Todos los capítulos de My arranged marriage : Capítulo 81 - Capítulo 90

Emma The sky outside my hospital window had finally cleared. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, leaving the city glistening beneath early morning light. I watched as the sun broke through the clouds, its warmth slowly creeping across the floor like a hesitant promise. A new beginning, maybe. Or a fragile truce between past and present. My body still ached. The bullet had missed anything vital, thank God, but it had been close—close enough to remind me how quickly everything could be taken away. The door creaked open, and Ray stepped in carrying two cups of coffee and a brown paper bag. His hair was messy, his shirt wrinkled, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. But when his eyes landed on me, they softened. “Morning,” he said, walking over. “I brought you the worst coffee in the city and a donut I had to beg a nurse for.” I smiled. “You’re spoiling me.” He leaned down and kissed my forehead before placing the coffee on the bedside table. “Only the bes

Emma Watson When Ray slipped the ring onto my finger, something inside me stilled—something that had been running on adrenaline and fear and stubborn hope for what felt like forever. I didn’t cry right away. I didn’t scream or jump or gush like I might have once dreamed I would. I just felt... right. As if everything in the universe had finally shifted back into place. That night, we didn’t talk much. We didn’t need to. We curled up on the couch together, the fire burning low, the city twinkling beyond the windows, and the silence between us said more than words ever could. We were both exhausted, battered by what we’d been through, but still standing. Still here. Still together. And for the first time in a long time, I felt safe. The Next Morning I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of someone humming off-key in the kitchen. Ray. He was wearing flannel pajama pants and a T-shirt, barefoot, flipping pancakes like some domestic fantasy I never thought I’d

Emma Watson The morning after the gala felt like waking from a dream I wasn’t quite sure I wanted to remember. My heels were still by the door, my gown crumpled on the back of a chair, and the faint scent of Ray’s cologne still lingered on my skin. But instead of warmth, a cold unease pressed into my chest. The truth had been laid bare last night—in pieces, in glances, in the way Ray’s jaw had tightened when I confronted him about the offshore accounts and Moreau’s sealed files. He hadn’t denied it. Not fully. Not the way I needed him to. I stood in the kitchen now, a mug of untouched coffee in my hands. The penthouse was quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the low murmur of a news anchor’s voice drifting from the TV in the other room. I hadn’t turned it off. Maybe I needed the noise to fill the silence. Ray hadn’t come home. I kept replaying the last thing he said before walking away: “I’ll fix it.” But what did fixing it mean to a man like Ray? More secrecy? More d

Emma Watson I always thought that when the storm passed, I’d feel relief. Like I could finally breathe again. But the truth was, when the chaos faded, all I was left with was the sound of my own heartbeat—and the quiet reckoning of everything we’d survived. Ray stood in front of me, his hand in mine, his eyes searching. He wasn’t the same man I met in that elevator all those months ago. And I wasn’t the same woman who’d stepped into his world like it was some kind of fantasy. We were raw now. Wounded. Real. And maybe that was exactly what we needed. “I want to talk,” I said softly, still holding his hand. “Really talk.” He nodded, tension rolling off his shoulders like he’d been waiting for this moment too. “Okay.” We settled on the couch, legs turned toward each other. For a while, I didn’t say anything. I just watched him. He looked tired—worn down in a way that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with carrying the weight of too many regrets. “I read your

Emma Watson The first morning light spilled through the hospital blinds, brushing the edge of the bed where Ray sat, half-asleep in the visitor's chair. His hand was loosely curled around mine, his head resting against the crook of his arm on the edge of my mattress. For the first time in days, there was a stillness I didn’t dare disturb. Everything that had happened — Moreau, Benita, the penthouse shootout — felt like a surreal blur. But the ache in my shoulder, the lingering tremor in my limbs, reminded me it had been very real. I shifted slightly, wincing at the pull of the bandage. Ray stirred. His eyes fluttered open, that sharp blue gaze immediately locking on mine. “Hey,” he said softly, voice rough with sleep. “Hey,” I whispered back. He sat up straighter, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair was tousled and his shirt wrinkled, but I’d never seen him look more human. “How are you feeling?” “Sore,” I admitted. “Tired. But... alive.” He gave a faint smile, brus