Lahat ng Kabanata ng ONE NIGHT STAND WITH MR.BILLIONAIRE : Kabanata 131 - Kabanata 140

Skye – POVThe Rewrite was officially two years old.We’d held six retreats, published three anthologies, and helped over a hundred women tell their stories—some for the first time, others for the last time. Every story added another thread to the tapestry we were building.But the one story I hadn’t figured out how to face yet was the one still hidden in the deepest part of me.Calla.My sister.The one Rachel had kept secret. The one whose daughter might be out there somewhere, growing up without ever knowing the history we’d been fighting so hard to piece together.It didn’t haunt me exactly.But she lingered—like the shadow of a name I couldn’t forget, even though I’d never spoken it aloud to her.River noticed.They always did.One night after we wrapped a Rewrite session, we stood on the porch of the schoolhouse. The wind was soft, warm against my cheek.“She’s still with you,” River said quietly.I didn’t ask who they meant. We both knew.“I keep wondering if it’s selfish to wa

River – POVThe letter from my mother arrived in a plain white envelope.No return address.No fancy stationery.Just my name, handwritten in pen, as if she’d been practicing it for years.River.It looked hesitant and strong at the same time. As though she wasn’t sure if I’d still go by that name. As though she wasn’t sure if she had the right to use it.I held it for a long time before opening it.Skye sat beside me, her silence filled with presence. Her hand was on my knee. She didn’t urge. Didn’t ask.I opened it when I was ready.And when I did, I didn’t cry.I smiled.Because every word sounded like a voice I hadn’t heard since childhood—but somehow had never forgotten.The Letter – From My MotherDear River,I saw your name on a spine in a bookstore window.I wasn’t sure at first if it was you.But the dedication told me.To the ones we never got to meet — but somehow knew all along.That was you. That was us.I left you not because I wanted to.But because I believed, back the

Skye – POVI found the old typewriter in the attic.Covered in dust, keys rusted slightly, a forgotten relic that once belonged to my grandmother. She used to sit at it every Sunday, banging out letters to no one in particular. Letters she never mailed. She called them her letters to the future.I cleaned it off and carried it down to the garden.Set it on a table near the new bench James built under the willow tree.There, in the hush of late afternoon, I rolled in a fresh page and started typing.Not a book.Not a proposal.Just a letter.A letter to the me I might be one day.Or to the girl I used to be.Dear Future Me,If you’re reading this, it means you’re still here.Still showing up.Still choosing breath over silence.I hope you remember the way your fingers trembled when you typed these words—not because you were afraid, but because you knew they mattered.I hope you haven’t forgotten the way River looks at you across a room full of strangers and makes you feel like the only

The sky above the lake was pale and overcast, the kind of gray that threatened rain but never quite delivered. River sat in the backyard, cradling Elijah against his chest in a snug wrap, gently rocking as Marla ran in wide, laughing circles chasing a paper pinwheel. Skye watched from the sliding glass door, her tea untouched, her heart too full for words.It was the kind of morning that whispered of something sacred.“I didn’t know this kind of happiness could exist,” she murmured to herself.River glanced up as if he’d heard her from across the yard. Their eyes met, and he smiled.She opened the door and stepped outside, the wind brushing tendrils of her hair into her face.“Elijah’s out like a light,” River said. “He didn’t even flinch when Marla shouted, ‘I’m the queen of the clouds!’”“She gets that from you,” Skye replied, sitting beside him. “The dramatic declarations.”He chuckled. “Guilty.”They sat in silence for a while, watching their daughter twirl and the baby sleep. For

It was 6:03 a.m. when the first wave of light bled across the Los Angeles skyline, filtering through the tall windows of River and Skye’s home. The city hadn’t fully woken yet — but River had. He sat at the edge of their bed, coffee in hand, watching as the morning took shape. Beside him, Skye still slept, her breath steady, one arm thrown lazily over his pillow. Even in sleep, she looked determined. Peaceful, yes. But like someone who fought hard for her rest and intended to enjoy every second of it. River smiled softly. He hadn’t meant to wake this early. But something inside him was stirring — not nerves, not worry. Something else. A quiet hum in his chest. It was release. Today, the final Rewrite home opened in New Orleans. Fifty homes. Fifty cities. Thousands of lives changed. It wasn’t the end of their work — not even close — but it was the completion of something that had started with a single, terrified girl and a man who hadn’t known how to stay. And yet, here they were