The Billionaire’s Forgotten Wife のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 231 - チャプター 240

The courtroom felt colder than any battlefield Damon had ever stood on. The polished oak benches gleamed under the harsh light spilling from the chandeliers above, while whispers rustled through the chamber like dry leaves scraping across the pavement. Every eye in the room was either curious or bloodthirsty. Everyone had come for a spectacle. Damon sat at the defendant’s table, flanked by his legal team. On his left, Juliette’s hand rested quietly over his, her grip firm, her thumb brushing calming circles against his knuckles. She hadn’t spoken much since the summons arrived. But he didn’t need her words, her presence said more than any vow. They had both known peace wouldn’t last. Not completely. Across the aisle sat the opposition: a coalition of old investors, a few members of the Whitmore family, and the ever-defiant figure of Evelyn Whitmore. She wore black as if she were mourning the death of an empire she had never earned. Her smirk said otherwise. The judge entered with s

The courthouse was stiflingly silent; the kind of silence that clung to the walls like smoke before a storm. It was not peace. It was pressure. The air inside the room throbbed with tension, thick with judgment, legacy, and secrets that had clawed their way back from the grave. Juliette Thorne sat beside Damon at the defense table, her posture poised and dignified, but her hands curled into fists in her lap betrayed the storm inside her. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the woman on the witness stand. Her cousin. Her bloodline. And yet, the woman’s gaze held no kinship only a blade honed by bitterness.--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Judge Maren’s gavel cracked once against the bench, commanding silence with a finality that could slice air. “Ms. Adriana,” the judge said, eyes narrowing at the woman on the stand. “You remain under oath. Proceed”. Juliette’s cousin sat straighter, her voice laced with venom and lon

The silence in the private medical wing was suffocating. Juliette lay pale against crisp white sheets, her hand loosely entwined with Damon’s. Monitors beeped softly beside her, a sterile rhythm to mark the end of something they’d barely begun to hope for. Her four-month pregnancy had come to a painful, inevitable halt. The doctors had warned them - internal complications, severe enough to threaten her life. There had been no time for sentiment, only survival. Damon had signed the consent forms with trembling hands, but with resolve in his heart. He wouldn’t lose her. Not again. Not to this storm. The evacuation had been done under strict medical supervision, in absolute privacy. Only Damon, the head physician, and Juliette herself knew the truth. When she finally woke, she didn’t cry, just relax for a day. She simply looked at him with eyes that had known too much pain and said, “We move”. Damon had stared at her, shattered by what they’d just lost—what she had lost. But Juliett

Damon hadn’t let go of her all night. After the uproar in the Council chamber, after centuries of secrets collapsed around them like shattered glass, Damon had wrapped Juliette in his arms and shielded her from the world.From the whispers.From the judgment.From the ancient oath that had once dictated their entire existence. He had refused the ritual. Declared it over. Declared it dead. But Juliette - bruised, grieving, and unbowed had not fought him. She had merely looked at him, eyes exhausted but unflinching, and said, “If we don’t lay the past to rest, Damon… it will bury us alive. All of us”. And he had known, even in his pain, that she was right. Not for the sake of tradition. Not to please the Order or appease the ghostly remnants of the Council. But for Mason. For the future they dared to dream of, even in a world still crawling with danger. So Damon did the one thing no Thorne had ever done before — he negotiated. The ritual wouldn’t be completed in the old way. No bl

The sky was a palette of bruised colors: deep purples bleeding into burnt orange, as the first tendrils of dawn crept across the horizon. The monastery grounds, once echoing with ancient whispers and ritual chants, now stood silent in the aftermath. The last traces of the ritual’s power shimmered faintly in the air, leaving behind only stillness and the scent of ash and lavender. Damon and Juliette stood in the heart of the crumbled sanctum, wrapped in each other’s arms. They trembled not from fear, but from the weight of what had finally ended. The curse, centuries old and soaked in blood and sorrow, was broken. Not by vengeance. Not by death. But by a love that refused to surrender. Tears streaked Juliette’s cheeks – not of sorrow, but release. Damon cupped her face gently, brushing them away with reverence. “It’s over,” she whispered, the words feeling almost foreign. He nodded, voice thick. “We’re free”. They stood still as the world spun slowly around them, the sky brighteni