Semua Bab Too Late to Want Me; I chose your Billionaire Brother: Bab 131 - Bab 140

The photo came through just as Kent was sliding his phone into his pocket to clock out for the day.It was Syl. Or rather, Syl, Cillian, and two women. His brothers were leaning across a table under warm amber lighting, champagne flutes in hand. One of the women—Benita—had her hair pulled back in an elegant twist. The other—Lola—was laughing like she’d just been told the funniest secret in Paris.Kent shook his head, smiling despite himself. The caption was nothing but a smug champagne emoji. Typical Syl.By the time he’d wrapped up at work, the late summer sun had dipped low, casting long shadows over the road as he pulled into the neighborhood. The familiar outline of the house came into view—but so did something else.A matte black Chevy sat in the driveway. Sleek, silent, out of place.He slowed instinctively, one hand tightening on the steering wheel. The last time someone had shown up here uninvited, Isla Hale had been on the front step with a smile sharp enough to cut glass. An

The plane hit the tarmac with a bone-deep jolt. Overhead bins rattled, a coffee sloshed.Cillian didn’t move. He’d been locked on the window for the last ten minutes, skyline creeping closer, mouth tilted in that effortless half-smile. The kind that told strangers nothing and Syl… everything.Benita saw it too. From across the aisle, her lips pressed in a thin, unreadable line.Customs was quick. Too quick. Outside, the winter air bit through coats and scarves, but the real chill came from the silence between them. The unspoken urgency.A black SUV waited at the curb. Cillian slipped into disguise without a word—coat buttoned, collar up, cap brim shadowing his eyes. Syl mirrored him, scanning the milling crowd for anything off.Behind them, Benita and Lola wheeled their luggage across the wet pavement.“Just when I was getting used to not thinking about this mess,” Lola muttered.“Don’t start,” Benita said.Cillian heard them but didn’t turn. If he did, the mask might slip.The RideT

The sun had barely cleared the skyline, its light catching on the rim of the half-empty coffee cups scattered across the kitchen counter. Leftover pizza boxes were stacked haphazardly on the table, the scent of cold cheese and tomato clinging to the air like an afterthought.The blinds were half-open, letting slivers of light stripe the table where the night’s wreckage remained—empty glasses, half-drained mugs, boxes with their lids sagging open. Someone had pushed the boxes to one side so a plate of toast could fit. The bread had gone cold.Benita was at the counter, sleeves pushed up, coaxing the coffee machine to life with a patience she didn’t give most people. Her hair was twisted into a knot at the back of her head, secured with a pen that had no business being there except that it was convenient. The rhythmic hiss and drip of the machine filled the space.Cillian sat at the table, elbows planted, phone in one hand. He wasn’t really scrolling—more staring at a thread of message

The silence after Shanon’s words was almost physical — the kind that presses against your ribs and slows your breathing.Cillian didn’t answer right away. He stood rooted near the center of the living room, every inch of his posture collected but unreadable. The morning light, streaming in through the tall glass panels, caught along the planes of his face. It made him look carved from something older, steadier.Benita knew this look. It wasn’t hesitation. It was the quiet space before Cillian decided something that would change the course of the room.Kent shifted first, dragging the edge of his boot against the hardwood with a soft scrape. “So, what—” his tone was already halfway to a scoff—“we’re your rescue team now?”Maloi’s head turned sharply toward him. “Kent.” A warning, but also a plea.Kent didn’t look at her. “No, seriously. You show up here, throw accusations around, call me vermin, and now you want our help?”Shanon’s face didn’t twitch, didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed loc

The city was already alive by the time Cillian and Syl hit the streets. Rush-hour traffic crawled along the wide avenues, horns peppering the morning air. Vendors shouted over one another, hawking paper cups of steaming coffee, fresh rolls, and the occasional dubious breakfast sandwich. The sidewalks pulsed with commuters—heels clicking, messenger bags swinging, eyes glued to screens.Cillian’s black sedan slid through the congestion like a shark in dark water. He sat silent in the back, eyes fixed on the looming glass-and-steel tower ahead. The Oakland City Herald headquarters reflected the morning sun with a blinding glare, its doors flanked by security guards in dark suits.Syl pulled up to the curb and stepped out first. “I’ll handle reception,” he said, adjusting his tie.The lobby was all polished marble and the faint scent of ink and paper. Behind the desk, a young receptionist glanced up, already wary at the sight of them. Syl approached with the easy politeness of a man who c