Billionaire Producer's Secret Wife のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 51 - チャプター 60

The call came just after midnight. Lucian was back in his office, the city gleaming far below the glass like a fractured constellation. He didn't want to go back home. Not without Serena. It was a functional place in general, but without her, there was something emptier than he had ever noticed. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled, a half-finished glass of scotch forgotten on the desk beside a folder marked DEVARCERAUX — PRESS RESPONSE. The phone vibrated again —insistent, rhythmic. His calls are mostly through Jonathan. Not many had his number and the ones who do don't call him at this hour. He glanced at the caller ID. Eliora Rivera. Lucian didn’t often get calls from Serena’s younger sister. They chatted often. She was more into that than calling and picking calls unless its from her sister. So he was surprised to see her name. He picked up. “Eliora.” Her voice came in sharp and urgent. “Where is she?” He leaned back in his chair, brows lowering. “Serena?”

Serena had forgotten what it felt like to wake up to a day that wasn’t scheduled down to the last minute. The shoot had wrapped early. Miraculously. For the first time in weeks, she didn’t have an interview, a meeting, a press call, or Lucian waiting at her door with some maddening comment designed to set her off. What she had, instead, was Eliora — sprawled across the couch in leggings and one of Serena’s old oversized sweatshirts, eating strawberries straight from the bowl. She could have a nice wardrobe but she wanted to steal her clothes, apparently. “This is illegal,” Eliora muttered around a mouthful. “Strawberries shouldn’t taste this expensive.” “They’re flown in from Spain,” Serena said absently, tying her hair into a bun. Eliora turned, incredulous. “You’re serious?” Serena hummed noncommittally. “Lucian’s supplier.”

Aiden Wolfe didn’t like being used. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago — in a childhood that wasn’t quite poor enough to be pitied but too fractured to be saved. You learn things, growing up in the crossfire of powerful men: how to be invisible, how to listen, how to bite back only when you knew the taste of blood would matter. Lucian Vale forgot that last part. The valet at the private garage had offered to drive him home. Aiden refused, took the walk instead — down the quiet, empty road that cut through the upper ridges of Bel Air. He was in a diguise and nobody would recognise him considering he loved to make public appearances with bodyguards. Nobody would assume he would be out alone without security. The night smelled of rain and cigarette smoke, and the city spread below him like a sin too large to confess. He still had the file under his arm. Seraphina Devraux. The weight of temptation dressed up as blackmail. Aiden didn’t open it until he reached his car. H

[LEAKED EMAIL THREAD — CONFIDENTIAL / INTERNAL COMMUNICATIONS | CIRCLING WITHIN PR + TALENT NETWORKS] (Recovered from partial inbox metadata, authenticity unverified. Names redacted where necessary.) --- From: Marla C. — VP, Public Relations, Solaris Media Group To: Internal: Senior Partners Subject: [URGENT] Devarcaux Situation Escalation — Guidance Requested Date: Monday, 08:12 AM PST --- Team, Morning summary below. The “Gala Footage” leak has now been amplified by secondary networks (FoxPop / NTN / Lumière). Trending in 38 markets. Brand fallout: MAÉ Paris, Liss & Co., and SKN/Phila are suspending campaigns until “further clarification.” Investor chatter: two silent backers are “re-evaluating exposure.” Media tone: shifted from moral scandal to “systemic manipulation” angle. Unconfirmed, but The Post is preparing an exposé citing “a culture of manufactured authenticity.” We have to decide whether we quietly distance or issue moral solidarity before noon cycle. Als

The Queen’s Collapse: Seraphina Devarcaux and the Psychology of Hollywood’s Hunger By Marianne Cole | Vanity Circuit Magazine | Feature Essay There are moments in Hollywood that feel less like news and more like ritual sacrifice. A grainy clip surfaces, an empire trembles, and a thousand observers rush in not to understand — but to consume. This week, that ritual found its latest altar in Seraphina Devarcaux. For nearly a decade, Devarcaux has been the industry’s most reliable myth: a woman who seemed to float above the volatility that devours everyone else. She was branded “The Queen of Authenticity,” an actress whose tears were cinematic currency and whose name could anchor both art-house and box office. Her image was curated, yes — but with a precision that appeared effortless. And then, in less than forty-eight hours, it all began to unravel. The footage — if one can call it that — is brief and ambiguous: Devarcaux, laughing beside a producer at a charity afterparty. A hand