in the same order, and I read my son's life last, on a tablet at the end of the table, in the way a man examines a bill he already knows he will not enjoy. Fake fiancée, real liar? 👀 Four thousand likes. A girl in my son's coat, shoes in her hand, her chin turned a few degrees toward the glass as though she had felt someone watching. The comments beneath it were what comments are: a dozen jokes about the locker room, a Pilates instructor who had left a heart, a boy with a hockey avatar who wrote respect under a photograph he hadn't been invited to take. The word fake sat above it all like a small, bright coin. I turned the tablet over and finished my eggs. Then I counted the ice in my second cup of coffee, a habit from
BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN Chapter 123
Allie POV Shawn asked me again at eleven on Saturday morning, in the same booth at Little Wren with the same oat milk latte, and I had my answer ready in my teeth like a nut I'd been cracking all week. I had brought the frog mug in my tote bag, wrapped in a dish towel, and I set it on the table between us before he could finish his sentence and slid it across the wood with one finger. "It's yours," I said. "I know it's mine, technically, but it's been yours since you borrowed it with the face of a man who meant to bring it back. I'd like you to keep it. No." He looked at the mug and then at me. "No to the mug, or no to the other thing?" "All of the above." "Okay," Shawn said, and let out a breath that was almost a laugh. He drummed two fingers on the table, the pattern I knew, and then stopped, as though he had remembered he was no longer allowed to. "Can I ask why?" "Because you want closure." "Is that bad?" "Closure is what people ask for when they want to be forgiven witho
BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN Chapter 122
Carter's POV At 3:04 on Saturday morning I was sitting on the third stair from the top with a hockey stick across my knees, waiting for a man I was almost certain I was wrong about. It was the fifth night. Brody had taped a baby monitor to the smoke detector on Tuesday, which was his idea and therefore both unnecessary and the only plan we had, and the receiver sat on the step beside me, a pink plastic duck with a row of green lights that flickered whenever the house breathed. I had learned the landing the way a goalie learns a net. The third floorboard creaked. The fifth, the one outside Dean's door, groaned like a dying goose. The smoke detector chirped every forty seconds, and I had stopped hearing it around Wednesday, which in hindsight was a mistake, because I almost missed the click of the back door. I held still. Footsteps in the kitchen, careful, weighted toward the heels, the walk of someone carrying his shoes. The hinge of the pantry door. The long, slow creak of the cel
BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN Chapter 121
Clara's POV I wrote down his mother's lullaby on the back of a napkin from Mr. Tran's at 4am and spent the next eighteen hours trying to figure out if I was a thoughtful person or crazy. My brain had gotten stuck on the lullaby. Three up, four down, long pause. No way I'd be getting to sleep. I sat cross-legged on the green sofa in the dark, the radiator whining loudly behind me. I drew five wobbly lines across the napkin with my purple pen, and carefully played through each note of the lullaby as my first singing teacher had taught me. I hummed so I wouldn't wake up Allie, who wasn't home. Most nights this week she wasn't home, and I had decided, being the generous person I am with plenty of secrets of my own, that it must be Shawn. I was happy for her. It was in D minor, 3/4 time. It went up a sixth, which makes it feel like it's grasping for something on a high shelf. Then it paused on a suspension, dragging out that note for an extra beat. After humming it around forty times
BOUND TO THE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN Chapter 120
Carter's POV Every year on November twelfth, I buy two coffees: one black, one loaded with cream and sugar until it looks tan and sweet. Every year, I drink the wrong one. I had never brought anyone to my mother's grave before. Not sure why I told Clara about the date—just blurted it out at the library when she asked why I couldn’t meet up on Wednesday. I kept my eyes down, talking like someone weighed down by something heavy—it’s the anniversary, I said. She didn’t reply, just wrote a time on a sticky note and slid it to me. That’s how she ended up clutching both coffees next to me in the car at seven in the morning, even though we can barely stand each other for ten minutes at a time. “I’m holding hers,” Clara said, when I handed over the second cup. “But I’m not supposed to drink it.” “No one drinks it. It’s an offering.” “Pretty terrible offering,” she said. “She’d think it was perfect,” I told her. “She said it was the only civilized way to take coffee.” Greenhill Memoria
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