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37 - Bit Less Grumpy
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2025-04-22 10:49:04
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The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 70 - Stillness
I tried to pull my hand back, horrified. “No! George, get up! I don’t want it! I don’t need it!” His fingers tightened around mine, forcing the cold metal of the key into my hand. “Please, Angel. Just for my own peace of mind. Let me do this one thing right.” His desperation was suffocating. I felt trapped, cornered by him in the booth, with Elena watching the whole pathetic spectacle unfold. All I wanted was to get away, to get back to the mansion, back to the fragile peace I’d found with Damien. Across the street, parked in the shadows of an alleyway, I didn’t see the sleek black car. I didn’t see the man in the driver’s seat lower a pair of binoculars. And I didn’t see the flicker of a curtain in the back seat, behind which Damien Salvatore watched the entire scene, his face hardening from weary grief into a mask of pure, unadulterated ice. He saw George on his knees. He saw him pressing something into my hand. He saw my distress, my tears, and interpreted it not as rejection
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 69 - Two Minutes?
We agreed to meet at a small, unassuming café downtown, the kind of place you’d never look at twice. The entire drive there, I practiced how I would tell Damien about it later, framing it as a simple, necessary meeting. But a knot of unease was tied tight in my gut. Elena was already there, waving from a corner booth, her smile bright and reassuring. She jumped up and wrapped me in a hug that felt a little too tight, a little too performative. “You look...okay,” she said, studying my face as we sat down. “Better than okay, actually. Is he.. is Damien treating you alright?” “He is,” I said, a genuine warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of him. “He’s been surprisingly kind.” “Kind?” Elena’s eyebrows shot up. “Damien Salvatore? Well, miracles never cease.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But listen, about George. You really need to watch your back. I heard him talking to some of his old cronies. He’s not thinking straight. He feels like Salvatore stole you, and he’s obse
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 68 - Listen
The days after the funeral were unnervingly quiet. The fragile intimacy forged in Damien’s study, over bruised knuckles and whispered confessions of childhood ghosts, had not shattered in the morning light as I’d feared it might. Instead, it had settled between us, a silent, shimmering thing, as delicate as a spider’s web. The ice hadn’t fully melted, but there were cracks, fissures through which I could sometimes see the man beneath.He was still grieving, a fact evident in the deep shadows beneath his eyes and the way he would sometimes stare into the middle distance, his thoughts a thousand miles away. But he was no longer a phantom in his own home. He sought me out for quiet dinners, not in the cavernous dining hall, but in the smaller breakfast nook overlooking the gardens. We didn’t always talk. Sometimes we just sat, the silence companionable, the shared space a comfort in itself. He’d watch me sketch, a small, unreadable smile sometimes touching his lips. It was a langu
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 67 - Reasons
“did he hurt you?” Damien stated, his voice flat, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “I’m okay.” I whispered, though I wasn’t. I felt violated, terrified, and strangely protected. It was a confusing maelstrom of emotions. He opened the first aid kit, taking out an antiseptic wipe and cleaning his own knuckles with a detached efficiency. The skin was broken, already purpling. “You should let me do that,” I said, finding my voice. He glanced up, surprised. After a moment’s hesitation, he handed me the wipe and a small tube of antiseptic cream. My fingers trembled as I gently cleaned the blood from his hand, dabbing at the broken skin. His hand was warm, strong, the contrast between its capacity for violence and the unexpected stillness with which he allowed my touch unsettling. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly, concentrating on his knuckles. “He’s...not worth it.” “No one touches what’s mine,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his eyes fixed on my face. The possessiven
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 66 - Wouldn't Like My Reasons
Before Victor could even process what had happened, Damien hauled him to his feet by the front of his shirt, slamming him against the wall. “She told you to leave her alone.” Damien'’s voice was still lethally quiet, but it vibrated with a controlled rage that was terrifying to behold. His other hand shot out, fingers clamping around Victor’s throat, cutting off his air supply. Victor's eyes bulged, his face turning a mottled purple. He clawed at Damien’s hand, gurgling sounds escaping his lips. “Damien, stop!” I cried, horrified. He was going to kill him. “You’ll kill him!” For a moment, I didn’t think he’d heard me. His focus was entirely on Victor, his expression one of pure, unadulterated darkness. Then, slowly, as if fighting an immense internal battle, his grip loosened slightly. He didn’t release Victor entirely but held him pinned against the wall, gasping for air. “If you ever,” Damien enunciated, his voice a low growl, each word dripping with menace, “touch her, sp
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 65 - Scream
The days following Sophia’s death were a hollow echo. Damien was a ghost in his own home, rarely seen, and when he was, his eyes passed right through me as if I were already a figment of his past. The lawyers had been in touch, their voices crisp and impersonal, outlining the terms of my public disgrace. I was to be the villain of the piece, the calculating gold digger. The statement they’d drafted was a masterpiece of character assassination. I hadn’t signed it yet, putting off the inevitable with a pathetic sort of defiance.George’s messages continued, a persistent, cloying stream of apologies and offers of help. I ignored them, the thought of leaning on him, of trading one cage for another, nauseating. Yet, his words – “I can protect you” – sometimes echoed in the lonely silence of my suite, a tempting whisper against the backdrop of Damien’s glacial indifference.The funeral was a grand, somber affair, attended by a veritable who’s who of New York society. I stood at the p
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