บททั้งหมดของ The Side chick Inherits Everything : บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 9

The smell of vanilla and cedarwood clung to the air, mixing with the soft hum of R&B floating through the penthouse. Alaya Moore sat sideways on Darius’s lap, her legs draped over his as they lounged on the cream leather sofa, sunlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows.He was shirtless, warm, and relaxed. One hand was tracing circles on her bare thigh, the other lazily flipping through emails on his tablet.“You work too much,” Alaya teased, plucking the tablet from his hand and setting it on the coffee table. “You have a whole million-dollar view and you're looking at spreadsheets?”Darius smirked, pulling her closer by the waist. “You’re my favorite view. But if I don’t work, who’s gonna pay for your shoe addiction?”She laughed and swatted his chest. “You’re the one who bought me three pairs last week.”“And you didn’t complain once,” he said, brushing his lips over her shoulder.Alaya leaned her head against his and closed her eyes, breathing him in. Mornings like this

Flashes lit up like fireworks as Alaya pushed her way through the crowd of reporters. Their voices buzzed in her ears like flies, questions piling on top of each other, none of them kind.“Did you know about the proposal?”“Are you pregnant?”“Was it all about the money?”“Did he leave you for Janelle?”She kept her head down and kept moving, her bare feet slapping against the cold marble as she shoved through the human wall.She didn’t stop until she hit the lobby doors.Outside, the air hit her like a slap — sharp and cold. She hugged her robe tighter around her body and made a beeline toward the underground parking lot.All she could think was: Get to the car. Just get to the car.Her breath fogged the air in front of her as she jogged down the ramp, her pace quickening the closer she got. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the garage — and for a second, she thought she was alone, safe.Then she saw it.Her car.Her sleek, midnight-black convertible Mercedes.Except… it wasn’t go

It had been seven days.Seven days since the proposal.Seven days since the eviction.Seven days since the newsflash that turned her world upside down.And today... today was the day Darius Westwood would be laid to rest in the ground.Everyone close to him — family, business partners, media friends, and that snake Janelle — was already at the gravesite, dressed in black, sobbing into expensive tissues and saying their pretty goodbyes.Everyone except Alaya Moore.She was still on the couch in Tasha’s living room, legs tucked beneath her, wearing one of Tasha’s oversized hoodies. Her hair was tied back, her face bare and tired. The funeral played on TV, muted.She wanted to be there. More than anything.But how could she show her face?To the world, she was just the side chick. A stain on Darius’s legacy. The reason he cheated, the reason Janelle cried on camera, the reason people said he died in disgrace.She’d become a headline, not a person.And Darius… well, he was gone. No more p

The taxi came to a slow stop in front of the towering black iron gates of the Westwood estate. The sun was bright and brutal above, casting sharp golden beams over the grand white mansion that had once belonged to them—and now, belonged to her. Alaya Moore stepped out of the car, her black sunglasses shielding her eyes. She was dressed simply—fitted jeans, a clean white blouse, and her natural curls pinned up. No jewelry. No designer bags. Just quiet power. The moment her heels clicked onto the gravel driveway, a man in a crisp uniform stepped forward from the front entrance. “Welcome, ma’am,” he said, bowing slightly. “Shall I take your bags inside?” “Yes,” Alaya replied, offering a small smile. “Thank you.” He nodded and signaled to another housekeeper, who quickly moved to collect her things from the trunk. The taxi driver stood near his car, arms crossed, looking expectantly at her. “Wait here,” Alaya told him, then turned and walked up the stone steps, her steps firm. She

Alaya sat stiffly in the back seat of the sleek black Rolls Royce, eyes fixed on the massive glass building ahead — Westwood Couture Headquarters. The logo glinted at the top of the skyscraper like a crown. The crown was hers now. She inhaled slowly, the hum of anxiety riding just beneath her skin. Her fingers flexed once on her lap, then relaxed. Beside her, Malik watched her closely. “You good?” he asked. “I’m breathing,” she replied. As the car rolled to a stop in front of the entrance, they were instantly swarmed. Flashing lights strobed against the tinted windows, and the muffled roar of a crowd pressed in on all sides. Reporters shouted questions. Protesters held up signs. Security guards were practically wrestling people back from the vehicle. Malik whistled low. “Wow,” he said, impressed. “Even Darius didn’t pull this kind of crowd.” “I’m not here to impress them,” Alaya muttered. “Let’s go.” She didn’t wait for the driver to open the door. She opened it herself and