All Chapters of The Billionaire Married Me, Then Forgot How to Love Me: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

(Serena)James is still standing in the doorway staring at me. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”“I thought you were out of the city. I needed some of my things.”“I came back early. I’m not sure this is a good idea…”What is he talking about? “You messaged that I could come anytime. I wasn’t staying…”“I mean being here with the baby. Are you okay to do that?”“I had no intention of being near the baby. But it seems his mother left him here crying. And apparently it isn’t the first time.”In this moment, I speak up for the baby. Because no one else is.“Of course you’d say that. You hate Savannah.” He holds his arms out like I can just hand the child over to him and all will be right with the world.I don’t hand the baby over.I adjust him against my shoulder instead, because he’s finally starting to breathe right again. His cheek is warm against my skin. His tiny body beginning to relax.His eyes drop to the baby, red-faced, exhausted, clinging to my blouse with his small fists. His li

(James)My parents’ penthouse is exactly anyone would expect an uber-rich person’s house to be: glass, chrome, and ego.I should say my father’s penthouse. Mother never wanted this, her heart will always be in the Hale Mansion. My heart is less and less there every day.But Mother will do anything for the Hale patriarch, so here they are.Living in what is essentially an oversized man-cave. She hates it. He doesn’t give damn what she thinks.Everything in this place screams curated power. Every sculpture, every rare art book no one’s ever opened, every low-slung designer sofa chosen for magazine spreads, not comfort.Except for his leather recliner chair. That is built for comfort.I push the baby in. His capsule clipped onto the wheel frame. He’s sleeping soundlyMy father’s voice comes first.“Son,” he says from that ridiculous armchair, something custom-made by a dead Italian’s company whose waiting list had a waiting list. “What the hell do you have there?”“It’s a baby, you prob

(Serena)The kitchen smells like cinnamon apple pie and roast chicken and home.Not perfection … home. The kind of place where someone is always bickering over salad tongs and someone else is licking frosting from a spoon.Mom moves around the stovetop with her usual calm authority, soft hums and steel glances that communicate everything without a single raised voice.Dad’s in the corner with a coffee, watching the twins argue over whether cloth napkins are “pretentious” or “just adulting.”“Honestly, Erin,” Marcy says, pinching one between her fingers, “not everything elegant is bourgeois.”“And not everything wrinkled is ‘vintage aesthetic,’ Marcy.”I’m perched at the kitchen table, still in my hoodie, my body present but my heart somewhere in limbo. Wes leans against the doorframe, arms folded, gaze sharp … protective, annoyed, and ready to declare war with a single sentence.“So?” he asks, cutting through the noise. “Are you staying? Or are we going to play ‘marriage roulette’ aga

(Serena)I’m halfway through uploading revised product menus for the bakery expansion proposal when Haylee FaceTimes me.Twice.By the third ring, I give in and answer. “Haylee I’m trying to work…”“It’s happening,” she says. “And I don’t mean maybe or someday. I mean this weekend. Friday to Tuesday. Confirmed, booked, blessed, and scheduled down to the hour.”“What?”She flips her phone around and shows me her laptop screen … a spreadsheet filled with RSVP confirmations, accommodation assignments, catering contracts, and a banner at the top labeled:LANGLEY FAMILY REUNION – LAKE VILLA ESTATE – THIS WEEKEND.My stomach dips. “This weekend… Haylee…”“No, no. Don’t start. Everyone’s already in. Your aunts are driving down Friday morning. Wes is picking up the twins. He’s had to change his surgery schedule. Your mom’s baking three pies today. It’s not a maybe anymore. This is happening.”“I thought it would get postponed,” I say, sitting back on the couch. “I didn’t think there’d be time

(Savannah)The Whitaker Estate breathes around me like a sleeping animal.Old walls groaning in the wind, glass fractured but still catching light, and the moss thick on the stone path like velvet decay.But I will fix it all up and restore it to be my home.I walk through the front hall with a slow, deliberate pace, my boots echoing in the vast, broken quiet.My hand trails the edge of the stone hearth, the same one where James and I once made chili that nearly killed us.Where he kissed me for the first time. Where he promised me everything.It’s all still here.And soon… so will he be. With me.I stand in the center of the ruined hall and close my eyes, picturing it as it will be: the fire lit, the light warm, the wine uncorked, a meal served on mismatched plates to look like charm instead of a calculated illusion.Not that we’ve ever had real wine here before. We were far too young then. But we pretended and we daydreamed.Of being like our parents. Of taking over and running an e