All Chapters of The CEO'S SECRET BRIDE : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The crisp subtle smell of the park shaded by oak trees was still present in Annabel’s cobalt-blue sweater. As she walked through her apartment’s tiny kitchen, the weight felt cozy and the smell served as a constant silent reminder of the man upstairs. She had already taken a shower, the hot water removing the emotional strain of the morning with Carson and the last of the night’s weariness. She was now standing by the coffee maker listening to the dark liquid drip into the glass carafe. The only sound in the otherwise silent apartment was the soft gurgle. But there was no silence in her mind. A tiny warm spark the first thought that came to mind was of Fred. She could still feel his shoulder under her cheek firm and immobile like a bedrock. It was overwhelming in its quiet kindness to see him there to see how he had stayed motionless as a human anchor while she finally fell asleep. A small uncontrollable smile came to her lips. As though catching herself in a private moment sh

The foyer’s marble floor was quiet and cool under Carson's pricey leather shoes. He had been back in the country for two days but he had stayed in a cold impersonal hotel room both nights. He had deliberately and strategically retreated from the oppressive ‘welcome home’ that he knew was waiting for him. The mansion's quiet now felt more like emptiness than tranquility as the heavy elaborate front door clicked shut behind him. He appreciated it. In addition to Bridget's pink, absurd convertible, his mothers black sedan was missing from the three-car garage. He walked, his steps heavy and tired, shrugging out of his suit jacket. He took the grand staircase two steps at a time after tossing the jacket over the mahogany banister. The mansion was usually a hive of activity whether it was Bridget's demanding calls or the low hum of his mother's administrative work. He didn't bother to switch on the lights once he was in his bedroom. The room was filled with a golden hazy gloom as t

Through the cool marble of the foyer came the soft decisive click of the front door and there was a silence deeper than any sound Carson had left behind. He left without turning around but the house seemed to hold its breath waiting for him to come back. Every step was an escape as his leather shoes crunched on the driveway’s gravel. It felt more like putting on armor than dressing when he shrugged the suit jacket onto his shoulders. In his hand the briefcase swung loosely still weighed down by the unread merger proposal. He crossed the large deserted lawn and sliced through the well-kept hedges. The world seemed subdued like a watercolor painting washed by the waning light of the late afternoon. The chilly bars of the wrought-iron gates which he approached were a tangible representation of the cage he was escaping. After just a brief pause he pushed them open and emerged onto the public street. Here the air was distinct—richer with the smell of damp earth and exhaust alive wi

The city outside Annabel’s studio window had surrendered its last blush of sunset, trading the soft golds and oranges for a utilitarian dusk. Inside, the only light that mattered radiated from the single articulated lamp clamped to her drafting table, casting a warm, focused pool on the crisp vellum beneath her hands. The rest of the small, organized office—a rented space in a quieter section of the arts district—retreated into shadow.Annabel leaned back, her chair creaking a soft protest that was instantly lost in the quiet hum of the small refrigerator unit. A faint ache stretched across her shoulders, a familiar, welcome tension that came from hours of deep concentration. She pushed a stray strand of light-brown hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of graphite near her temple.On the table before her lay the nearly finished design for the new Lighthouse Museum expansion. It was the project she had been working on for months, a genuine collaborati

With a faint, weary rasp the key turned in the lock. The sound was immediately muffled by the apartment’s silence. After entering, Annabel let the door close with a click. The time on the wall above the kitchen counter was 10:47 p. m.Still holding the rolled-up illustration of the Lighthouse Museum under her arm, she stood for a moment in the tiny foyer. Only the dim silver light from the street lamps coming in through the living room window illuminated the completely dark apartment. The thrilling pride she had felt an hour earlier was chilled by a deep bone-weary exhaustion that descended upon her. She extended her hand and flipped the switch next to the door. As the living room was filled with a warm yellow light the shadows were driven into the corners. Annabel paused. On the sofa, a figure was stretched out. Fred was sleeping with his body curled into the worn cushions and his head resting uncomfortably on a throw pillow. He was still wearing his jeans and soft grey t-shir