Semua Bab Bound by the Billionaire's Relentless Desire.: Bab 41 - Bab 48

The Paris air was different. It didn’t beg for attention the way New York’s sharp and ruthless pulse did. It whispered and also seduced. It draped itself across the skin like silk, promising beauty at a price. This city didn’t shout its worth. It knew it. It calculated every glance, every step and every stolen breath. Paris was a lover you could never fully trust but could never stop craving.The black town car rolled to a stop at the base of the Palais Garnier, its gilded façade glowing like fire under the lamplight. Sherry’s hand rested lightly on the door handle, her pulse steadying itself into something that felt almost like defiance.She stepped out, heels striking cobblestone in a sharp, deliberate rhythm, the sound of warning and the prelude to war.Her gown was red. Not crimson, not ruby, but blood red.The silk clung to her curves like temptation made fabric, slit high enough to scandalize, the back plunging low enough to silence. Every seam had been sewn for impact. Every inc

The safe deposit box was hidden beneath marble and time. Inside a midtown Manhattan bank, cold and old enough to predate both her fashion house and her shame, Sherry stepped into the private vault room. The manager handed her a small brass key, the kind that felt ceremonial in her palm. She opened the drawer.Inside: a black leather-bound journal, a USB drive and a faded envelope with her name handwritten in her father’s curling script. She felt sad, immediately remembering her deceased parents now.SherryHer breath caught. She touched the paper as if it might crumble. Or like she might.The seal broke with a whisper.“If you are reading this, it means I failed to protect you from the truth I spent half my life hiding.”Back at her apartment, she spread the contents out like pieces of a broken map.The USB drive was labeled "Personal."The … PersonalThe journal? A log of financial transactions and handwritten notes, documenting everything from hidden deals to business lunches with me

The morning after the storm didn’t arrive with thunder or with the dramatic sweep of lightning across Manhattan’s skyline.It came with something much smaller, softer and almost ordinary.The steady ticking of Sherry’s wall clock in the kitchen. The faint scent of orange blossoms drifted through the cracked-open window and the quiet weight of Enzo Blackwood sleeping on her couch, like a king stripped of his throne and exiled to something far less ceremonial than velvet chairs or mahogany boardrooms.She stood barefoot in her kitchen, wrapped in a robe that had once belonged to her mother, staring at the mug of coffee in her trembling hands. She hadn’t taken a sip yet. The steam curled upward like smoke from a fire she wasn’t ready to put out.She couldn’t stop looking at him.He hadn’t stirred once since she’d draped the blanket across his chest the night before. Enzo Blackwood, the man who had ruled rooms with a glance, who had made titans bend and lovers burn, looked strangely boyish

Months later, Paris smelled like fresh rain and cigarette smoke. The city had a way of holding onto contradictions, of being both soft and sharp, warm and cold, alive and aching with ghosts. For Sherry, it mirrored exactly what lived inside her.It had been four months since she walked out of Enzo’s life, since the night she left behind the quiet devastation of his father’s office and booked a one-way ticket to Paris. She remembered the cold glass of the plane window pressed against her cheek that night, the blur of lights fading beneath her, and the way her body felt like it was made of glass, fragile, breakable, yet somehow still holding together.Now, Paris had become her stage. Her name buzzed across fashion magazines, her designs filled glossy spreads and her face was caught in paparazzi flashes as she stepped onto red carpets in gowns she had sketched on scraps of paper in the middle of sleepless nights. The fashion world had welcomed her back and not just welcomed her, but crown