Semua Bab The Crazy Billionaire’s Mistress: Bab 1 - Bab 10

The Mistress ClauseI slapped him. The sound rang out like a gunshot in the penthouse, cutting through the silence with the violence of my fury. Julian Thorne didn’t move. His head turned slightly from the impact, then slowly righted itself. No anger. No shock. Just a flicker of something far more terrifying in his storm-gray eyes—amusement. He smiled. God, I hated that smile. Cold. Calculated. The kind a man wears when he knows he owns the board, and you’re just another pawn pretending you have a choice. “Feel better?” he asked calmly, straightening the cuffs of his Italian suit like I hadn’t just tried to bruise his jaw. “You bought my building?” I seethed. “You seriously bought the entire building just to control me?” “I like knowing where you sleep.” I took a step back, shaking. “You’re insane.” “And you,” he said, taking a deliberate step toward me, “are breaking the terms of our agreement.” That damn contract. Mistress. Exclusive. No emotions. No outside e

A Dangerous Past The photograph trembled in my hands. It wasn’t the pixel quality or the grain of old film—it was the undeniable truth in it. My estranged mother, Serena Hart, sat in Julian’s lap, his arms wrapped around her like a man completely in love—or obsessed. And Julian… he looked younger, but his eyes held the same dangerous glint. “You knew her?” I asked, breath barely escaping my lips. “My mother?” Julian didn’t speak. He walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a drink, and downed it in one smooth motion. “Julian,” I snapped, voice shaking. “Tell me the truth.” He set the glass down gently, like the weight of what he was about to say required precision. “I didn’t just know Serena.” His voice was raw. Unfiltered. “I loved her. Once.” The words hit like a punch. I stumbled back, nearly knocking over the file. “No. That’s not possible.” He leaned against the mantle. “I was twenty-five. She was thirty. Beautiful. Enigmatic. She used to say things like, ‘Ti

Trapped in LuxuryThe silk sheets were soft.Too soft.Like everything else in Julian Thorne’s penthouse, they were expensive enough to feel like a trap.I lay there in silence, sunlight pouring across my skin like guilt. The night before replayed in my mind on a brutal loop—his hands, his mouth, the way I’d surrendered, again.No one chains you when the cage is made of gold.I slipped out of bed before Julian woke up, wrapping his silk robe around my frame. I padded barefoot across the penthouse, past glass walls and polished marble. The city was alive outside, but in here—stillness. Wealth. Power. A suffocating kind of silence.I found my phone tucked inside a drawer.Dead.Of course it was.Everything I had before Julian—gone. My apartment? Bought by him. My new job offer? “Revoked due to internal restructuring.” Translation: Julian got there first.I was being smothered by roses, and every petal was laced with poison.My hand shook as I poured a cup of coffee.“Sleep well?” His vo

Crossed WiresThe silence in Julian’s penthouse stretched like glass—clear, cold, and on the verge of shattering.Camille sat curled up on the velvet armchair, her phone dark in her hand. She hadn’t touched it since she returned hours ago. No texts. No calls. No explanations.Not even from him.Julian.He hadn’t screamed when she walked out last night.He hadn’t chased her.And that, somehow, scared her more.The door finally clicked open.Camille rose instinctively. She hated how her heart still stuttered at the sound of his footsteps. As if her body hadn’t gotten the memo: He’s danger, not safety.Julian stepped in, shedding his coat. The cold wind followed him in, clinging to his tailored suit and shadowing his sharp cheekbones. His eyes met hers across the room—bloodshot, unreadable.“You left,” he said quietly.“You let me.”His mouth twitched. “Did you expect chains, Camille?”“No,” she replied, voice trembling. “I expected… anything.”He stared at her for a long moment, as if w

Paper ChainsCamille stood before the sprawling floor-to-ceiling windows of Julian’s penthouse, her arms crossed over her chest like a shield. The view of Manhattan glittered below, but all she could see was the reflection of a man she no longer trusted. Julian Blackthorne, with his disarming smirk and eyes that saw too much, leaned casually against the kitchen counter, swirling bourbon in a crystal glass like he hadn’t just shattered her entire sense of reality.“I’m not doing this,” she said, voice calm but brittle.He didn’t move. “Doing what?”“This. Whatever this is. This… fairy-tale trap you’ve spun with rings and rooftop proposals and ghost-white promises. I’m not your puppet, Julian.”He stepped forward slowly, placing the glass down on the marble island. “It wasn’t a trap. It was a proposal. A real one this time.”“Real?” Camille scoffed. “You don’t even know what real is. You’re a master illusionist. You use affection like currency and control like oxygen.”Julian didn’t fli