The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 41 - チャプター 50

The tension between us was unbearable during the ride back to the estate. Damien's declaration, ' You're mine' — echoed in my mind, both thrilling and terrifying me. His hand remained possessively on mine, thumb occasionally brushing my palm in a way that sent shivers up my arm. Neither of us spoke, the silence filled with unresolved questions and unspoken desires. Marco kept his eyes carefully forward, though I caught him glancing at us in the rearview mirror once or twice. I wondered what he thought of this arrangement that had clearly evolved far beyond its original parameters. When we arrived, Damien escorted me inside with his hand on the small of my back, a touch I was becoming familiar with, even dependent on. The mansion felt emptier than usual, with Rosa having taken Izzy to a doctor's appointment in the city. "I'll be in my study," Damien said, his voice formal again as we reached the grand staircase. "Take some time to rest. Today was... eventful." I watched him retr

As I came down from the high, I became aware of Damien watching me with naked hunger. "I want.... to taste you," I whispered, surprising myself with the admission. His eyes widened fractionally, the only sign of his shock at my requestb. "Angel, you don't have to— " "I want to," I insisted, sliding off the desk to kneel before him. "Show me how.... to please you." For a moment, I thought he might refuse. Then he nodded once, his hand gentle as he guided me. "Start slow," he instructed, his voice strained with restraint. "Use your tongue first." I followed his directions, exploring this new intimacy with curiosity and growing enthusiasm. The taste of him, the weight on my tongue, the way his breath caught when I found a particularly sensitive spot—all of it was intoxicating in its novelty. When I finally took him fully into my mouth, his hand tightened in my hair, not forcing but anchoring himself. "Christ, Angel," he groaned, the rare profanity telling me more about his pleasure

Sophia ignored me. "Promise me something, Angel." "Of course" Angel replied without hesitation. "Don't let him retreat when I'm gone. He'll try to shut down, lock everything away." My mother's eyes, so like my own, held a pleading quality I'd rarely seen. "He needs your light more than he knows." Angel's grip on my hand tightened. "I promise," she said softly. The simple exchange, laden with meaning I wasn't prepared to examine, made something twist painfully in my chest. Before I could respond, Sophia's eyes drifted closed, the sedatives finally taking effect. "We should go," I said, gently extracting my hand from hers. "She needs to rest." Outside the hospital, the night air was cool against my face, grounding me after the surreal conversation in my mother's room. Angel remained silent as Marco drove us back to the estate, her hand still in mine, as if she understood I needed the anchor but not the words. It wasn't until we reached the privacy of the mansion that she finally

Tokyo unfolded before me like a living painting, vibrant, chaotic, and utterly mesmerizing. From our suite's floor to ceiling windows, I watched neon lights pierce the evening darkness, transforming the cityscape into something from a futuristic dream. Behind me, Damien spoke rapid Japanese into his phone, his voice a low, melodic backdrop to my thoughts.Three days into our trip, and I still couldn't quite believe I was here, in Tokyo, in this impossibly luxurious hotel, with him. The exhibition opening had been a whirlwind of success I hadn't dared imagine. Collectors had fought over my butterfly emergence series, critics had praised the emotional depth of my work, and through it all, Damien had remained a steady presence at my side, his hand occasionally finding the small of my back in that possessive way that no longer bothered me.Now, halfway across the world, our pretense had begun to blur even further. Here, away from the watchful eyes of those who knew us in New York, we

"She sounds wonderful," I said. "She is." His voice tightened on the present tense, as if refusing to consign her to the past prematurely. "Even in her illness, she thinks of others first. Of me." "Like arranging a fiancée to comfort you after she's gone?" I suggested gently. He tensed slightly, then relaxed. "Yes. Though I doubt she anticipated how thoroughly you would disrupt my carefully ordered existence, little butterfly." The nickname, spoken against my hair, sent warmth spiraling through me. "Is that what I've done? Disrupted you?" "Thoroughly," he confirmed, no accusation in his tone. "Nothing has gone according to plan since you appeared." I tilted my head to look up at him. "And is that a bad thing?" His eyes, normally so guarded, held a vulnerability that made my breath catch. "I haven't decided yet," he admitted. The honesty in his response, the absence of his usual calculated precision, touched something deep within me. In that moment, suspended somewhere