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Petals On The Floor

Author: Sira lyn
last update Last Updated: 2026-02-08 23:01:24

Long after Regan left, Damien was still rooted in his chair, unable to move, as his mind tried to make sense of all the information Regan had spilled this evening.

The office felt too quiet once Regan was gone. The kind of quiet that made every small sound stand out the faint hum of the air conditioning, the soft tick of the wall clock, the distant murmur of traffic somewhere far below the building.

Only one thing truly mattered.

Emily owned forty percent of the Hardy company. She owned more th
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  • The billionaire leftover wife    Cold Blade

    The moonlight glistened off the blade in her hand. She crouched in the shadows above the beach, motionless as driftwood, watching the man below. His chest rose and fell with the slow, heavy rhythm of deep intoxication, each breath a small labor, each exhale carrying away something he could never quite drink fast enough to forget. The bottle beside him had long since been emptied. Tossed to the ground carelessly. Her fingers tightened around the handle. The knife was new. Sharp. She had purchased it months ago with cold precision and set it aside like a promise to herself, waiting for the right moment, the right resolve. She had watched him come to this beach every month without fail. Same night. Same bottle. He had come to drink away his guilt. It wouldn't absolve him. It wasn't enough. She had told herself that every time she watched from a distance. Had repeated it like a prayer during the long, grinding months of rehabilitation, when the pain in her legs had been so consuming t

  • The billionaire leftover wife    Dreams On The Beach

    Six months later-Damien arrived in Mallorca just before midnight.Red cut the engine but didn’t move immediately. The headlights washed over the beach house one last time before dying, plunging everything into silver darkness. The ocean breathed somewhere ahead slow, steady, indifferent.Damien stared at the house.He came here every month.Same date.Their anniversary.The day she died.He pushed the door open before Red could circle the car. Gravel shifted under his shoes as he stepped out. The wind carried salt and something colder beneath it.Red shut his own door and fell into step behind him. “You want me to check inside first?”Damien didn’t answer at once. His eyes were fixed on the balcony.She had stood there the first night they arrived, hair flying wildly in the wind, shouting that the sea was louder than she imagined. He had told her that was because it didn’t care who was listening.He swallowed.“No,” he said finally. “I’ll go in.”Red followed anyway, quiet as a shado

  • The billionaire leftover wife    One Year

    Fiona Forde walked into the room, hands clasped together, her expression carved from stone. Authority radiated from her without effort, settling over the space like a command no one dared challenge.“Don’t you dare touch my grandchild.”Damien’s eyes flicked from the sheet to Stella, then to Fiona.“What is going on here?” he demanded, though the question came out lower than he intended. Other words and questions he had wanted to ask no longer seemed relevant. He didn't care anymore either.Fiona did not flinch. “You are not welcome here.”“I am her husband,” he replied, the words firm but lacking their usual force.“Not anymore,” she said quietly.The words landed like a blade sliding between ribs.His gaze returned to the sheet.His chest tightened.“Death do us part, isn’t it?” Fiona’s voice was controlled, almost clinical. “You think you get to walk in here and claim grief?”The words closed round his heart. Dead. It was his fault. No he wouldn't think of that right now.“You neve

  • The billionaire leftover wife    White Sheet

    Damien reached for the phone before it completed the second beep. His hand had been hovering near it anyway, tension coiled so tightly in his chest that the vibration felt like a gunshot in the silence.He had been waiting for this call for the past twenty four hours. He glanced at the caller ID.Red.Hope flared in him so sharply it almost hurt. He picked up immediately.“Speak,” he ordered, ditching all pleasantries.“We found her,” Red said. “St. Mary’s General. She was admitted under the name Forde. Restricted access.”Was she involved in an accident he asked.No record of an accident found. Details regarding her admission have been restricted heavily. I couldn't get past it. Sorry boss. That alright. Keep trying I'll wait for your updates. Call me immediately something comes up.Yes Boss"“I’m closer to the hospital. I’ll head there. Meet me at the entrance,” he cut in.Damien didn’t wait for the rest. He ended the call before Red could respond and was already moving. He grabbed

  • The billionaire leftover wife    Over The Edge

    Emily slowly came to, the fog in her head clearing in slow, uneven sheets. Awareness didn’t return like a light turning on; it returned like someone tugging her up from deep water, forcing her lungs to remember how to breathe. Her body ached in a way that felt unfamiliar, like the pain belonged to someone else and she had only borrowed it. She was bound everywhere, wrapped tight in bandages and braces, secured by straps and splints, and she couldn’t move an inch without something inside her screaming.Voices had slid through her consciousness for what felt like hours distant, muffled, floating in and out but now the sounds sharpened. She could hear the soft beep of a monitor. The hum of air conditioning. The faint squeak of shoes somewhere down a corridor.Her eyes scanned the room, fighting the heaviness of her eyelids, searching for the source of the presence she could feel even before she fully saw it. They landed on Stella alone, seated beside the bed, shoulders squared but hands

  • The billionaire leftover wife    Her Protector

    The overhead light blared brightly into her eyes as her eyelashes were peeled back to reveal the pupils beneath. The white glare burned through the haze of unconsciousness, forcing her body to react before her mind could catch up. A gloved hand tilted her chin. Another voice called out somewhere close, firm and clinical.“She’s responding.”She could hear the noise and shuffle around her. Shoes squeaked against polished floors. Metal trays clinked. Paper rustled. The air smelled sharply of antiseptic and something metallic blood.“Name and age?” someone asked.Her lips felt heavy. Dry. Cracked.“Emily Forde,” Emily heard someone supply. She kept drifting in and out, her mind struggling to anchor itself to one moment. Sounds blurred together, dissolving into fragments.“Minor concussion,” she heard the doctor say.“Start the IV lines.”“Multiple fractures…”“Trauma to the head.”“Three inch gash on the scalp…”Each phrase floated toward her and slipped away again, like debris on water

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