The Billionaire's Dirty Secrets のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Calla’s POV My lips parted in disbelief. Confess? The word was a foul taste on my tongue. "How can I confess to a crime that exists only in your imagination?" I managed, my voice trembling. "That won't be necessary, Ms. Moreno." A new voice, calm and authoritative, cut through the tension. A man in a severe black suit stepped into the dim light of the holding area, extending a slim folder of documents to Elira. Her perfectly sculpted brows furrowed as she snatched the papers. "What is this?" she demanded, her eyes scanning the text. With each passing second, her confusion twisted into outrage. "It's a legal filing for defamation and wrongful imprisonment," the man stated, his tone devoid of emotion. Elira let out a sharp, dismissive sound and flung the papers into the air. They fluttered to the grimy floor like wounded birds. "This is ridiculous!" "I'm afraid it is quite serious. My client must be released. Immediately." The lawyer didn't raise his voice, but his command

Ronan’s POV I sank into the leather chair, its creak the only sound in the vast, silent office. I closed my eyes, rotating slowly left and right, but the motion couldn’t quiet the storm in my mind. The image was burned onto the back of my eyelids: Dominic’s hands on Calla’s waist, pulling her close. Their lips, a breath apart. “Did they really kiss?” The words were a bitter whisper, escaping before I could cage them. “Excuse me, Sir? Did you say something?” Elijah’s voice was a quiet intrusion from behind me. “Nothing,” I bit out, adjusting my posture to feign control. “Just my thoughts… oppressing me.” The memory replayed, taunting me. The way she didn’t immediately push him away. Was that why Dominic defended her so fiercely? Not out of chivalry, but possession? Dominic is a cunning fraudster. I’ve lost count of the girls he’s charmed and discarded. And Calla, with her wide, trusting eyes, walked right into his web. Or perhaps she’s just like him? Birds of a feather, after all.

Ronan’s POVThree AM.The witching hour, they call it. Right now, it felt more like the hour of the fool. My fool. Stuck in a gilded cage of my own making, pacing a path into the rug.My feet screamed at me. A hot, blunt pain with every step. The Italian leather of my shoes, usually a symbol of control, felt like a stupid, expensive joke. I finally stopped, my body giving up before my mind would. I braced my hands on the cold glass of the window, the night sky sprawled out like a black canvas. The moon wasn’t gentle; it was a harsh, interrogator’s lamp.Elira. Her name was a sour taste in my mouth. A dress? This was all over a scrap of fabric? My gut, the one I’d trusted in back alleys and boardrooms, twisted. No. This was a blade, and she’d aimed it at the weakest link in my chain. Calla.The girl was a ghost haunting my house, and I was the one rattling her chains.And that “proposal.” A laugh, dry and hollow, escaped me. It wasn’t romance. It was a hostile takeover of my entire lif

CHAPTER 17 - DEAD SECRETSRonan’s POVThe doctor’s office was too quiet.No beeping. No rustle of paper. Just the low hum of a hidden air system, pushing sterile, cold air over my skin. It smelled like rain on concrete and something else—something clean and cruel.Dr. Vale sat behind a glass desk. Nothing on it. Just her, and a tablet that glowed like a single, cold eye.She didn’t offer me a seat.No, hello.“Your assistant,” she said. “She was poisoned.”The word dropped into the silence like a stone into dark water.Poisoned.My mind flashed: Calla on the floor. The awful, final sound of her body hitting the ground. Not a faint. A collapse.“A specific kind,” Dr. Vale continued. Her voice was flat. Unimpressed. “A neuro-paralytic. Street name is ‘Echo’.”She turned the tablet. On it, a simple, ugly molecule spun.“It doesn’t make you sick. It doesn’t make you forget.” She looked straight at me. “It makes you stop. Heart. Lungs. Nerves. It’s designed to look like a sudden, tragic fa

CHAPTER 19 - THE MONOPOLYRonan’s POVThe private hospital suite smelled of antiseptic and silence. Calla lay against a mountain of white pillows, looking less like a patient and more like a ghost who’d forgotten how to haunt. Her gaze was fixed on the window, where the afternoon sun cut a sharp line across the floor. The steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor was the only sound, a metronome for the tension humming in the air.I stood in the doorway for a long moment, watching her. She didn’t turn. Her fingers pleated the edge of the starch-stiff sheet in a slow, rhythmic motion.“The doctor says you’re stable,” I said, my voice too loud in the quiet.Her hands stilled. That was the only sign she’d heard me.I moved into the room, letting the door sigh shut behind me. I didn’t sit. I stood at the foot of her bed, a respectful distance that felt like a canyon.“They told me you might not remember. That the drug could cause confusion.” I kept my tone even, factual. “Is that what’s