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49 - Fragments
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2025-05-12 17:35:04
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The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 72 - Aimlessly
The taxi idled at the curb, a silent, yellow vulture waiting for me to name a destination. But I had none. The world outside the smudged window was a blur of indifferent city lights. Every direction felt wrong, every street a path leading further away from him. The driver cleared his throat, a gruff, impatient sound that grated on my raw nerves. “So where to lady?” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Where? Back to the hovel I shared with George? To a homeless shelter? To the anonymous apartment represented by the cold, hateful key still clutched in my sweating palm? Each option was a different kind of hell, a different kind of surrender. Using George’s key felt like proving Damien right, a betrayal so profound it made me physically ill. “Just.... drive,” I finally whispered, my voice a ghost of itself. “Please. Just go.” He shrugged, pulling away from the curb, and I watched the imposing gates of Damien’s estate recede in the rearview mirror until they were swallowed b
The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée 71 - Audacity
He gave a short, bitter laugh, a sound completely devoid of humor. It was the sound of something breaking. “Love? You have the audacity to stand in my house and use that word, after what I just saw?” He gestured towards my tightly clenched fist. “what is that in your hand, Angel? A token of his undying affection?” My hand flew open instinctively, revealing the small, damning piece of metal. “It’s a key. He tried to give it to me. He said it was for a safe place. I didn’t want it, Damien! I tried to refuse!” “A key,” he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “A key to your new life together, I presume. How very thoughtful of him. Planning your escape right under my nose.” “No! That’s not what it is! That’s not what I want!” Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and useless. “Why won’t you believe me?” “Believe you?” He was in front of me now, his sheer presence a physical force. He looked down at me, his green eyes glacial. “I believe what I saw. I saw the woman I off
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
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