All Chapters of A Secretive Deal with My Billionaire Boss: Chapter 381 - Chapter 390

MadisonHazel's car was still in the driveway when I pulled in. Through the window, I could see her at the kitchen table, laptop open, phone pressed to her ear. She looked exhausted. Inside, the house smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. My mother must have been baking again. "Mommy!" Ethan's shriek preceded him as he launched himself from the living room, crashing into my legs with enough force to make me stumble. "Hey, baby." I caught him, ruffling his hair. "How was school?" "Amazing! We made volcanoes, and mine exploded the biggest. Miss Daisy said it was very impressive. Can we make one at home? Please?" "Maybe this weekend," I promised, steering him back toward the living room. "Did you thank Aunt Hazel for picking you up?" "Yes." He bounced on his toes. "And I showed her my volcano drawing, and she said it looked like a real one except real volcanoes don't have faces." "Your volcano has a face?" "A happy face! Because he's excited to erupt!" Ethan demonstrated with explos

MadisonI refused to look at him, focusing instead on selecting the perfect tomato like my life depended on it. "Yes," I said finally. "We were." "Then why won't you talk to me?" "Because there's nothing to talk about," I added three tomatoes to my basket. "You got engaged. I quit. End of story." "You never even gave me a chance to explain." I spun to face him. "Explain what? That you were sleeping with me while planning a future with Katherine? That I meant nothing to you? I got the message loud and clear." "It wasn't like that." "No? Then what was it like?" I challenged. "You got what you wanted from me, then moved on to someone more appropriate." "Madison." "Don't." I held up a hand. "Don't say my name like that. Like we're friends. Like you care." "I do care." "No, you don't." I moved past him toward the pasta aisle. "You're just not used to people walking away from you. It bothers you. Your ego can't handle it." He followed. Of course, he followed. "That's not fair."

MadisonHe waited until I was settled before pulling away from the curb, the car gliding forward with that expensive smoothness only German engineering could achieve. I set the bags at my feet, staring straight ahead. The interior smelled like leather and that cologne. That same cologne that used to cling to my clothes after nights in his penthouse. "Where to?" he asked. I rattled off my address, keeping my voice flat. Professional. Like he was a stranger giving me a ride, not the man who'd once known every inch of my body. "Nice neighborhood," he observed after a moment. "It suits me." "Better than Manhattan?" "Much better." Silence fell between us, heavy and awkward. I watched the familiar streets pass by, each turn bringing me closer to home and further from this conversation. "Who was he?" Alexander asked suddenly. "The man at the café." My jaw tightened. "I already told you. None of your business." "Christopher, you said. How long have you been dating?" "Why do you ca

MadisonI twisted Ethan's dinosaur shirt, trying to get his squirming arms through the sleeves. "Can we get dessert?" He bounced on one foot while I wrestled with the fabric. "A big one? Like this big?" His arms spread as wide as they could reach, nearly smacking me in the face. "We'll see." I pulled the shirt down and reached for his shoes. "Right foot first, buddy." "But I want a big dessert. With ice cream. And chocolate. And more ice cream on top of that ice cream." "That's a lot of ice cream." "I know!" His eyes sparkled with the kind of pure enthusiasm only a four-year-old could muster. "Can we get pizza too? With pepperoni? And can I have soda?" "No soda. Nice try." "But Mom!" "Nope." I tied his shoes and stood, smoothing his hair. "Go ask Grandma if she wants to come with us." He raced from the room, his footsteps thundering down the hallway with all the grace of a tiny elephant. I grabbed my purse and keys, checking my reflection in the hallway mirror. The blue dres

AlexanderThe Whitmore Inn appeared on my GPS twenty minutes later, a converted Victorian mansion that screamed boutique charm. I parked the car and entered a lobby with exposed brick walls, inviting antique furniture, and a crackling fireplace, despite the mild weather. "Welcome to The Whitmore," the clerk greeted me with genuine warmth. "Checking in?" "Alexander Knight. I should have a reservation." She typed quickly, nodded, and produced a key card. "Room 304. Third floor, corner suite. Best view of the property. Will you be dining with us this evening?" "No, thank you." "Well, if you change your mind, our restaurant serves until nine." She handed over the key with a smile. "Enjoy your stay, Mr. Knight." The room was exactly what I'd expected. Tasteful without being ostentatious, comfortable without being luxurious. A king bed lined one wall, a sitting area filled another, and the bathroom boasted a clawfoot tub. I moved to the window overlooking downtown, a main street wit