เข้าสู่ระบบ“This marriage is a farce, I can’t pretend otherwise…..” ********************************************************** Billionaire Ethan Blackwell is forced into an arranged marriage with sweet and innocent Lila, the daughter of his mom's friend but he despises her, thinking she's a gold digger. Lila then makes a shocking decision that flips his world. Ethan recognizes too late that he had grown to love her. Eager to fix his mistake, he faces a race against time until the worst happens. Will he get a second chance, or is it too late?
ดูเพิ่มเติมThe silence after the door clicked shut was the loudest sound I had ever heard. It was a physical presence, thick and heavy, saturated with the echo of Ethan’s defiance and the ghost of Williams Croft’s icy fury. The air in the foyer, once just space, now felt charged with the aftershock of a seismic decision, and we were standing at its epicenter.I could still feel the vibration of the car’s engine fading down the drive, but it was the tremor in my own soul that shook me. Ethan’s body was a rigid line of tension beside me, the adrenaline of the confrontation still humming through him, a live wire looking for ground. My own heart was a frantic, trapped thing beating against my ribs, not with fear of the man who had left, but with a terrifying, awe-inspiring understanding of the man who had stayed.He had just burned a bridge made of millions, of reputation, of a life he’d spent a decade building. And he’d done it without a second thought. For me.The weight of that pressed down on me
The world didn’t just intrude; it announced itself with the cruel, sharp sound of gravel crunching under aggressive tires. The sound was a violation, shredding the delicate, intimate silence that had wrapped around us since we’d found each other on the studio floor.Ethan’s body went rigid against mine. The soft, sated man of a moment before was gone, replaced in a single heartbeat by the CEO, his senses on high alert, his arms tightening around me instinctively, protectively. The shift was so drastic it stole the air from my lungs.We were in the kitchen, wrapped in the same blanket, sharing a single mug of coffee. My head had been on his shoulder, his lips in my hair. We hadn't spoken. We didn't need to. The understanding between us was a living, breathing thing.And then the car came.Through the large kitchen window, we saw it: a low-slung, silver sports car, too sleek, too expensive, and too utterly out of place on our quiet, tree-lined drive. It didn't just park; it prowled to a
The terror is a quiet thing. It doesn’t scream; it seeps. It’s in the way the bristles of my brush feel foreign in my hand, like holding a stranger’s bones. It’s in the way the pristine, mocking white of the new canvas seems to swallow all the light in the room, leaving nothing but the hollow echo of my own doubt.Six weeks. The number beats in my skull like a frantic, trapped bird. Six weeks to build a world from nothing, to prove I’m not the fluke a part of me is convinced I am. The excitement from this morning has curdled into a cold, heavy weight in the pit of my stomach. I am frozen. Paralyzed. A fraud about to be spectacularly found out.I don’t hear him come in. I just feel the air in the room change, the charged particles shifting to make space for him. I’m standing there, arms crossed, staring down the blank slate as if I could intimidate it into submission. I must look like a statue of despair.He doesn’t speak. He just leans against the doorframe, a silent, solid presence.
The first thing I was aware of was the weight of his hand on my hip, a warm, solid anchor in the quiet sea of dawn. It wasn't possessive or demanding, just present. A constant. A promise etched into skin and bone.Sunlight, pale and hesitant, filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the rumpled sheets and the hard plane of his chest. I watched him sleep, the fierce lines of his face softened in repose, his dark lashes fanning against his cheeks. This was the face of the man who had shattered me and then, with infinite care, gathered every piece and put me back together. The vulnerability in that thought was a physical ache in my throat.I shifted minutely, and his hand tightened, just a fraction, a subconscious pull back toward him. A sigh escaped his lips, my name a breathless whisper in his sleep. The sound went through me like a live wire. Last night had been a raw, open nerve, but this… this careful, quiet claiming was its own kind of intensity. It threatened to undo m


















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