Semua Bab The Billionaire Married Me, Then Forgot How to Love Me: Bab 181 - Bab 190

(James)It’s only been a day. Clearly, she isn’t pining over missing me.But then... no. I shake my head.I know better. I know how this shit works. Photos lie. Timelines blur.Headlines exaggerate.And even if she is laughing, even if she is with someone …she deserves that. Space. Distance. Normalcy.A chance to remember what it’s like to be herself.She gave me her truth. All of it. And it nearly broke her open in front of me.I can’t begrudge her for living.Hell, she didn’t even know if I’d ever respond. Why should she mope around?I scroll again. Zoom in on the picture of him. I do an image search.Claude Moreau- Designer. Nephew of fashion icon Sabine Moreau.Ah. That makes sense. Sabine is making sure Serena is taken care of while in Paris.I stare at Serena’s face.I miss her. God, I miss her.I pull out my phone again. Hit call.It diverts to voicemail. I don’t leave a message.She’ll call me when she’s ready. If I’m blocked, I guess I’ll work it out.I need to see her. I nee

(Nico)Charles pats me on the shoulder. Like he’s proud of me.That alone surprises me.I don’t want to feel anything by that. I’m not here to get his approval. I want to hate him.I don’t want to need his approval in any way. I’ve gotten this far without him, I do not need him now.He doesn’t smile again, but he doesn’t recoil either. There’s something deliberate in his posture.Like a man not just accepting a truth but owning it. At least for now.Margot rises. Her voice cuts through the room like a knife. “We’re done here.”Charles turns to her. “No. I’m not. But you are.”She glares at him. “Don’t do this.”“I’m going to speak with my son. Alone.”“Charles.”“Leave us.” He says a little louder now.“I don’t think so.”“Margot.” His voice is calm, but it has an edge that could slice a wall in two. “Out.”She stares at him like he’s grown horns. “You’re asking me to leave you alone with him?”“I’m not asking.” He moves to the door and opens it himself. “I’ll see you back at the pent

(Serena)Theo’s email pings my phone five minutes after I send him the screenshot of the storm map.It’s everything he has- flight path details, takeoff time from Lapland, last known coordinates before the tracker went silent.I call reception and ask if they can do some printouts for me. They give me their email and I send the files.In around half and hour there’s aknock at the door and a young man hands me the printouts.“Thank you.” I give him a generous tip.He grins, nods and leaves again.I spread the printout on the bed beside the map of the marked storm area. I stare at the red line that is James’ jet which just… stops.Right in the middle of the storm’s worst cell.My stomach knots up.The data looks clinical- latitudes, longitudes, timestamps- but all I see is that frozen gap where the rest of the journey should be.I message Theo.What does it mean, exactly?A moment later, the reply: The transponder dropped out there. They could have flown after that. Doesn’t mean they st

(Serena)The Sky’s Edge certainly has seen better days.It’s hidden behind other buildings and it’s hard to tell if it’s even open.No sign, no lit windows, just a heavy door and the smell of smoke even before I push it open.Inside, it’s dim, not crowded but most tables are taken and there’s a few men at the bar.Everyone looks at me as I walk in. They are all male and I feel them studying me. My skin prickles.I’m okay. Don’t run. Just go and ask for Chopper Rick. I tell myself.You have to do this for James.Every step I take toward the bar, my mind’s replaying the last time I saw James.The fight. Well… the attack.The way I took everything bad that has ever happened to me and made him pay for it.I need to find him. I need to tell him I was wrong. That I love him.I’m not leaving here without trying.The man behind the bar is young, wearing a red T-shirt, drying a pint glass.He glances up as I step to the counter. “What can I get you?” His accent is Finnish I think, but I’m not

(Savannah)The clink of crystal and the hum of lunchtime chatter fill the air, bouncing off the whitewashed walls and spilling out to the terrace. The Skyview isn’t the kind of place that needs a sign; if you don’t already know it’s here, you don’t belong.We’re seated at a long table on the covered deck, the harbour glittering just beyond the glass balustrade. Moët flows in icy buckets, lobster salads glisten with lemon oil, and handbags worth more than is sensible sit on the spare chairs like trophies.The scent around me is a heady mix of Chanel and La Mer.I’m here because I sent out invitations none of my girls could refuse. And because, if I’m honest, I’m curious. And I need to get back out there.My circle has been buzzing for the last forty-eight hours about Charles Hale’s other son.I cross my legs, smoothing the pale silk of my skirt, and sip my champagne. The women to my left, Lana and Marissa… are deep in postmortem of last week’s charity gala, which apparently was a d