Semua Bab The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée: Bab 71 - Bab 79

He gave a short, bitter laugh, a sound completely devoid of humor. It was the sound of something breaking. “Love? You have the audacity to stand in my house and use that word, after what I just saw?” He gestured towards my tightly clenched fist. “what is that in your hand, Angel? A token of his undying affection?” My hand flew open instinctively, revealing the small, damning piece of metal. “It’s a key. He tried to give it to me. He said it was for a safe place. I didn’t want it, Damien! I tried to refuse!” “A key,” he said, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. “A key to your new life together, I presume. How very thoughtful of him. Planning your escape right under my nose.” “No! That’s not what it is! That’s not what I want!” Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and useless. “Why won’t you believe me?” “Believe you?” He was in front of me now, his sheer presence a physical force. He looked down at me, his green eyes glacial. “I believe what I saw. I saw the woman I off

The car was expensive, the leather seats soft, the interior smelling faintly of a man’s cologne. The driver was a large, silent man in a dark suit whose eyes met mine in the rearview mirror for a disconcerting second before flicking away. “Where are we going?” I asked, my voice small. “My place,” Elena said brightly, patting my knee. “It’s not far. You can crash with me for as long as you need. We’ll find you a lawyer tomorrow, a real one, not one of Salvatore’s sharks. We’ll sue them both, George for being a snake and Damien for… well, for being Damien.” There was a hard edge to her voice when she said his name that set my teeth on edge. “I don’t want to sue anyone, Elena. I just… I want to be left alone.” “Oh, honey.” She sighed, a theatrical sound. “You’re too soft for this world. That’s your problem. Men like Damien Salvatore, they eat girls like you for breakfast. They see all that kindness and naivety and they can’t help but break it, just to see if they can.” Her words wer

The answer came with a deafening crash as the warehouse’s main loading bay door was ripped from its hinges, crumpling inwards as if hit by a freight train. Framed in the opening, silhouetted against the night, stood two figures. One was Marco, his usual sardonic expression replaced by a cold, professional readiness. The other was Damien. He was dressed in dark, tactical gear, a stark departure from his usual tailored suits. The cold fury on his face was a terrifying thing to behold, a whitehot rage that seemed to burn away the very air around him. His eyes found mine across the vast space, and in them, I saw no doubt, no suspicion. Only a singular, murderous purpose. He had come for me. “Let her go, Caruso,” Damien’s voice was unnaturally calm, but it cut through the silence like a razor’s edge. Caruso laughed, pulling me to my feet and dragging me in front of him, a cold pistol suddenly pressed against my temple. “Salvatore! So glad you could make it. I was worried your broken he

Three days. I slept in the recliner beside his bed, showered in the nurse’s locker room, survived on vending-machine coffee and Rosa’s soup. I told him everything......about the café, Elena’s betrayal, the key George pressed into my palm. I told him about my infertility, the hollow ache I’d carried since the doctor’s office. I told him about my mother, about the painting of the butterfly, about the way his voice had been the only safe thing in the storm. On the third night, his eyes opened for real. They were glassy with morphine, but they found me in the dark. “Hey.” he croaked. I was on my feet instantly, leaning over him. “Hey yourself.” “You stayed.” “Told you I wasn’t going anywhere.” He tried to smile; it came out crooked. “Heard everything. Every word.” My cheeks flushed. “Even the embarrassing parts?” “Especially those.” His fingers tightened around mine. “Love you too. Thought I’d dreamed it.” “You didn’t.” I pressed my forehead to his. “You’re stuck with me now.”

The first night in the old Victorian, we slept on the floor. The house smelled of cedar and old books, dust motes dancing in moonlight. We’d bought a mattress, a set of sheets, nothing else. It didn’t matter. We had each other, and that was enough. I woke to Damien tracing shapes on my bare shoulder. “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone,” he whispered. I thought for a moment. “When I was eight, I wanted to be a cloud.” He snorted softly. “A cloud?” “Soft. Unreachable. Always moving.” I turned to face him. “Your turn.” “I used to count ceiling cracks when my parents fought. Got up to two hundred and sixteen once.” We traded secrets like currency, small and large. I told him about the time I shoplifted a candy bar because my stepmother forgot to pack lunch. He told me about the first time he fired someon..how he’d thrown up in the bathroom after. Each confession was a brick in the foundation we were rebuilding. Six months later, I stood in the sun-room again. The canvas