Lahat ng Kabanata ng Ruthless Vows: The Billionaire Revenge: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

The warning note still sat in her purse like a ticking bomb, “Don’t trust the man who kisses like he’s drowning”. Celeste couldn’t sleep, she lay flat on her bed, eyes on the cracked ceiling, the gala’s distant music still thudding in her skull. Damien’s careful words, the Viper’s cool stare, that dizzying dance—everything buzzed like broken radio static. At last she swung her feet to the floor and dressed in silence: jeans, black hoodie, hair pulled into a quick knot. No makeup, no perfume, nothing that would leave a trail. She slipped from the mansion, boots whispering over marble. Earlier that night she had tailed the Viper’s driver and memorized each turn. His hotel was close—five sleek stories of dark glass and guarded doors. Her mother’s lessons clicked into place: shadowed alleys, staff entrances, moments when nobody's looking. She crossed the back alley, crouched behind dumpsters that reeked of bleach, and slid through the service doorway just as a cleaner stepped out for

Celeste sat within the backseat of the black sedan, her hands gripping the edge of her coat. Rain pattered in opposition to the home windows like fearful fingertips. The driver hadn't started a word since picking her up. Just a nod and the engine starting.This was risky. Stupid, even. But the Viper had promised something no one else could.Her mother.Still alive. The car stopped outside a sleek glass hotel in the business district—one she’d seen in newspapers. Too clean. Too polished. It was the kind of place where secrets hid behind five-star service and golden keycards. The driver opened her door, and she stepped into the cold. In the penthouse, the Viper stood with the aid of the window, a wine glass in his hand, untouched. He didn’t smile. He didn’t offer a greeting. Just motioned for her to come closer. “You came,” he said finally. “I want proof,” she replied. “No games.” “Good,” he said, setting down the glass. “Then I won’t waste time.” He tossed a folder onto the table

CHAPTER 16 Morning daylight filtered through the bedroom home windows; however, it felt cold. Too vivid. Too harsh. Celeste sat on the edge of the mattress, observing the distance in which Damien was hours earlier. Now it becomes simply creased sheets and silence. Closing night’s warmth felt like a far-off reminiscence. The way he had touched her, held her, kissed her—it had felt actual. For a fleeting second, she had allowed herself to trust in something gentle under all the sharpness. But this morning, the whole lot became unique. The intimacy that had as soon as wrapped round her like a blanket was now unraveling thread by means of thread. She wrapped the robe tighter around herself and padded barefoot into the hallway. The ground became cool in opposition to her skin, just like the residence itself had turned in opposition to her. Downstairs, she ought to listen to voices—Damien’s, low and firm, issuing instructions to someone on his protection team. She hesitated at the pin

The moon hung low over the town, casting silver light on the sprawling Deveraux property, wherein the masquerade ball shimmered with shadows and secrets. Celeste stood although for a moment at the pinnacle of the grand staircase, her breath shallow under the black lace mask protecting her face. All around her, human beings in silks and tuxedos twirled and laughed and clinked glasses. But beneath the track and laughter, anxiety simmered. She wasn’t here for the birthday party. Her gown shimmered in deep navy, tight enough to hide the blade strapped to her thigh and the mini-recorder tucked in her bodice. Somewhere in this house, her uncle Julius changed into hiding something—something about her father, about Damien, about everything that had torn her insides apart. Celeste descended the stairs with grace, offering a practiced smile as she passed through senators and CEOs. Her gaze flicked among the masks, alert for any signal of Damien. She hadn’t seen him considering the fact of t

Celeste sat on the edge of the bed, nevertheless retaining the bloody glove she observed in Damien’s coat. Her hands shook. Her breath got here in short, shallow bursts. the entirety inside her screamed to run, however her heart whispered something else. The door creaked open. Damien stepped in, pale and bruised. His shirt was torn. His left arm hung limp. Blood stained the side of his pants. He gave the impression of being dragged through hell. “Damien,” she stated softly, rising to her feet. He met her eyes. It wasn’t me.” “I need to trust you,” she whispered, “But this was in your pocket.” She held up the glove. He gazed at it, then glanced away. “It’s not mine.” “Then whose is it?” Damien didn’t answer. He walked past her and sat on the armchair. He looked exhausted, broken. “Talk to me,” Celeste said. “Please. No more lies.” He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded. “You deserve the truth.” Celeste sat opposite him, clutching the glove like it was her only