บททั้งหมดของ The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride: บทที่ 121 - บทที่ 130

Margaret POV If Amelia existed, she hid herself well. Too well. For three days straight, I chased her shadow across the city like a woman possessed. I retraced every step from the supermarket, every possible route she could have taken after disappearing into the crowd. I sent people. Quiet people. Expensive people. The kind who didn’t ask questions, only delivered results. They delivered nothing. No address. No phone records. No social media trail. No employment history. No medical files. No government footprint that matched her face. It was as if Amelia had never lived beyond the age she supposedly died. Or as if someone had carefully scraped her out of the world. By the fourth morning, doubt began to creep in—thin and poisonous. What if I was losing my mind? I stood in my bedroom staring at my reflection, searching my own eyes for madness. Lack of sleep had carved shadows beneath them, my hair pulled back too tightly, my hands trembling as I gripped the edge of the dre

Margaret POVI stared at my daughter like I was seeing her for the first time.Lisa stood before me, calm despite the storm she had just unleashed, her posture straight, her eyes sharp with a resolve that did not come from impulse but from instinct. Pride—pure, unfiltered pride—swelled in my chest, cutting through the fear clawing at my ribs.“You did well,” I said slowly, deliberately. “Very well.”Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t do it for praise, Mother.”“I know,” I replied. “That’s why it matters.”Five years.Five long, infuriating years we had mourned Amelia like a ghost, buried her like a mistake, erased her like a liability. We burned evidence, rewrote timelines, silenced whispers. I watched flames eat through what remained of her life and believed—no, accepted—that she was gone.And now she was alive.Not just alive.Thriving.Living behind guarded gates. Holding a child’s hand. Smiling.I closed my eyes briefly, steadying myself. “Tell me everything again,” I said. “Every detai

Amelia POVI arrive at the gallery just as the sun begins to soften, light spilling through tall glass panels and washing the white walls in gold. The place hums with quiet elegance—low voices, clinking glasses, slow footsteps that echo like restrained thoughts. I blend in easily, black dress, neutral smile, hair pinned back in a way that suggests intention rather than effort. No one looks twice at me, and that is exactly how I want it.Art has always unsettled me. Too honest. Too revealing. Every piece here feels like a confession left out in the open. I move from painting to painting, pretending to read plaques while my attention stretches outward, searching. I feel him before I see him, the same way you feel a shift in air when a door opens behind you.Maxwell stands near a large abstract piece, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed but alert. He looks thinner than the last time I saw him, sharper around the edges, like a man who has learned how to disappear without leaving a trace

Amelia POVI woke with Maxwell’s name lodged in my chest like a splinter I couldn’t pull free. It wasn’t the kind of thought that drifted lazily and disappeared with morning light. It stayed, persistent, pressing against every quiet moment as if demanding to be acknowledged. I lay still beside Ethan, listening to his even breathing, and wondered how something so simple as an afternoon had managed to unravel me so thoroughly.All morning, I moved through the house on autopilot. I made breakfast, answered emails, folded laundry, and smiled when I was supposed to. Yet every task felt like a performance, my mind wandering back to the gallery, the park, the way laughter had slipped out of me without permission. I hated myself for it. Craving another man’s presence while my fiancé stood beside me felt like a betrayal I couldn’t excuse.I told myself it was harmless. A moment. A distraction. People could enjoy conversation without it meaning anything. Still, the ache lingered, curling in my

Rebecca POVI knew something had changed the moment Maxwell walked through the door that evening. It wasn’t dramatic or loud; it was subtle, almost fragile, like the quiet after a storm when the air still trembles but the destruction has stopped. My son looked lighter, younger somehow. His shoulders weren’t hunched under invisible weight, and for the first time in five long years, his eyes didn’t look hollow. I didn’t know why he was happy, but I knew with absolute certainty that it wasn’t work. Work had never healed him—if anything, it had helped him hide.I watched him from the sitting room as he moved through the house with steady steps, no stagger, no bitterness clinging to him like a second skin. He even smiled at me, a real smile, not the polite curve of lips he usually offered to reassure me he was “fine.” That smile struck something deep in my chest, something painfully tender. I wanted to ask questions, to demand answers, but fear held my tongue. Happiness, I had learned, was