All Chapters of The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Sophie POVThe scent of vanilla and cinnamon, Lila’s favorite cookies usually wrapped the Blackstone penthouse kitchen in a warm, sugary embrace. Today, it felt like a suffocating blanket, thick and cloying, pressing down on me as I carefully placed another batch onto the cooling rack. The rhythmic “thump-thump-thump” of Lila’s forgotten soccer ball against the terrace door, a sound usually met with fond exasperation, now echoed with a hollow loneliness. Damien was sequestered in his study, the low, resonant murmur of his voice cutting through the silence, another late conference call with Tokyo for Blackstone Enterprises. The penthouse, usually a haven of controlled chaos and love, felt cavernous and unsettlingly still.Then my phone shattered the fragile peace. It vibrated violently on the Carrara marble countertop, the screen flashing with the name I dreaded seeing outside of scheduled parent-teacher conferences: “St. Agnes Academy;Ms. Henderson.” My fingers, dusted with flour, s

Chapter 94: The Confrontation (Sophie Blackstone’s POV)The penthouse air hung thick and stale, suffused with the cloying scent of fear and unshed tears. Three days. Three days since Lila’s art studio floor became a battlefield scattered with the shrapnel of her terror, charcoal monsters, huddled figures, the chilling perspective from beneath a table, the looming specter of heavy boots. Three days of fragile, forced smiles, of bedtime stories read with voices tight with suppressed rage, of nights spent hovering outside her door, listening for the tell-tale whimpers that meant the nightmares had breached her defenses again. Damien’s initial volcanic fury towards the Vances and St. Agnes had cooled, solidified into something far more terrifying: a glacial, diamond-hard resolve. He moved through the rooms like a wraith, silent except for the low, relentless murmur of his voice issuing commands into his phone. His eyes, usually so warm when they landed on Lila or me, were distant, focuse

Sophie POV The silence after Lila’s plea wasn’t peaceful. It was the fragile, breath-held quiet of a world reassembling itself after an earthquake. “I want to stay with you.” Those five words, whispered through tears, had detonated between Damien and me, shattering the furious stalemate over Carl Riggs. The fight wasn’t about money or vengeance anymore; it was about preserving the sanctuary Lila had named with her desperate whisper. Our arms, locked around her trembling form on the cold kitchen floor, became the epicenter of a new, terrifying resolve.Damien’s face, pressed against Lila’s hair, had been a landscape of raw anguish. When he lifted his head, meeting my eyes over our daughter’s crown, the glacial CEO, the avenging fury, had vanished. In their place was a profound, humbled exhaustion, and a dawning clarity that mirrored my own. We had been blinded by our own protective rages, his towards pragmatic, ruthless containment, mine towards righteous, defiant exposure. We’d

Sophie POVThe peace was profound. Not the fragile, held-breath quiet of the months after Cedar Falls and Pier 17, but a deep, resonant calm that had settled into the very bones of the Blackstone penthouse. Sunlight, genuine and warm, streamed through the expansive windows, gilding the edges of furniture and catching dust motes dancing in lazy spirals. The scent wasn't just vanilla and cinnamon anymore; it was mingled with the earthy aroma of Lila’s newly potted seedlings on the kitchen windowsill, the crisp tang of Damien’s discarded morning newspaper, and the lingering sweetness of maple syrup from breakfast. It smelled like home, unburdened.Lila’s laughter was the soundtrack now. Not the hesitant giggles of before, but full-throated, uninhibited peals that echoed down the hall as she chased Atlas, our lumbering but endlessly patient Newfoundland, around the living room rug. Her art studio door stood perpetually open, no longer a place of hidden terrors but bursting with vibrant

Sophie POVThe morning of Damien’s fortieth birthday dawned with the kind of golden stillness that felt like the universe itself was holding its breath. Soft September light filtered through the sheer curtains of our bedroom at Dunhaven Hall, painting delicate patterns across the rumpled duvet. I lay still, savoring the quiet, my body curled instinctively around the warm swell of my belly where our son, our son…, the confirmation still sent a thrill through me, kicked gently in his watery world. Twenty-eight weeks along, and every flutter, every roll, was a miracle I’d never take for granted.Beside me, Damien slept deeply, his breathing slow and even, one arm flung possessively across my waist even in unconsciousness. The morning light gilded the sharp angles of his face, softening the usually stern lines into something younger, almost vulnerable. The dark lashes fanned against his cheeks, the faintest hint of silver threaded through the black at his temples, subtle signs of the yea