All Chapters of One Night's Mistake With My Fiance's Brother: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The scent of him clung to the sheets. Annabelle stirred, the cotton cover brushing over bare skin as morning light stretched across the room. She blinked slowly, unsure what had woken her—until her eyes focused, and there he was. Devon, lying beside her, half on his side, one hand propped under his head. Watching her. His hair was still a little messy from sleep. A faint shadow of stubble darkened his jaw, and his eyes—those ridiculously unreadable eyes—were fixed on her like she was something rare and breakable. “You’re staring,” she murmured, her voice still heavy with sleep. “You snore,” he replied with a half-smile. She blinked. “I do not.” “You do and it’s charming. Like a disgruntled kitten.” Annabelle laughed, pulling the covers over her face. “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” She peeked out. “No. I don’t.” Devon leaned down and kissed her again—soft and slow, this time. They were morning kisses. Real ones. The kind that didn’t need fireworks to matter. They

The city outside his window pulsed with morning haze, the skyline crawling awake through thin ribbons of gold. Benjamin Hamilton didn’t look up from the report in his hand. Numbers. Projections. Forecasts. A few years ago, this kind of data used to excite him, a billion-dollar gamble backed by five billion in potential annual return. But now, with the ink drying on Senator Hugh Lawson’s obituary and the harbor project all but choked to death by red tape, that excitement had curdled into something colder. Frustration. He set the report down. The Lawson alliance had been calculated. Strategic. Marrying Devon to Annabelle wasn’t about legacy or sentiment. It was politics, leverage, and optics. Hugh had been the face of their push through the regulatory hurdles of the harbor acquisition project. The man knew which strings to pull. He knew how to smile while cutting through legislation like a knife through silk. And now he was gone—heart failure, they said. Quiet. Unexpected. Benjam

Devon's POV Weeks went by in a haze, like the world had been muted, then broken, and I was left to navigate the fragments. Every day felt heavy, coated with grief and guilt, yet I found myself moving forward because Annabelle needed me. Somehow, in a way I hadn’t expected, I became her anchor. It started the night after the service. She woke screaming, the kind of scream that clawed through the walls, rattled the air, and left her trembling in my arms. I didn’t hesitate. I sat up immediately, pulling her close, murmuring her name until the shudders subsided. Her forehead was damp with sweat, her body rigid, and I could feel the tremor of panic ripple through her. “I’m here,” I said softly, my hands on her back, steadying her. “You’re safe. It’s over.” Her eyes fluttered open, wide and terrified. Recognition came slowly, like she had to remind herself she wasn’t alone. She clung to me, pressing her face into my chest, and for a moment, I let myself just hold her, letting her weight

The months passed in a rhythm both gentle and relentless. Devon’s life, once defined by boardrooms and appearances, was now defined by the soft, growing pulse of another heartbeat. Annabelle’s pregnancy became the center of everything, a focal point around which their fractured world slowly began to revolve. He found himself adjusting, almost instinctively, to a life that no longer belonged solely to him. Appointments became routine. He drove her to every checkup, sat in sterile waiting rooms clutching magazines he never read, listening instead to the quiet tick of the clock, the rustle of paper in the reception area, the soft hum of life moving around them. He asked questions, sometimes awkward, sometimes overly technical, and Annabelle would roll her eyes but answer patiently. “You’re going to be a father,” she’d say with a fond, teasing lilt. “You have to know this stuff.” Devon took to the research with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Parenting books lined the shelves in

The night of the election results was electric. Devon sat beside Annabelle in the Hamilton family study, watching the numbers tick up on the screen. Each percentage point made her victory more certain. Camille sat on Benjamin’s lap, drumming tiny fingers against his chest, oblivious to the tension in the room. Devon’s hand rested lightly on Annabelle’s back, steadying her as the final results appeared in bold letters. She had won. Landslide. The crowd erupted in cheers through the television, the studio reporters shouting over each other, cameras flashing at anyone in sight. Annabelle’s smile was wide and radiant, though there was a flicker of something Devon could not name behind her eyes. Relief. Triumph. Fear. All at once. Devon allowed himself a small smile. She had done it. Against odds, against whispers of doubt, she had done it. And he had been there with her, supporting her through every debate, every smear, every late-night strategy session. Yet even in this moment of victor