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Chapter sixteen
Last Updated:
2025-07-04 05:14:27
Latest chapter
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter seventy-four
Sophie's POVThe fragile peace woven after Damien’s raw confession about his father felt like spun sugar, luminous, precious, but terrifyingly susceptible to the slightest tremor. The Alistair folio remained on the obsidian desk, its silent countdown – “5 months, 26 days”– a constant, low thrum beneath the surface of our cautious reconciliation. We moved with deliberate care, conversations softer, touches infused with a newfound awareness of the deep wounds we’d bared. Evelyn’s recovery remained our shared anchor, her slow but steady progress a fragile bloom in the lingering winter of our anxieties.It was against this tender backdrop that Lilian called, her voice carrying a vibrant energy I hadn't heard in years, not since before the illness that had shadowed her childhood and adolescence. "Soph! Family dinner! Tomorrow! My place! And bring Damien! It’s… important!"Lilian’s world was a universe away from Damien Blackstone’s sleek penthouse. Her "place" wasn't a Brooklyn brownstone,
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter seventy-three
Sophie's POV The silence after the detonation wasn’t peaceful. It was the ringing, deafening aftermath of an explosion, thick with suspended debris and the acrid scent of scorched earth. The word "incubator" hung between us like shrapnel embedded in the very air, vibrating with the ugly echo of my own fear and the devastating wound it had clearly inflicted. Rain lashed the penthouse windows with renewed fury, blurring the city lights into streaks of liquid despair, mirroring the tears blurring my vision.Damien stood frozen, barely two feet away, his face a mask of ashen horror. The panic that had contorted his features moments before was gone, replaced by a dazed, hollowed-out shock, as if I’d physically struck him with that brutal word. His eyes, wide and wounded, fixed on mine, held a depth of hurt so profound it stole my breath. His lips parted slightly, trembling, but no sound emerged. The raw confession of his terror and desire "I wanted it so much... but I want it right... I w
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter seventy-two
Sophie's POVThe silence in the penthouse had evolved. It was no longer the suffocating tomb of mutual retreat, nor the brittle tension of Alistair’s visit. It had become a watchful, fragile thing,the quiet of two people navigating a minefield in the dark, painfully aware of every buried charge. Alistair’s folio sat on the obsidian desk like a malevolent toad, its cream cover seeming to absorb the weak afternoon light filtering through rain-streaked windows. “5 months, 28 days”.The digital countdown on Damien’s private calendar app felt like a physical pressure behind my eyes.He’d been distant since the lawyer’s visit, buried deeper in work, his presence a vortex of contained stress that pulled at the atmosphere. He spent hours sequestered in his study, the low murmur of tense calls bleeding through the heavy door. When he emerged, his eyes held a haunted, hunted look, fixed on some internal horizon only he could see the ticking clock, the empty nursery down the hall, the specter o
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter seventy-one
Sophie's POV The silence in Damien’s home office wasn’t peaceful; it was the dense, suffocating quiet of a tomb holding something still alive, but barely breathing. Rain lashed against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, blurring the vibrant autumn colors into a watercolor smear of despair. It mirrored the state of my own heart ,once vivid with hope, now muted and running.Damien sat behind the vast, obsidian expanse of his desk, but he wasn’t working. He was staring, unseeing, at a single sheet of heavy, cream vellum paper embossed with the severe, gothic script of Blackwood Holdings' legal department. Moonlight, weak and filtered through the storm clouds, caught the sharp edge of a paperweight, a solid crystal block containing a fossilized fern, a relic from a time when life was simpler, buried under millennia of pressure. It felt apt.The document was a stark reminder, a ticking bomb disguised as legalese: “The Blackstone Heir Clause.” Two years. That was th
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter seventy
Sophie's POV The air in Evelyn’s private ICU room was a carefully calibrated blend of chilled sterility and the low, rhythmic symphony of life-support. The “whoosh-click” of the ventilator, the steady “beep-beep-beep” of the cardiac monitor, the softer hum of the IV pumps they formed a constant, nerve-wracking backdrop to the fragile peace that had settled over the past week. Sunlight, weak and filtered through heavy blinds, striped the pristine white sheets where Evelyn lay, small and shockingly vulnerable amidst a nest of tubes and wires. The induced coma had been lifted two days prior, replaced by a heavily sedated state. She wasn’t awake, not truly. Her eyelids fluttered occasionally, a tremor passing through her fingers resting atop the blanket. But she was here. She was breathing on her own. She was fighting. Damien stood sentinel at her bedside, as he had for hours each day since she was moved from critical care. He looked like a man emerging from a war zone. The exhaus
The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress Chapter sixty-nine
Sophie's pov The surgical waiting room on the 8th floor of Mount Sinai existed in a suspended reality, a bubble of hushed dread punctured only by the occasional tinny page over the intercom or the soft swish of automatic doors opening down the hall. Time lost all meaning, measured not in minutes or hours, but in the frantic, irregular beats of Damien’s heart where his hand clutched mine like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.We sat side-by-side on a utilitarian, cobalt-blue vinyl couch, its surface cold and unyielding despite the hours we’d occupied it. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights cast deep, bruise-like shadows beneath Damien’s eyes, etching lines of exhaustion and terror onto his face that hadn’t been there yesterday. He hadn’t moved much since collapsing against me. His posture remained rigid, hunched slightly forward, elbows braced on his knees, our joined hands resting on the cushion between us. His gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the double doors marked ‘SURGICAL
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