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Chapter ten

Penulis: Lily Grayson
last update Terakhir Diperbarui: 2025-07-03 16:05:40

Sophie's POV

Damien's office looked like a mausoleum designed by a sadistic minimalist.

I trailed my fingers along the sterile white walls, the only "art" a depressing black-and-white triptych of skeletal trees that screamed corporate ennui. Even the air smelled like disinfected sadness, a crisp blend of lemon cleaner and repressed emotions.

"This is worse than I remembered," I muttered, unrolling the first canvas with a snap.

Mrs. Whitlock's voice crackled through the intercom like overcooked bacon. "Mr. Blackstone's car just left the airport."

"Perfect."Forty-five minutes for me to work my magic . And forty- five minutes until the Ice King returned to his frozen kingdom.

I snapped my fingers at the team of movers. "The corpse trees first. Then the monochrome abomination over Chesterfield."

As they dismantled Damien's bleak empire, I unveiled my arsenal:

First was the "Blood Meridian" – A Rothko-esque oil painting with crimson so deep it looked freshly spilled

Next w
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  • The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress    Chapter eighty

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  • The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress    Chapter seventy-nine

    Sophie’s POV The argument was stupid, really. Something about Damian’s latest overbearing decree curfews, security details, the usual suffocating cage he called protection. My words were sharp, fueled by weeks of simmering frustration trapped beneath the gilded ceiling of the penthouse. I remember the heat in my cheeks, the way the morning sun streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows felt suddenly oppressive, glinting off the absurdly expensive silverware."Damian, for the last time, I am not a porcelain doll you need to lock away!" My voice vibrated with indignation, echoing slightly in the cavernous dining room. I gripped the delicate handle of my Earl Grey cup, the warmth a grounding contrast to the icy anger coiling in my stomach.He sat across the vast expanse of polished obsidian, an immovable statue carved from arrogance and worry. His dark eyes held that familiar, infuriating mix of command and… something else. Something that looked suspiciously like fear, which onl

  • The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress    Chapter seventy-eight

    Sophie’s POVThe silence wasn’t peaceful. It was a held breath, thick and cloying, pressing in on the penthouse like a physical weight. Outside, Manhattan glittered, a cold, indifferent galaxy of lights far below. Inside, the cavernous space Damian called home felt less like a sanctuary tonight and more like a gilded cage suspended over an abyss. He was late. Very late. A board meeting running overtime, his clipped text had said. But the gnawing unease in my gut, the prickle at the back of my neck that had started hours ago, whispered otherwise.I paced the living room, bare feet silent on the cool expanse of polished basalt flooring. The floor-to-ceiling windows, usually offering a breathtaking panorama, now felt like vulnerabilities, exposing us to the vast, watchful dark. Damian’s uncle, Silas Volkov a name that tasted like ash and old malice had been circling like a vulture ever since Damian’s grandfather, the formidable patriarch Ivan, had passed. The will. It always came back

  • The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress    Chapter seventy-seven

    Sophie's pov The city sprawled beneath me, a glittering, indifferent beast. Rain lashed the penthouse window, blurring the sharp lines of skyscrapers into watery smears of light, mirroring the blur in my own vision. Five months. One hundred and fifty-two days. Each sunrise a fragile bud of hope, ruthlessly crushed by sunset. Each cycle was a cruel, predictable betrayal.My hand drifted, unbidden, to rest flat against my lower abdomen. Empty. Always empty. Just like the digital display on the ovulation predictor kit I’d thrown away yesterday with trembling hands. Negative. Again. The pristine chrome and cool marble of our beautiful home, Damian’s impeccable sanctuary, felt suddenly sterile. A gilded cage for the gnawing despair that had taken root inside me, twisting my insides into knots.I remembered Month One: the giddy secret, the shared glances full of heat and promise, Damian’s eyes lighting up like dark stars when I’d shyly whispered, “Maybe… maybe we should just… see?” His ki

  • The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress    Chapter seventy-six

    Sophie’s POV The fragile peace forged on the nursery floor didn’t erase the countdown. “5 months, 24 days.” The numbers pulsed like a phantom heartbeat beneath the surface of our tentative new understanding. Alistair’s folio remained on the obsidian desk, its cream cover a malevolent eye watching from the periphery. Yet, the air in the penthouse had shifted. The oppressive dread had lifted, replaced by a simmering current of shared purpose, laced with the terrifying, exhilarating tremors of the decision made in moonlight.Damien moved differently. The crushing weight hadn’t vanished, but it had transformed. It was no longer the burden of inevitable failure or the icy grip of his father’s ghost; it was the focused intensity of a man marshaling forces for a chosen battle. He spent hours locked in his study, but the murmur was the steady rhythm of research, the crisp tap of keys outlining strategies for a future beyond Aurth Blackwood’s clause. He consulted discreet financial advisors

  • The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress    Chapter seventy-five

    Sophie’s POV The penthouse, after the vibrant chaos of Lilian’s brownstone, felt like a vacuum chamber. The lingering scents of beef bourguignon, turpentine, and the warm, milky sweetness unique to baby “Mateo” had dissipated, replaced by the sterile, chilled air smelling faintly of lemon polish and Damien’s sandalwood cologne. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was a physical weight, pressing down, amplifying the echoes of Lilian’s joyful announcement, Mateo’s soft, snuffling breaths against my neck, and the seismic shift in Damien’s eyes as he watched me cradle his nephew.He’d been… different. Since returning. Not distant, exactly, but profoundly still. He’d moved through the penthouse with a new kind of quiet intensity, his gaze often distant, lost in thought. He’d poured us both a nightcap, a smoky single malt but hadn’t touched his. He’d stood by the window, staring at the glittering cityscape, the glass reflecting not the powerful CEO, but a man grappling with something immens

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