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43 - Exploration
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2025-05-01 14:15:05
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The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 79 - Rose and Gold
The first night in the old Victorian, we slept on the floor. The house smelled of cedar and old books, dust motes dancing in moonlight. We’d bought a mattress, a set of sheets, nothing else. It didn’t matter. We had each other, and that was enough. I woke to Damien tracing shapes on my bare shoulder. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” he whispered. I thought for a moment. “When I was eight, I wanted to be a cloud.” He snorted softly. “A cloud?” “Soft. Unreachable. Always moving.” I turned to face him. “Your turn.” “I used to count ceiling cracks when my parents fought. Got up to two hundred and sixteen once.” We traded secrets like currency, small and large. I told him about the time I shoplifted a candy bar because my stepmother forgot to pack lunch. He told me about the first time he fired someon..how he’d thrown up in the bathroom after. Each confession was a brick in the foundation we were rebuilding. Six months later, I stood in the sun-room again. The canvas
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 78 - Promises
The first time I saw Damien cry, it was over a paper crane. We were in the sun-room of the penthouse, the one I’d quietly claimed as my studio. Morning light pooled through floor-to-ceiling windows, painting everything gold. I’d pushed the furniture aside so I could spread a ten-foot canvas on the parquet. The painting was almost finished: a riot of indigo and violet wings, a cocoon splitting open, a small figure stepping out. My mother’s butterfly, reborn. Damien sat on the wide window seat, legs crossed, sketchbook balanced on his knee. He’d been quiet for an hour, charcoal whispering over paper. I glanced up to find him staring at the canvas, eyes glassy. “What’s wrong?” I asked, setting my brush down. He didn’t answer right away. Just lifted the sketchbook so I could see. He’d drawn me—kneeling beside the canvas, hair twisted up in a messy knot, brush poised mid-air. But he’d added something else: a swarm of tiny paper cranes rising from the wet paint, lifting the butterfly
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 77 - Dawn
Three days. I slept in the recliner beside his bed, showered in the nurse’s locker room, survived on vending-machine coffee and Rosa’s soup. I told him everything......about the café, Elena’s betrayal, the key George pressed into my palm. I told him about my infertility, the hollow ache I’d carried since the doctor’s office. I told him about my mother, about the painting of the butterfly, about the way his voice had been the only safe thing in the storm. On the third night, his eyes opened for real. They were glassy with morphine, but they found me in the dark. “Hey.” he croaked. I was on my feet instantly, leaning over him. “Hey yourself.” “You stayed.” “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.” He tried to smile; it came out crooked. “Heard everything. Every word.” My cheeks flushed. “Even the embarrassing parts?” “Especially those.” His fingers tightened around mine. “Love you too. Thought I’d dreamed it.” “You didn’t.” I pressed my forehead to his. “You’re stuck with me now.”
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 76 - Save Him
One moment the air was thick with stale dust and the copper stink of old metal; the next, everything snapped into terrible focus—sound, smell, color, all of it razor-sharp.I saw the muzzle flash first: a white-hot pinprick that lit Caruso’s face like a snapshot. Then the deafening crack, the punch of it in my eardrums, the bullet’s flat whine. And Damien......Damien was already moving.He didn’t dive away. He lunged forward, shoulder first, body curving around mine as if he could absorb the shot with his own flesh. It was fast, stupid, perfect. I felt the impact shudder through him before I heard the wet thud of lead meeting muscle. A fine mist of blood sprayed the dusty air, catching the overhead fluorescents in a brief, crimson halo.Then silence. A thick, ringing silence that swallowed even the echo.I was on my knees before I realized I’d fallen. My palms scraped raw concrete, grit embedding under skin. The world narrowed to two things: the warm, pulsing pool spreading benea
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 75 - Bullet
The answer came with a deafening crash as the warehouse’s main loading bay door was ripped from its hinges, crumpling inwards as if hit by a freight train. Framed in the opening, silhouetted against the night, stood two figures. One was Marco, his usual sardonic expression replaced by a cold, professional readiness. The other was Damien. He was dressed in dark, tactical gear, a stark departure from his usual tailored suits. The cold fury on his face was a terrifying thing to behold, a whitehot rage that seemed to burn away the very air around him. His eyes found mine across the vast space, and in them, I saw no doubt, no suspicion. Only a singular, murderous purpose. He had come for me. “Let her go, Caruso,” Damien’s voice was unnaturally calm, but it cut through the silence like a razor’s edge. Caruso laughed, pulling me to my feet and dragging me in front of him, a cold pistol suddenly pressed against my temple. “Salvatore! So glad you could make it. I was worried your broken he
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 74 - Trap
A man stepped into the light. He was older than Damien, perhaps in his early thirties, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that screamed money and power. He was handsome in a sharp, predatory way, with dark, intelligent eyes that assessed me with a chilling amusement. “Angelina Winters,” he said, his voice a silken purr. “It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I am Luciano Caruso.” The name meant nothing to me, but the way he said it, with such self asured arrogance, told me it was supposed to. “What do you want with me?” I asked, my voice trembling but defiant. “With you? My dear, you misunderstand your role in this little drama.” He gestured to a rickety chair in the center of the floor. “You are not the prize. You are simply the bait.” He glanced at Elena, who was watching me with undisguised hatred. “Elena here has been most helpful. She has quite a talent for weaving webs. She felt, quite rightly, that Damien had overlooked her superior qualities in favor of
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