Vegas Vows: A Billionaire's Gamble のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

Chapter 32: (Sophia’s POV) The silence had lasted for five long days after I accused Damien of protecting the contract by being cold. I had barely seen him. He was a shadow moving between the study and his bedroom, and I had retreated into the quiet, wounded space of my own room. The air felt thick with what we hadn't said: the memory of the kiss, the shame of the viral photo, and the sting of Clara's successful smear campaign against my design business. My small company was bleeding. Every time my phone buzzed, it was another cancellation, another polite, distant email from someone saying they couldn’t risk working with a “controversial figure.” Damien hadn’t bought the supplier, and for that, I was grateful. But the fight to stand on my own feet was getting harder. I was sitting in the living room that evening, staring at the panoramic view of the city. The lights were glittering, sharp and cold, just like the man I was married to. I was holding a small, chipped ceramic cup—a gi

Chapter 34: (Dmien's POV) She had just stood in front of the world and fought my battle. She had taken the worst, dirtiest lies thrown at her—the viral kiss, the fraud claims, the contract itself—and turned them into a shield for me. She hadn’t defended the Lancaster Group; she had defended Damien Lancaster, the man. “My loyalty is not part of any contract—it is a choice.” The phrase echoed in my mind, destroying the final, brittle fragments of the Ice King. Control was a lie. Money was a tool. But this woman, this fierce, loyal woman who had chosen to stay and fight the fire, she was real. Marcus stood up to close the conference, but I couldn't move. I looked at Sophia’s mouth, the mouth that had just spoken words of such profound truth and courage. I remembered the taste of her on the night of the dance, a hesitant, surprising softness that made me pull away in sheer terror of losing control. But control was already gone. It had been gone since she wiped the fever fro

(Sophia’s POV) The storm started just after sunset — soft at first, then steady, a rhythmic tapping against the giant glass windows of the penthouse. The sky outside was a deep velvet blue, sliced open by streaks of silver lightning. Normally, storms made me anxious. Tonight, they felt like the earth pressing pause… like the world was finally matching the chaos inside my chest. I stood in my studio room — the space Damien had renovated for me — surrounded by my sketches, fabric rolls, and the faint scent of pencil and linen. My latest drawing lay on the table. The dress I’d sketched after the press conference. Clean lines. Strong silhouette. Title at the top in my messy handwriting: “Unscripted.” I traced the name with my fingertip, feeling too much and not enough at the same time. He kissed me today. In public. No script. No cameras. No contract. He kissed me like a man claiming the one thing he was terrified to want. I pressed my fingers to my lips. They still tingled.

Chapter 38: (Damien’s POV) The office air was dry, cool, and sterile—just the way I liked it. I was in a war room, surrounded by my lawyers and Marcus, fighting off the rival attacks on the Lancaster Group stock. We were winning. The market was stabilizing, thanks entirely to Sophia’s impossible performance at the press conference. But the victory felt like ash in my mouth. My every move was fueled by self-hatred. I had fled the penthouse at dawn, unable to face the raw, tender reality of the woman sleeping in my bed. Intimacy was a trap. Love was a weapon. I had to revert to the Ice King, the only personality guaranteed to survive. “The damage is contained, sir,” Mr. Thorne stated, reviewing a printout. “The market accepted your denial and Mrs. Lancaster’s highly effective character defense. Your personal approval ratings, surprisingly, have spiked. The public loves a redemption story.” I nodded, feeling nothing. “Issue the final threat against the libel publisher. I want them

Chapter 40: (Damien’s POV)The office was empty, the penthouse silent. The sun was fully up, harsh and unforgiving, lighting up the thick layer of dust that had settled on the antique contract.I was still standing in the study, exactly where Sophia had left me. My head was bowed, and my hands rested on the cold mahogany desk, clutching the letter from my father and the legal contract—the symbol of my failure and the tool of my protection.I was breathing shallowly, fighting the rising panic. The past was not buried; it was here, right now, a palpable, suffocating presence.“Your mother died for your father’s mistakes.”The words repeated, a terrible, rhythmic chant. For twenty years, I had held onto the official story: a tragic accident, a sudden fall. It was neat, clean, and irreversible. It allowed me to assign blame to fate, not to myself. It allowed me to believe that if I was simply smart enough, and controlled enough, I could prevent such chaos from ever happening again.But i