All Chapters of The Crazy Billionaire’s Mistress: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The Secret RoomCamille stood before the mahogany door at the end of the forbidden hallway, heart pounding like war drums in her chest. The air was cooler here, the silence far too deliberate, as though the walls were holding their breath—waiting for her to trespass.Julian had forbidden her from coming here. The left wing. His sanctuary.But forbidden things were exactly what led her here.Vivian’s warning echoed in her head: “You think you know Julian? You don’t know even half.”It had taken Camille three weeks to figure out the code. She watched Julian’s fingers when he opened the door. Noticed the rhythm of his taps. Paired it with the birthday of his late mother—October 14th. She took a breath, entered the numbers.Beep. Click.The door opened.The scent of sandalwood hit her first—sharp, masculine, clean. The corridor beyond was dimly lit, lined with books, paintings, and one long mirror that made her skin crawl. She stepped inside cautiously, her fingers trailing the edge of a

Vivian’s BetrayalCamille stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of Julian’s penthouse, watching the city’s glittering skyline. The night air was heavy, and so was the weight in her chest. She had thought she understood the players in this dangerous game — but tonight, the mask of loyalty had slipped from someone she trusted.Her fingers trembled slightly as she replayed the conversation she had overheard at the gala.“Julian Blackwood thinks he’s untouchable,” Vivian’s voice had purred, dripping with venom. “But soon, he’ll be nothing but a memory. Tell Alistair everything’s on track.”Camille had frozen behind the thick velvet curtain, heart pounding so loud she was sure they’d hear it. Alistair Crane — Julian’s most ruthless rival. A man who had tried and failed for years to bring Julian down. And Vivian — her friend, her confidante — was helping him.Why? The question gnawed at Camille as she turned from the window and began pacing the penthouse. The city’s lights blinked like warni

The IslandThe steady hum of the private jet was the only sound between them. Camille sat rigid in the leather seat, staring out at the endless stretch of ocean below, the horizon blurred by dawn’s first light. Julian sat opposite, legs crossed, a picture of calm. But she knew better. Underneath that perfect, cold exterior was a storm as dangerous as the one brewing inside her.Her decision to save him—their decision—had set off a chain she could no longer stop. And now, here she was, whisked away to God-knows-where, in the name of protection.“For your safety,” Julian had said as the jet prepared for takeoff. His tone had been gentle, but firm. Non-negotiable. The kind of voice that didn’t ask for consent—it took it.Now, miles from the city, Camille felt the walls closing in, even with no walls in sight.When the plane touched down on a private airstrip carved into a lush island, the reality hit harder. Palm trees swayed in the ocean breeze, white sand glistened like crushed pearls,

Ghosts and GunsThe storm had passed, but the terror it left behind clung to the mansion like the salt-heavy air. The island was supposed to be their sanctuary — Julian’s fortress against the world. But now it felt like a haunted cage, its walls whispering secrets Camille wasn’t sure she wanted to hear.They had stared at the screen in frozen silence, watching the impossible figure at the gate. The woman’s hair hung in wet ropes, her face pale but unmistakable. The dead woman. The one Camille had dragged from the sea — the one who vanished before her eyes.“Is this a trick?” Camille whispered. But no one answered.Julian barked orders at Marcel. “Secure the perimeter. Bring her inside. I want eyes on her at all times.”Marcel hesitated. “Sir, what if—”“Do it!” Julian’s voice cracked like a whip. The tension in him was no longer contained — he was unravelling before her eyes, thread by dangerous thread.Camille watched him, heart racing. He looked at the gate monitor again as if sheer

The FuneralThe city felt colder than Camille remembered. Even beneath the spring sun, its towers of glass and steel loomed like tombstones, casting long shadows over her as she stepped out of the black car. The driver, silent and somber, didn’t meet her eyes. No one did—not the mourners gathered by the church steps, not the security guards flanking the entrance.She was invisible. Or maybe she wanted to be.The funeral of Julian Thorne was a spectacle, as everything about him had been. The press lined the streets beyond the barricades, cameras flashing, their lenses hungry for a glimpse of the woman at the heart of the story—the mistress-turned-survivor, the mystery wrapped in grief.Camille smoothed her black dress, lifted her chin, and walked into the church.Inside, the air was heavy with lilies and incense, the vaulted ceiling echoing with soft music. A portrait of Julian dominated the altar—charcoal suit, steel gaze, that smirk that always made her feel like he knew everything