All Chapters of The Vows We Fake : Chapter 141 - Chapter 148

The room was still heavy with the perfume of our night, the musk of sweat and the faint hum of music still playing somewhere in the background. I lay in the cradle of Zane’s arm, my cheek against his chest. His fingers moved idly along my shoulder, stroking, circling, as if he was sketching me into memory. I answered in kind, my nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach, up to his ribs, memorizing the map of him. The world outside was roaring, I knew it was. Even here, sealed in the penthouse high above the city, the buzzing of his phone betrayed it. Notification after notification, the screen glowing on the nightstand. I shifted slightly, peeking at it, but Zane’s arm tightened around me, pulling me closer. “Don’t,” he muttered into my hair. His voice was low, sleepy, but the edge of command was still there. “You’re just going to ignore it?” I asked softly. “Yes.” He tilted his head down, pressing his lips against the crown of my head. “It doesn’t matter.” The phone

The email sat open in front of me, glowing like a live bomb. I’d read it once, twice, three times, the words searing themselves into my brain until I almost couldn’t breathe. DNA paternity results: Subject A (infant) is 99.98% match with Subject B (Julian Moreau). No genetic match with Subject C (Zane Blackwood). I let out an ugly, strangled laugh. As if I hadn’t already known. As if I hadn’t suspected all along. Sera’s secrets had always dripped with the sour scent of desperation. She’d clung to Zane like a drowning woman, but her nights were spent tangled up with Julian. I had seen the hunger in her eyes when Julian’s name came up, the subtle curl of her mouth. Still, the cold certainty of proof sank into my bones like ice water. This was it. No more speculation. No more rumors. This baby, Catherine’s golden heir, the child the press was already painting as the future of Blackwood bloodlines… wasn’t Zane’s. It was Julian’s. I shut the laptop with a snap and pressed my palms to

The doctor’s words fell over me like a verdict. “Ms. Ibe,” he said gently, though his tone held no room for argument, “you need to rest. Not just the occasional nap or lying down when you’re dizzy. I mean strict bed rest. Do you understand?” His hand was warm against my wrist as he checked my pulse, the cuff of the blood pressure monitor still squeezing faintly around my arm. My heart thudded too quickly, too loud, as if it were trying to escape the cage of my chest. I hated how small I felt sitting there in Zane’s oversized T-shirt, my hair tangled from sleep and nausea churning like sea waves in my stomach. I hated feeling weak, fragile. I wasn’t supposed to be this woman, not after everything I had endured. But my body had betrayed me, and now even the doctor looked at me as if I might break apart in front of him. “No stress,” he continued firmly, adjusting his glasses. “No unnecessary worries. And above all, no overexertion. Stress is not just unhelpful. It is dangerous for bo

Zane and I sat in the dim quiet of his study, the glow from the city seeping in through the tall windows. He had his sleeves rolled up, his tie abandoned on the desk, his jaw tight with that sharp, calculating look he wore when things were spiraling out of control. But I wasn’t calm like him. I was restless, pacing the room, my arms folded over my chest, my thoughts clawing at every corner of my mind. “There has to be someone,” I said, my voice sharper than I intended. “Someone inside. Someone feeding information. Maybe one of the staff.” Zane’s gaze snapped to mine. He leaned back in the chair, his hand curling into a fist on the desk. “No,” he said flatly. “I trust my staff.” I stopped pacing. “Zane, come on. No one is above suspicion. Not when pictures of me inside your penthouse are showing up online. Someone had access. Someone who comes and goes…” “Amara,” he cut me off, his voice firm, brooking no argument. “They’ve been with me for years. I handpicked every single one of t