All Chapters of Contract Marriage With My Billionaire Boss : Chapter 191 - Chapter 200

ROSEMARY Two nights. That’s all it had taken for everything to unravel. Two nights ago, life had still been manageable. Fractured, yes. Messy, always. But we were together, still holding the illusion that the worst had passed. Now…? Now I was watching it all bleed into chaos, standing in a hospital where too many people I loved were fighting battles with their bodies, their minds, their ghosts. Venus sedated. Aaron on an operating table. Sabine in the trauma unit. Connor half out of his mind, trying to be everywhere at once. And me? I had to be strong for all of them. I said it in my head like a vow, but the truth was—it was cracking me. I sat forward on the hard plastic chair outside the OR, my elbows on my knees, fingers steepled like a prayer I wasn’t sure God was still listening to. My heart thudded in my throat, a dull, sick rhythm that refused to settle. I was worried for my son—my boy who thought he was too strong to die, too stubborn to yield. Worried for Venus, for th

VENUS The machines hummed, steady and cruel. Beep. Beep. Beep. Each one a reminder that Aaron was still alive—still tethered here, still mine. But God, he looked too still, too pale, his strength carved away by sterile white sheets and tubes that snaked like shackles around him. I clutched his hand tighter, pressing my lips to his knuckles. They were cool against my mouth, but not cold—not lifeless. I let my tears soak into the sheets, my voice low, ragged. “You hear me, Aaron Sinclair?” I whispered. “You don’t get to quit on me. Not after everything. Not after you tore apart hell to keep me breathing. You fight. You always fight. So fight now. For me. For them.” My palm slid to my stomach, trembling over the curve that was just beginning to show. “For our babies.” The room was dim except for the glow of monitors and the flickering television bolted into the corner above. It had been on since Connor wheeled me in, muted to a whisper of static light. Background noise. Nothing mor

VENUS The hospital had its own kind of rhythm. A cruel, predictable heartbeat. The steady hum of the machines. The shuffle of shoes against polished floors and the muted murmur of nurses at their stations, voices low but never warm enough to cut through the sterility. I hated it. I hated how everything here seemed to move forward—doctors filing charts, stretchers wheeling past, the world insisting on moving—while Aaron lay still, locked away in a silence he never would’ve tolerated if he had a choice. But I came anyway. Every day. Every night. Because even if the world moved forward without him, I refused to. So here I was again, curled up in the same chair I always claimed beside his bed, my hand wrapped around his like it was the last thread tethering me to sanity. The monitors blinked their endless messages of stability. Beep. Beep. Beep. His heart, his body, his pulse—all still fighting. And I clung to that sound, even as my own chest ached for something louder, something

VENUS The twins didn’t care that the world was broken. They didn’t care that their father wasn’t here, or that my chest felt carved out each time I looked at the space beside me and found it empty. They didn’t care that I still dreamed of monitors beeping, of Aaron’s stillness, of promises half-fulfilled. All they cared about was milk. Warmth. The comfort of a body that would hold them through the night. And I gave it. God, I gave everything I had. But it was never enough. Not when every cry pulled me in two directions—toward them, and toward the man who should have been here, who should have been the anchor I leaned on when the exhaustion hollowed me out. Rosemary was God sent. Gianna too. She stayed up with me and helped me all the time. She really was the mom I never had. The days blurred. Nights even worse. Feeding, burping, diapers, rocking, soothing—then again, and again, and again. My body had already been worn thin by pregnancy, but now it felt like something far cr

VENUS Hospitals had their own kind of silence. Not the soft, peaceful kind. No, this one was heavier, a silence that pressed in from every corner, humming with machines and antiseptic, whispering of lives that dangled on fragile threads. I hated it. Every night, after everyone else was gone, I sat in that silence with Aaron. The twins curled against me, their tiny bodies warm, their breathing uneven but steady. One on each arm, their heads nestled close to my heart, like if they listened hard enough they’d hear the missing beat of their father’s echo inside me. I whispered to him like always. Told him about the twins, about how Sabine had gotten into a fight with Rosemary over which stuffed animal belonged to who, about how Connor was suddenly obsessed with baby-proofing every corner of the house, about how Colton visited and stood silently for hours, pretending not to care while his eyes betrayed him. But tonight was different. Tonight, the words tumbled out broken, raw, shar