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206: A little crack

Auteur: Meminger
last update Dernière mise à jour: 2026-03-12 23:48:14

Third POV

The penthouse was silent in the small hours, the kind of quiet that amplified every tiny sound—the distant hum of traffic far below, the faint tick of the clock in the hallway, the soft rustle of sheets as Irene shifted in bed.

She reached out instinctively, her hand expecting the warm solidity of Sebastian's body beside her, but finding only cool, empty space. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the half-drawn curtains. The clock o
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  • The CEO's Unwanted Wife    206: A little crack

    Third POVThe penthouse was silent in the small hours, the kind of quiet that amplified every tiny sound—the distant hum of traffic far below, the faint tick of the clock in the hallway, the soft rustle of sheets as Irene shifted in bed. She reached out instinctively, her hand expecting the warm solidity of Sebastian's body beside her, but finding only cool, empty space. Her eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim glow of the city lights filtering through the half-drawn curtains. The clock on the nightstand read 3:17 AM. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes, a small frown creasing her forehead. He must have gotten up for water, she thought, or maybe to check his phone—insomnia had a way of sneaking up on men like him, the ones who carried the weight of empires on their shoulders.She swung her legs over the side of the bed, the hardwood floor cool against her bare feet. Slipping into a silk robe that hung on the back of the door—deep burgundy, a gift from her time in Italy—she padd

  • The CEO's Unwanted Wife    205: What I've Lost

    Sebastian stood by the wide bedroom window, the city lights stretching far into the distance like scattered embers in the dark. The glass was cool beneath his fingertips, but his thoughts burned far too intensely for him to notice the chill.Behind him, the room was quiet except for the soft rustling of sheets and Irene’s slow breathing. She lay half draped over him, her head resting against his chest as if it were the most natural place in the world. One of her legs was tangled with his beneath the blanket, and her arm rested loosely across his stomach.He absently ran his fingers along the smooth curve of her back.But his mind was somewhere else.Irene tilted her head slightly, sensing the tension in his body. Even without looking at him, she knew when something was wrong. Her fingers traced a lazy circle over his chest.“You’re thinking too loudly,” she murmured sleepily.Sebastian glanced down at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips.“Is that a thing now?”“It is when you feel

  • The CEO's Unwanted Wife    204: Newborns

    Third POVThe weeks following their first joint therapy session blurred into a rhythm that felt almost too good to be true. Fiona and Maverick fell into a quiet routine at Sofia's house, the kind of everyday life that built itself on small moments rather than grand gestures. Mornings started with shared coffee on the porch, Maverick's hand on her belly as they felt the twins stir awake. Afternoons were for walks in the park when Fiona felt up to it, or lazy hours on the couch with books and soft music playing in the background. Evenings brought family dinners—Sofia's hearty stews or Maverick's surprisingly good attempts at homemade pasta—followed by more therapy sessions, where they peeled back layers of hurt and rebuilt with careful words.The pregnancy progressed smoothly, the twins growing stronger with each checkup. Dr. Joanna noted their steady heartbeats, their positions shifting as they prepared for the world. Fiona's bump rounded out, making simple tasks like tying shoes a t

  • The CEO's Unwanted Wife    203:Loosing Control

    Third POVThe restaurant had been one of those hidden gems in the West Village—dimly lit, with exposed brick walls and candles flickering in mismatched glass holders, the kind of place where conversations lingered over dessert and wine flowed like secrets. Sebastian and Irene had spent the evening there, tucked into a corner booth, plates of shared pasta and grilled octopus between them. He’d made her laugh with stories from his travels—omitting the darker edges, of course—and she’d shared glimpses of her life in Italy, the sun-drenched vineyards and the quiet mornings she’d come to love before it all fell apart. But underneath the easy banter, Amber’s words from earlier that day echoed in Irene’s mind like a distant warning bell: “Be careful. Men like Sebastian Blackwood don’t just have baggage. They have cargo containers.”She pushed it away as they stepped out into the cool night air. The city hummed around them—distant horns, laughter spilling from a nearby bar, the faint scent

  • The CEO's Unwanted Wife    202: Healing

    Fiona POVThe car ride back from Dr. Linda’s office felt lighter than the one there. Maverick drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my knee, a small, steady connection that grounded me. The city streets blurred past in the late-afternoon sun, shadows stretching long across the sidewalks. I leaned my head against the headrest, eyes half-closed, replaying the session in my mind. It hadn’t been easy, nothing about digging up old wounds ever was, but it felt like progress. Real progress. Maverick had opened up in ways I hadn’t expected, talking about the anger he’d carried for so long, how it had twisted into secrets that nearly destroyed us. And I’d listened, really listened, without the old defenses snapping into place.When we pulled into the driveway, Mom’s house looked warmer than usual, the front porch light already on, even though dusk was still an hour away. Maverick parked and came around to my side, opening the door with that quiet care he’d adopted since my

  • The CEO's Unwanted Wife    201: Therapy Day

    Third POVThe office of Dr. Linda Morgan was tucked away on the third floor of a quiet brownstone in Greenwich Village, the kind of place that blended into the neighborhood without drawing attention. Soft beige walls, a few abstract prints in muted blues and grays, a worn leather couch that invited sinking in rather than perching on the edge. A small table held a box of tissues and a vase of fresh daisies, simple, unassuming, like the doctor herself. Linda sat in her armchair, notepad balanced on her knee, glasses perched low on her nose. She had a way of looking at you that made you feel seen without feeling exposed, a skill honed from years of listening to stories like theirs.Fiona and Maverick sat side by side on the couch, close enough that their knees brushed but not so close it felt forced. It was their first joint session, and the air held that tentative energy of new beginnings, hope mixed with the faint echo of old hurts. Fiona wore a loose sundress in pale yellow, her bu

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