Todos los capítulos de The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress : Capítulo 101 - Capítulo 110

Sophie’s POV ** The Envelope** The morning smelled like rain. I stood at the kitchen window of Dunhaven Hall, watching the first drops patter against the glass, blurring the emerald expanse of the valley beyond. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and cinnamon, Lila’s failed attempt at birthday pancakes, lingered in the air. Behind me, Damien’s low voice murmured to Alexander, our four-year-old, who was insisting that no, dragons could exist if scientists just looked harder. Then the mail arrived. John carried it in on a silver tray, his usual stoicism edged with something sharper. His knuckles were white around the handle. "Mr. Blackstone," he said, voice clipped. Damien glanced up, mid-sentence, his fingers still curled around Alexander’s tiny wrist where he’d been playfully measuring his pulse. The moment he saw the envelope, his entire body went still. Too still.I knew that stillness. It wasn’t calm. It was the quiet before the storm, the breath before the

Sophie’s POV ** The Gala** The Grand Ballroom of the Montclair Hotel shimmered like a gilded cage. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the vaulted ceiling, scattering fractured light across the sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos. The air smelled of expensive perfume, champagne, and the faint metallic tang of hidden weapons. Damien had insisted on three extra security sweeps before we’d even left our home. I adjusted the emerald pendant at my throat, Damien’s birthday gift last year, chosen to match my eyes, he’d said and scanned the room. Lila was across the ballroom, surrounded by a flock of girls her age, her copper curls pinned up in an elegant twist that made her look far older than twelve. She wore the sapphire dress we’d picked out together, the one that brought out the blue in her eyes. She was laughing at something, her head thrown back, utterly unaware of the two plainclothes guards circling like sharks just beyond her periphery. Alexander, tha

Sophie's POV **The mountains** The tires crunched over the gravel drive with a sound like breaking bones. I pressed my forehead against the chilled window of the Range Rover, watching my breath fog the glass in uneven bursts. Three weeks. Twenty-one endless days since I'd last seen John's smile. Since I'd watched the light leave his eyes as he lay bleeding out on the pavement outside Lila's school, his body shielding hers from the second volley of gunfire. In the backseat, twelve-year-old Lila sat unnaturally still, her normally vibrant green eyes dull as tarnished coins. She clutched Alexander's stuffed rabbi, the one with the missing ear he'd loved so fiercely. The plush toy still bore faint rust-colored stains no amount of washing could remove. Damien's profile in the driver's seat might have been carved from Highland granite. The fresh scar running from his temple to jawline pulled taut as he clenched his teeth, his soldier's instincts cataloging every shadow in th

Sophie's POV **The Forgotten Wellhouse** Rain lashed against my face as we crept through the overgrown path, the storm swallowing all sound but our ragged breathing. Damien moved ahead like a shadow, his combat knife glinting in the sporadic lightning flashes. Every few steps, he'd freeze—listening, then motion me forward with silent precision. The abandoned wellhouse loomed ahead, its crumbling stone walls choked with black vines that pulsed unnaturally, as if breathing. Lila's sketchbook page flashed in my mind, the pulsating vines, the terrified children below. My stomach twisted. Damien crouched behind a rotting oak, his eyes scanning the perimeter. "Two guards," he breathed against my ear. "North and east entrances." His fingers traced a quick map in the mud. "I'll take east. You watch my six." I nodded, gripping the pistol he'd pressed into my hands. The cold metal bit into my palm, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my swollen belly. Twenty-eight weeks pre

Sophie's POV **The Last Night at the castle** The castle stones wept with condensation as I folded the last of Eleanor's tiny sleepers, my fingers lingering over the embroidered rosebuds along the collar, the same pattern my mother had stitched into my childhood nightdresses. The scent of lavender from the drying racks mingled with the ever-present damp of eight centuries worth of Highland storms seeping through the walls. Alexander's soft snores drifted from the massive four-poster bed where he lay curled around Mr. Buttons, the stuffed bear's left ear permanently flattened from being clutched during nightmares. Moonlight through the leaded windows cast diamond-shaped shadows across their faces, making the tear tracks on my son's cheeks glisten like snail trails. A floorboard groaned behind me. Damien stood framed in the arched doorway, his broad shoulders blocking the flickering torchlight from the corridor. The baby monitor clipped to his belt crackled with