Semua Bab The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress : Bab 1 - Bab 10

Sophie's POV The boardroom table was a slab of black marble, polished to such a mirror finish that every man seated around it could admire his own reflection while pretending to care about mine. The cold surface reflected the chandelier above, fracturing its light into dozens of glittering shards that danced across the walls like trapped fireflies. I sat perfectly still in my chair, back straight, hands folded on the table, watching the men who thought they could take everything from me. Their tailored suits and practiced smiles couldn't hide the hunger in their eyes—the kind of hunger that came from decades of waiting in the shadows for their moment to strike. Damien leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing beneath him, letting the silence stretch like a noose. He wanted them to sweat. Wanted them to remember who had rebuilt this empire from the ashes of his father's failures. The tension in the room was so thick I could taste it—coppery and electric, like the moment befor

Sophie's POV The cold came first. Not the controlled chill of Damien's penthouse climate system, nor the crisp autumn air beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. This was the lethal cold of honed steel pressed against my jugular - so sharp it burned like fire where it touched skin. I didn't need to look down to identify the blade. I'd memorized its contours last Tuesday when I'd found Damien cleaning it at his desk, the ritualistic precision of his movements revealing more than any confession could. Damascus steel, hand-forged, with those hypnotic rippling patterns that caught light like liquid. Now those same deadly waves kissed my throat with silent promise. "Last chance to walk away," Damien murmured, his breath warm against the shell of my ear. The contrast was dizzying - the heat of his body pressed against my back, the glacial bite of the knife at my front. His free hand settled at my waist, pulling me flush against him in a cruel parody of intimacy. Through the thin silk

Sophie's POV The emerald Dior gown slithered over my hips like liquid envy. "Christ," Damien muttered from the doorway as the stylist fastened the clasp at my nape. His reflection in the vanity mirror was all sharp angles and restrained fury the same way he'd looked for three days straight since I'd stabbed his surveillance system. I turned slowly, letting the dress's thigh-high slit gape dangerously. " Is there any problem, husband?" His jaw flexed. "Yes the neckline." The stylist froze. I trailed a finger along the diamond choker, his "wedding gift" that doubled as a GPS tracker. "Too vulgar?" I asked while still gazing in his direction."Too transparent." He stepped close enough that his breath warmed the hollow of my throat. "You're not here to be liked, Sophie dear. You see my darling wife,he said with a smirk on his face.“You're here to be seen." “To be noticed.” He added.I smiled sweetly and adjusted the emerald between my breasts to the exact shade of Daniel Carte

Sophie's POV **1:07 PM at THE PLAZA HOTEL** The Plaza’s Grand Ballroom smelled like gardenias and generational wealth. I adjusted the straps of my cream Valentino dress, another "gift" from Damien’s endless parade of designer armor as a waiter refilled my champagne flute with liquid gold. Across the room, my husband held court with a circle of silver-haired investors, his smile as calculated as the Fibonacci sequence. And then I saw *her*. A manicured hand on his forearm. A Herve Leger dress clinging to curves that screamed “personal trainer”. It was none other than “Victoria Kensington”. Socialite. Hedge fund princess. And according to Page Six in the files, the woman Damien had spent three years not marrying was her, before our little arrangement was arranged. She whispered something in his ear that made his knuckles whiten around his tumbler. When she caught me staring, her lips curled into a smirk that could curdle milk. I raised my glass in mock salute. “Game on,

Sophie's POV Damien's office looked like a mausoleum designed by a sadistic minimalist. I trailed my fingers along the sterile white walls, the only "art" a depressing black-and-white triptych of skeletal trees that screamed corporate ennui. Even the air smelled like disinfected sadness, a crisp blend of lemon cleaner and repressed emotions. "This is worse than I remembered," I muttered, unrolling the first canvas with a snap. Mrs. Whitlock's voice crackled through the intercom like overcooked bacon. "Mr. Blackstone's car just left the airport." "Perfect."Forty-five minutes for me to work my magic . And forty- five minutes until the Ice King returned to his frozen kingdom. I snapped my fingers at the team of movers. "The corpse trees first. Then the monochrome abomination over Chesterfield." As they dismantled Damien's bleak empire, I unveiled my arsenal: First was the "Blood Meridian" – A Rothko-esque oil painting with crimson so deep it looked freshly spilled Next w