บททั้งหมดของ The Billionaire’s Forgotten Wife: บทที่ 11 - บทที่ 20

The sun was beginning to sink behind the city skyline as Damon pulled up to the old church. It stood like a forgotten relic—its white paint faded, the Iron Gate creaking as he pushed through. He didn't know why he was there exactly. Only that something had been pulling him toward this place for days.A flash.A white dress.A bouquet shattering on the ground.A scream swallowed by silence.He shook his head, clearing the vision.The doors creaked as he stepped inside. Dust floated like ghosts through the filtered light of the stained glass. It smelled of wax and old secrets.He took slow, tentative steps toward the altar. His eyes scanned the rows of pews, the golden cross above the altar, and the cracked tiles. And then — he saw it.A single white ribbon, tied to the end of a pew. Fragile. Weathered. Forgotten.His chest tightened.“You came back.”Damon turned sharply. A frail man in priest’s robes stood near the sacristy door, his cane tapping softly as he approached. His eyes were

The rain had been falling steadily for hours, the rhythmic drumming against the boutique’s glass windows syncing with Damon’s restless heartbeat. The storm outside mirrored the tempest inside him — a chaotic blend of confusion, anger, longing, and pain. He hadn’t planned to come back here today, but something had drawn him like a magnet. Maybe it was the ache in his chest, the ghost of memory trying to claw its way to the surface, or the sketchbook Juliette had desperately tried to hide just hours ago.Damon stood at the entrance, looking out over the quiet street slick with rainwater. The soft glow of the boutique’s lights cast a warm refuge from the cold storm, but inside, the tension was suffocating.Juliette sat behind the counter, her slender fingers nervously twisting the edges of a sketchbook. She hadn’t noticed him enter yet. Her hair, damp from the rain, clung to her neck, and her eyes, dark and haunted, were fixed on the pencil sketches that adorned the open pages. Drawings

The silence in the Thorne estate was unnerving — a stillness too calculated, like a stage set for confrontation.Damon walked through the marble corridor, each step echoing louder than the last. His fists were clenched, jaw rigid, memories flashing in and out like fragmented lightning. He couldn’t piece it all together, but one thing was becoming painfully clear— his mother had lied.He found Evelyn in the sunroom, sipping her morning tea, dressed immaculately in ivory silk. She barely looked up as he entered.“You knew,” Damon said, voice low but laced with fury. “You knew about Juliette. About Mason. And you buried it.”Evelyn didn’t flinch. She set her cup down with poised grace. “I protected you”.“You manipulated me,” he growled. “You staged the crash. You erased them”She finally looked up, eyes cold and unreadable. “You don’t understand the damage Juliette could do. She’s a threat to your future, and to your legacy.”“She’s the mother of my child,” Damon snapped. “And you nearl

Juliette kept glancing over her shoulder.It wasn’t just paranoia anymore. Ever since the camera discovery and the near break-in, she felt a presence she couldn’t shake like shadows that breathed, like silence that listened.The boutique was quiet that afternoon. Naomi had gone to run errands. Mason was safely tucked away at daycare. Juliette was alone, arranging a new window display when the doorbell chimed.She turned — half-expecting Naomi, half-dreading another reporter.But it wasn’t either.The man who stepped inside was nondescript — tall, early forties, in a worn gray coat. His face was familiar in a way that made her skin crawl. Like a ghost that hadn’t yet decided if it was friend or foe.He looked around briefly, then walked toward her with measured steps.“Ms. Rowe,” he said, voice calm but edged with warning. “You don’t know me. But I knew him. Before the accident.”Juliette’s chest tightened. “Who are you?”“A friend,” he said. “Once. I worked with Damon Thorne. Before e

Smoke still curled into the darkening sky as Juliette sprinted toward the wreckage. Tires squealed in the distance as bystanders screamed and phones rose to record.The front of the luxury car was obliterated, glass shattered like crystal snow across the asphalt. Celeste slumped over the steering wheel, blood trailing from her temple. Her phone was still recording, the faint red glow of the camera light blinking steadily.Juliette reached the door, pulling frantically.“Celeste!” she shouted.No response.The metal groaned as she struggled with the handle until a strong hand clasped hers and pulled her back.“Juliette don’t. The engine’s smoking.” Damon.He emerged from the crowd like a ghost through the fog – shirt sleeves rolled, breath ragged, eyes wide with panic. He didn’t hesitate. While Juliette coughed on the smoke, Damon forced the door open and pulled Celeste from the wreck just before a burst of sparks lit beneath the hood.He laid her gently on the sidewalk, pressing finge