All Chapters of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

“I don’t want to leave,” she choked out. “Please, Damien. Tell me what I need to do.” “It’s not just about blocking his number, Angel.” I let my hand drop, the brief contact severed. “It’s about eradicating him from your thoughts, your memories. It’s about understanding that your past life, the one where you entertained delusions of soulmates with men like George Sinclair, is over. Dead and buried.” I saw the internal schism I was creating, the agonizing conflict in her eyes. She was torn between her innate desire to appease, to be loved, and the dawning realization of the price of my affection. “My mother....she saw something good in us,” Angel said, her voice barely audible, clinging to that last shred of hope. “She believed...” “My mother is dying,” I interrupted, my voice hardening. “Her perceptions are clouded by sentiment and medication. She sees what she wants to see — a happy ending for her wayward son.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But we b

His words were like acid, eating away at the last vestiges of my composure. “This isn’t my fault!” “Isn’t it?” He snatched the magazine from the table, shoving it in my face, his finger jabbing at the picture of me and George. “This. This is your fault. Your inability to sever ties, your sentimental attachment to a past that should be dead and buried. You invited this scrutiny, this....filth, into my life with your carelessness!” “I didn’t ask for any of this!” I shouted back, tears of anger and despair finally breaking free. “I didn’t ask for George to stalk me, I didn’t ask for you to make me your prisoner, and I certainly didn’t ask for my private pain to be plastered across headlines!” “You knew the terms!” he roared, his icy control finally cracking, revealing the molten fury beneath. “You knew the stakes! Discretion was paramount! And you, with your naive belief in happy endings and reformed scoundrels, you jeopardized everything!” The sheer force of his rage was terrifying.

The days following Sophia’s death were a hollow echo. Damien was a ghost in his own home, rarely seen, and when he was, his eyes passed right through me as if I were already a figment of his past. The lawyers had been in touch, their voices crisp and impersonal, outlining the terms of my public disgrace. I was to be the villain of the piece, the calculating gold digger. The statement they’d drafted was a masterpiece of character assassination. I hadn’t signed it yet, putting off the inevitable with a pathetic sort of defiance.George’s messages continued, a persistent, cloying stream of apologies and offers of help. I ignored them, the thought of leaning on him, of trading one cage for another, nauseating. Yet, his words – “I can protect you” – sometimes echoed in the lonely silence of my suite, a tempting whisper against the backdrop of Damien’s glacial indifference.The funeral was a grand, somber affair, attended by a veritable who’s who of New York society. I stood at the p

“did he hurt you?” Damien stated, his voice flat, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. “I’m okay.” I whispered, though I wasn’t. I felt violated, terrified, and strangely protected. It was a confusing maelstrom of emotions. He opened the first aid kit, taking out an antiseptic wipe and cleaning his own knuckles with a detached efficiency. The skin was broken, already purpling. “You should let me do that,” I said, finding my voice. He glanced up, surprised. After a moment’s hesitation, he handed me the wipe and a small tube of antiseptic cream. My fingers trembled as I gently cleaned the blood from his hand, dabbing at the broken skin. His hand was warm, strong, the contrast between its capacity for violence and the unexpected stillness with which he allowed my touch unsettling. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly, concentrating on his knuckles. “He’s...not worth it.” “No one touches what’s mine,” he said, his voice a low rumble, his eyes fixed on my face. The possessiven

We agreed to meet at a small, unassuming café downtown, the kind of place you’d never look at twice. The entire drive there, I practiced how I would tell Damien about it later, framing it as a simple, necessary meeting. But a knot of unease was tied tight in my gut. Elena was already there, waving from a corner booth, her smile bright and reassuring. She jumped up and wrapped me in a hug that felt a little too tight, a little too performative. “You look...okay,” she said, studying my face as we sat down. “Better than okay, actually. Is he.. is Damien treating you alright?” “He is,” I said, a genuine warmth spreading through my chest at the thought of him. “He’s been surprisingly kind.” “Kind?” Elena’s eyebrows shot up. “Damien Salvatore? Well, miracles never cease.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But listen, about George. You really need to watch your back. I heard him talking to some of his old cronies. He’s not thinking straight. He feels like Salvatore stole you, and he’s obse