Semua Bab Billionaire Producer's Secret Wife: Bab 61 - Bab 70

The morning arrived softer than it had any right to be.Sunlight was scattered over the balcony tiles of Fallon Crowne’s loft, a pale, washed gold that seemed like it belonged to another city—some quieter, slower Los Angeles that didn’t trade on blood and buzz. The espresso machine wheezed in the background, grinding its protest while Fallon paced barefoot through the open living area, hair pinned up with two pencils. Serena sat at the kitchen counter, her phone in hand, scrolling through the industry notifications she’d tried—unsuccessfully—to ignore all morning. She had fallen asleep and found herself too tired to go back home and Fallon had graciously allowed her to crash in her place for the night. She scrolled her phone, annoyed and irritated. Three new scripts from three different production houses. Two requests for brand collaborations. One tentative offer for a feature role in a series that had spent years trying to court Seraphina Devarrcaux.The irony was as cruel as it w

The drive back from the restaurant was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the windows of the car like fog.Eliora sat in the front passenger seat, scrolling through her phone with occasional bursts of laughter at whatever reel had caught her eye. Serena drove, hands tight on the wheel, eyes fixed on the winding canyon road. She insisted driving alone and Eliora choose to stick with her. "Why did we take seperate car again?" Eliora murmured, like someone who already knew the answer. "Are you two fighting or something?"Serena took a deep breath. "No."They'd have to talk for that. But in some ways, she guessed they are fighting. Lucian followed in his own car—she’d caught a glimpse of his taillights in the rearview mirror once or twice, a silent escort she hadn’t asked for.He hadn’t protesred when she said she'd like to drive alone. Just a nod when they parted in the valet line, his hand brushing Eliora’s shoulder in that protective way he’d adopted lately. To Serena, not

By noon, the internet had decided who Serena Rivera was.She watched it happen in real time, the way one watches a tide come in—helpless, clinical, faintly fascinated by the violence of it.She didn’t scroll. She didn’t need to. The headlines had weight now. They pressed against her ribs even with the phone face-down on the café table, even as Lucian’s presence anchored the air across from her.He hadn’t touched his coffee.That bothered her more than it should have.“You’re not angry,” she said suddenly.Lucian blinked, just once. “That’s not true.”“No,” Serena said. “You’re… resolved. Angry people react. You’re already ten moves ahead.”He studied her like she’d said something worth filing away. “And you?”She exhaled. “I don’t know yet.”That was the truth. Anger felt too clean for what she was carrying. Hurt felt indulgent. Fear was useless. What she felt was something murkier—like being pushed into a role she’d spent her whole life avoiding, and realizing the script had already

The thing about power, Isadora Vale had decided a long time ago, was that it wasn’t about who held it. It was about who understood its silence.And tonight, Hollywood was very, very loud.From the balcony of the Devacraux estate, she could see the ballroom below like a living organism—glittering, shifting, predatory. Every move choreographed. Every laugh rehearsed. And at the center of it all: her brother. Lucian Vale.He looked exactly how he always did when things began to unravel—composed, surgical, all clean lines and quiet ruin beneath them. The press would call it control. Isadora knew better. It was survival. She wasn't his sister, not exactly. She was adopted. She never liked him much either. Their sibling relationship was non existent. Yet, she’d flown in from London two days ago after catching wind of the Ravelle biopic mess through one of her associates at Oriel Pictures. She wasn’t supposed to care about American film politics anymore—she’d spent years building a clean l

“You’re doing it wrong again,” Ava said, voice light.Serena lifted an eyebrow. Surprised, but not shocked at her mother in law barging in like this early in the morning. “I’ve been making tea in this exact way for months."“And for months you’ve been murdering the bag.” Ava stepped in, plucked the tea bag out before it could turn the water bitter, and dropped it into the trash with the casual authority of someone who’d won this argument a dozen times. “Tragic loss of flavor.”Serena let out a small and real laugh. “You say that every single time.”“Because every single time I’m right.”Ava slid in beside her, both of them leaning against the counter now, shoulders almost touching. They faced the big window together. The city shone below—restless, indifferent, beautiful in the way only places that don't sleep at night will be. Serena stayed quiet. “Rough one?” Ava asked quietly.Serena blew out a breath through her nose. “Yeah.”Ava nudged her gently with an elbow. “You survived. Tha