บททั้งหมดของ Billionaire Producer's Secret Wife: บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

Serena sat in the back seat, her eyes fixed on the city outside — sun flashing off car hoods, advertisements stacked over one another like lies told too often. Her phone buzzed with another message from Gia asking if she was alright without her. She typed back a vague yes and tucked the phone away. Gia had an emergency call from her brother so Serena insisted that she leave. Eli’s car cut through the noon traffic like it was running late for an emergency. They really weren't. She felt bad for him sometimes. Posed for an executive position in the company, but Lucian diverted him as her manager. She imagined he'd be pissed. She would be in his place. Not that he has ever shown an inclination that he was pissed. The script lay unopened on her lap. A bright, hopeful font spelled “The Bright Side.”Even the title made her nervous.Eli was talking on the phone, his tone clipped, alternating between charming and deadly efficient. He always sounded like he was sealing deals with the devil o

She tried her best to divert the topic and stormed out of the room.Lucian walked past her into the living room, the faint scent of cedar following. He didn't say anything after. He didn’t have to. His calmness was a weapon; silence, the blade he preferred. When could insert his hand into the chest of Hollywood and pull out secrets like treasures, there really was no need for speaking.Serena’s pulse was still erratic, her anger half-made of fear, half of shame. She hated that he knew. It was something she never wished for anyone to know. “Don’t follow me,” she said, not turning around.“I’m not,” he replied simply. He sat down on the arm of the couch, the sound of fabric brushing against leather. “You’re the one circling the same ghosts.”“Stop talking like you know what’s inside my head.”“I do,” he said, his tone maddeningly even. “I just wish you’d admit it aloud for once.”Serena turned sharply, her robe half falling off her shoulder. “Admit what? That I was stupid? That I trust

The next morning felt too bright.Even the sunlight spilling through the glass doors of the studio had a sterile, overexposed sharpness that made her want to squint.Serena sat in the makeup chair, watching her reflection as the artist dusted shimmer across her cheekbones. Her hair was pulled into soft waves, a commercial smile already painted over her exhaustion.A thirty-second performance where perfection was the minimum and sincerity is optional.Gia stood a few feet away, half buried in a rack of clothes and talking to someone from wardrobe. Her voice — quick, cheerful, decisive — cut through the static hum of production.Eli was on the phone again, managing two crises at once. He looked too calm for a man who’d spent the last week putting out fires Lucian Vale didn’t even consider worth noticing.“Ready in five,” the director called.Serena nodded automatically without giving it much thought. When Gia finally came over, she was holding two coffees. “Yours,” she said, placing on

The Vale estate rose like something out of another century — quiet and timeless against the hills, all glass and stone and water. She remembered the first time Lucian brought her here: how he’d watched her watching it, measuring her reaction the way one might measure an art piece in museum.She'd asked him if she had something in her face and he merely flipped his gaze away. She took that to mean no. Tonight, the house was gentler. The gardens glowed under warm lights, the scent of lemon trees drifting faintly in the breeze.Inside, Ava was waiting near the dining room, elegant in cream silk, her posture regal but never cold. Especially not to her. “There you are,” she said, voice soft with delight.Serena barely had time to reply before Ava pulled her into an embrace. She smelled like roses and something faintly powdery, the kind of scent that made Serena think of her own mother’s dressing table.“You look thinner,” Ava murmur

Three days later, Serena found herself standing outside Fallon Crowne’s loft, a kind of place that looked more like an artist’s secret hideout than a studio. Exposed brick walls, half-finished canvases, coffee cups stacked like trophies of survival — it was so quintessentially Fallon, it almost made her laugh. Almost. She hadn’t planned to come here. Dominic had mentioned Fallon was back in town shooting a limited series, and Serena’s hand had moved on its own, dialing her number before she’d talked herself out of it. She totally would have if she thought more. The call had gone awkwardly smooth. Fallon’s voice, arrogant and sharp as ever: “You, calling me for help? This must be a bad sign or a good script.” Serena: “Both, really." Fallon hummed: “Then come by. I’ll see if I still remember how to be generous.” And now here she was — outside, hesitating like a roo