Engaged To The Ruthless Billionaire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 71 - チャプター 80

Eliana's POV The air inside the private salon of the Vera Wang atelier smelled of white tea, expensive lilies, and sheer, unadulterated panic.“We have ten days,” Katherine announced, pacing the length of the plush cream carpet. She was clutching a clipboard like it was a shield, her heels sinking into the deep pile. “Ten days to alter a couture gown that usually takes six months to construct. If we don’t find The One in the next two hours, I am going to have to drape you in a tablecloth and call it ‘Avant-Garde Minimalist.’”I sat on the velvet podium in the center of the room, wearing a silk robe, clutching a glass of champagne that I was too nervous to drink.“You’re vibrating,” Serena noted from the sofa.My sister looked different. Better. New York suited her. She was wearing black jeans and a plain white shirt, her curls pulled back in a messy knot, sketching furiously in the sketchbook Alexander had praised. She looked like she belonged here—not in the gilded cage of our child

Eliana's POV “If one of them spills red wine on the white sofa, do I have permission to evict them?”Alexander stood at the edge of the living room, arms crossed, watching the chaotic influx of nineteen-year-olds filtering into our penthouse. He looked like a panther forced to host a petting zoo.“No,” I said, adjusting the strap of my dress as I walked past him. “They’re art students, Alexander. They respect aesthetics. They won’t spill.”“They’re wearing a lot of flannel,” he noted dryly. “And combat boots. Is there a construction project happening at Parsons I wasn’t informed of?”“It’s fashion. Be nice.”I stopped in front of him, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his black button-down. He looked devastatingly handsome, as always, but there was a flicker of genuine unease in his eyes.He was used to boardrooms. He was used to galas with senators and sharks. He was not used to hosting a birthday party for a teenager who had spent most of her life invisible.“Thank you for doing t

Alexander's POV Our wedding day dawned clear and sunny over Central Park.Two hundred and fifty guests had gathered in the Grand Ballroom of The Plaza, where Katherine had worked a miracle. In nine days, she had transformed the space into a paradise of white wisteria, floating candles, and enough crystal to blind a satellite.The ceremony itself was taking place on the terrace, overlooking the park. The sun beat hot and heavy as I stood beneath the arbor, waiting for Eliana to appear.“I can’t believe you’re getting married.” The whisper slid from the corner of Damien’s mouth. “I know I told you to fight for her, but I was certain she’d kick you to—”“Shut up,” I said through my smile. The cameras were watching—Vogue had the exclusive—and I wanted today’s photos to be perfect. “Unsolicited commentary isn’t the best man’s job.”I swept my eyes over the crowd, restless. Almost every guest had RSVP’d yes. I spotted the mayor, three senators, and half the Board of Directors who had tried

Alexander's POV The phone call ended with a click, severing the connection to New York.I stood on the balcony of our suite at the Hôtel de Crillon, staring out at the Place de la Concorde. The city was bathed in gold, the Eiffel Tower piercing the twilight sky in the distance. It was the kind of view people spent their whole lives saving up to see for a weekend.I barely registered it.My grip tightened on the railing. Christian’s update had been brief: Cassian boarded the flight. He’s gone. The transfer is complete. You’re in the clear.It was over. The war I had been fighting for six months—the blackmail, the scandal, the Board, the threats—it was all silent.I turned back toward the room.Eliana was sitting on the edge of the massive bed, kicking off her heels. She watched me, her head tilted to the side, a small furrow between her brows.“Is everything okay?” she asked, her voice soft in the quiet room. “You’ve been quiet since the call.”I slipped my phone into my pocket, the t

Eliana's POV Two months.It had been sixty-one days since we stood on the Pont des Arts and threw away the "careful" part of our lives. Sixty-one days of loving Alexander without barriers, of whispering about nurseries in the dark, of letting ourselves want the one thing we had lost.And now, I was staring at a calendar on my iPad, my heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs.I was late.Five days late.I sat at the kitchen island, a cup of herbal tea untouched in front of me. The morning sun was streaming into the penthouse, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, but I felt cold.It wasn’t just the calendar. It was the exhaustion that had settled into my bones a week ago, making my limbs feel like lead. It was the way the smell of Alexander’s espresso this morning had made my stomach turn—a sharp, violent lurch that sent me running to the bathroom to dry heave over the sink.It’s happening, a voice whispered in my head.But another voice—a darker, jagged voi