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Chapter Ninety-eight
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2025-08-05 04:26:09
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The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter one hundred and three
Sophie’s POV ** The Gala** The Grand Ballroom of the Montclair Hotel shimmered like a gilded cage. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the vaulted ceiling, scattering fractured light across the sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. The air smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and the faint metallic tang of hidden weapons. Damien had insisted on three extra security sweeps before we’d even left our home. I adjusted the emerald pendant at my throat, Damien’s birthday gift last year, chosen to match my eyes, he’d said and scanned the room. Lila was across the ballroom, surrounded by a flock of girls her age, her copper curls pinned up in an elegant twist that made her look far older than twelve. She wore the sapphire dress we’d picked out together, the one that brought out the blue in her eyes. She was laughing at something, her head thrown back, utterly unaware of the two plainclothes guards circling like sharks just beyond her periphery. Alexander, tha
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter one hundred and two
Sophie's POV **Dawn** The scream of my phone tore through the fragile peace of morning like a gunshot. I jolted upright in bed, heart hammering against my ribs, fingers scrambling for the device on my nightstand. The screen glared 5:47 AM in harsh white numbers. Beside me, Damien was already awake, had he ever slept? - his body coiled tight as a spring beneath the sheets, his knife glinting in the weak light where it lay beneath his pillow. "John," I answered, my voice rough with sleep and something darker. "Mrs. Blackstone." John's usually steady baritone wavered. "You need to come to the east wing. Now. It's... it's Lila's mural." The blood in my veins turned to ice. Damien was moving before I'd even hung up, his bare feet hitting the floor with the quiet precision of a predator. I watched his back muscles ripple as he pulled on a black t-shirt, the scars there - old, silvery reminders of childhood punishments - standing out starkly in the dim light. "
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter one hundred and one
Sophie’s POV ** The Envelope** The morning smelled like rain. I stood at the kitchen window of Dunhaven Hall, watching the first drops patter against the glass, blurring the emerald expanse of the valley beyond. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon, Lila’s failed attempt at birthday pancakes, lingered in the air. Behind me, Damien’s low voice murmured to Alexander, our four-year-old, who was insisting that no, dragons could exist if scientists just looked harder. Then the mail arrived. John carried it in on a silver tray, his usual stoicism edged with something sharper. His knuckles were white around the handle. "Mr. Blackstone," he said, voice clipped. Damien glanced up, mid-sentence, his fingers still curled around Alexander’s tiny wrist where he’d been playfully measuring his pulse. The moment he saw the envelope, his entire body went still. Too still.I knew that stillness. It wasn’t calm. It was the quiet before the storm, the breath before the
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter Hundred
Sophie POVThe morning of Damien’s fortieth birthday dawned with the kind of golden stillness that felt like the universe itself was holding its breath. Soft September light filtered through the sheer curtains of our bedroom at Dunhaven Hall, painting delicate patterns across the rumpled duvet. I lay still, savoring the quiet, my body curled instinctively around the warm swell of my belly where our son, our son…, the confirmation still sent a thrill through me, kicked gently in his watery world. Twenty-eight weeks along, and every flutter, every roll, was a miracle I’d never take for granted.Beside me, Damien slept deeply, his breathing slow and even, one arm flung possessively across my waist even in unconsciousness. The morning light gilded the sharp angles of his face, softening the usually stern lines into something younger, almost vulnerable. The dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, the faintest hint of silver threaded through the black at his temples, subtle signs of the yea
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter Ninety-nine
Sophie POVThe city skyline, once a glittering tapestry of ambition and power, now felt confining. From the penthouse’s dizzying height, the bustling streets below seemed less vibrant arteries and more frantic ants scurrying under glass. The peace we’d fought so hard for, the warm, safe bubble we’d created after the shadows receded, had begun to feel… insulated. Protected, yes, but perhaps too separate from the echoes of the pain we understood all too well. Lila’s nightmares had faded, replaced by the vibrant hum of her creativity and the excited chatter about the baby growing within me. Damien’s smiles came easier, the glacial intensity replaced by a profound, settled warmth. Yet, a quiet restlessness had taken root in him, a familiar energy seeking a new channel.It started subtly. Brochures left open on his study desk, not for corporate acquisitions or luxury penthouses, but for sprawling countryside estates. Maps with circles drawn around areas beyond the city limits. Quiet conver
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter Ninety-eight
Sophie POVThe peace was profound. Not the fragile, held-breath quiet of the months after Cedar Falls and Pier 17, but a deep, resonant calm that had settled into the very bones of the Blackstone penthouse. Sunlight, genuine and warm, streamed through the expansive windows, gilding the edges of furniture and catching dust motes dancing in lazy spirals. The scent wasn't just vanilla and cinnamon anymore; it was mingled with the earthy aroma of Lila’s newly potted seedlings on the kitchen windowsill, the crisp tang of Damien’s discarded morning newspaper, and the lingering sweetness of maple syrup from breakfast. It smelled like home, unburdened.Lila’s laughter was the soundtrack now. Not the hesitant giggles of before, but full-throated, uninhibited peals that echoed down the hall as she chased Atlas, our lumbering but endlessly patient Newfoundland, around the living room rug. Her art studio door stood perpetually open, no longer a place of hidden terrors but bursting with vibrant
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