All Chapters of Billionaire: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

"Don't call me again, damn it! I'm done with you!"Was the sentence that greeted my ears as soon as the phone answered. His voice didn't sound like the usual Lucas. My chest felt tight, as if the air had been taken away. My surroundings seemed to be spinning. I couldn't digest what had just happened. Lucas even ended the call without any explanation? He dumped me? Over the phone? Not even letting me into my own home?What the hell is this?My anger instantly boiled over. Thinking of my struggles over the past three years, being rewarded with such hurtful treatment and words! This was really hard for me to accept. I will not remain silent.With anger still running through my veins, I called my regular lock technician. He should have closed his service, but if I asked, he would definitely come without thinking of a reason to refuse."I forgot the code," I said as soon as the locksmith arrived."After three years?" he asked skeptically.I just shrugged my shoulders, trying to remain calm

​"S&Lu Corp is here to discuss the vegetable supply chain, Ms. Smith. I’ve squeezed them into the lunch slot; it’s the only window your schedule allows." ​I didn’t look up from the tablet in my hand. I simply let the name hang in the air—S&Lu. It was a bitter, ironic brand, a testament to my own stupidity. Sara and Lucas. I had been the one to brainstorm the name over a cheap bottle of wine in our first year of marriage. I was the one who had stayed up until 3:00 AM drafting their first business plan. And I was the one who had used my father's shadow—without his permission—to convince vendors that S&Lu was a safe bet. ​I had been the engine, the fuel, and the navigator. Lucas had simply been the man behind the wheel, taking all the credit for a journey he hadn’t mapped. ​"Let them come," I said, my voice as cool and polished as the marble desk I sat behind. "Let them wait in the reception area. And Rachel? Do not offer them coffee. I want them to feel every minute of their own insig

​The glass-walled sanctuary of the Smith Inc. executive floor was designed to make its occupants feel like gods and its visitors feel like intruders. It was a space of absolute silence, broken only by the hum of the air filtration system and the rhythmic, predatory clicking of my own heels against the polished obsidian floors. ​I was standing by the window, watching a late-autumn rain dampen the skyline, when Rachel’s voice came through the intercom. It was hesitant, a stark contrast to her usual diamond-sharp professionalism. ​"Ms. Smith... Mr. Anderson is in the lobby again. Security was about to remove him, but he’s making quite a scene. He’s... he’s shouting that he won’t leave until he apologizes. He looks quite unwell. Should I call the police?" ​I stared at my reflection in the glass. The woman looking back at me wore a charcoal-grey power suit and a gaze that could freeze boiling water. Three weeks ago, the mention of Lucas making a scene would have sent me into a spiral of

After the meeting, I didn't go back to my office. I went to the boutique. I needed to see it. I needed to see the place where Sara Anderson had died. ​When I walked through the glass doors, the atmosphere was different. Gone was the oppressive, stifling air Chloe had cultivated. The music was upbeat, the staff moved with a sense of purpose, and the displays were sharp and modern. ​Natty was at the register, looking stunning in a tailored black suit I’d sent her. When she saw me, her professional mask slipped for just a second, a wide, genuine grin breaking across her face. ​"Ms. Smith," she said, her voice full of playful formality. "To what do we owe the honor?" ​"Just checking on my investment, Natty," I said, walking over to her. ​We stepped into the back office—Chloe’s old office. It had been repainted. The dusty, floral curtains were gone, replaced by sleek, minimalist blinds. ​"How is it?" I asked, sitting in the guest chair. ​Natty sighed, leaning back in the manag

​The morning of the Westside auction arrived with a sky the color of a bruised plum—heavy, low, and threatening a downpour that mirrored the tension in my chest. I didn't wear the midnight blue Matthias had suggested. To follow his sartorial advice would be a concession, a small crack in my armor that I couldn't afford. Instead, I chose a suit of ivory wool, stark and clinical, with shoulders so sharp they could cut glass. If he wanted a Queen, I would give him the Virgin Queen—untouchable, frigid, and lethal. ​"The bids are already hovering at fifty million, Ms. Smith," Rachel said, her voice crackling through the car's intercom as we swerved through the rain-slicked streets. "König Industries opened with a formal offer that bypassed the preliminary rounds. He’s trying to bake the competition out before the sun is even up." ​"He’s posturing, Rachel. Matthias likes the theater of power as much as the power itself," I replied, though my grip on my tablet tightened. ​We pulled up to t