The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

Sophie's pov The world tipped sideways during the most important board meeting of my sham marriage. One minute I was eviscerating Marcus Kane with his own financial reports the damning spreadsheets I'd compiled during my midnight hacking sessions spread across the mahogany table like a feast for vultures the next, the room spun violently. My vision tunneled to the horrified faces of Blackstone's executives, their expensive ties and judgmental mouths forming perfect O's of surprise as the marble floor rushed up to meet me. The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me whole was Damien vaulting over the conference table, his usually impeccable suit jacket flaring behind him like wings, his bellow of "SOPHIE!" reverberating through the soundproofed walls. I surfaced in waves, floating in and out of consciousness like driftwood caught in a storm. Fractured moments imprinted themselves on my fever-addled brain: - Cool fingers on my wrist, taking my pulse with clinical precisi

Sophie's POVThe Blackstone jet had barely touched down in Aspen when the blizzard swallowed the runway whole, transforming the tarmac into a swirling white abyss. Through the frosted windows, I watched ground crew scramble like ants as the plane shuddered against its tethers. "F**k." Damien's gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel of the rented Range Rover as we fishtailed up the mountain pass, the tires struggling for purchase on black ice. Snowflakes the size of silver dollars pelted the windshield faster than the wipers could clear them. "I told Marcus this meeting could wait until spring." I clutched the door handle as we skidded again, my shoulder slamming into the cold leather interior. "Shouldn't a billionaire have a helicopter for this exact scenario?" His jaw flexed, the sharp angle catching the fading light. "It's in Zurich." "Of course it is," I muttered, watching the storm swallow the road behind us in a hungry white maw. Twenty white-knuckled minutes la

Sophie's POV The penthouse elevator doors hadn't even finished closing before Damien pinned me against the mirrored wall, his mouth crashing into mine with the pent-up fury of a man who'd spent three days pretending not to watch me across boardrooms. The taste of him whiskey and wintergreen and something uniquely Damien flooded my senses as his hands slid under my dress, fingers digging into the bruises Marcus's men had left during the ambush. I gasped. He froze instantly, his body going rigid against mine. "Did I hurt…" I dragged him back by his tie before he could finish, sinking my teeth into his lower lip. "Don't. Stop." The elevator dinged. Penthouse level. We left a trail of destruction down the hallway. His Armani tie strung over a Ming vase, my torn stockings snagged on the console table, the pearl buttons of his shirt pinging against the marble like hailstones as I ripped them free. His bedroom was all shadows and silken sheets, moonlight catching the scars o

Sophie's POVThe penthouse was quiet,too quiet. I sat curled in the window seat, a sketchpad balanced on my knees, charcoal smudged across my fingertips. The city stretched below me, a glittering beast of steel and glass, indifferent to the storm brewing inside my chest. Then all of a sudden “click, click, click.” The sound sliced through the silence like a blade. ‘Expensive’ Louis Vuitton. I knew that sound. I’d worn those shoes once. Back when I still played the part of Damien Blackstone’s perfect wife. Mrs. Whitlock appeared in the doorway, her usual composure fractured at the edges. “Miss Blackstone is here to see you.” Before I could respond, a whirlwind of Chanel No. 5 and effortless arrogance swept into the room. Evelyn Blackstone. Damien’s sister. The woman the tabloids called ‘The Ice Princess of Wall Street.’She was taller than I expected, all sharp angles and predatory grace, her ash-blonde hair swept into a flawless chignon. Her dress black, tailored, w

Sophie's POV Rain lashed against the penthouse windows in diagonal slashes, turning Manhattan into a distorted watercolor nightmare. The glass vibrated with each gust of wind, the sound like a thousand whispered accusations. I barely noticed. The hospital report in my hands had stopped making sense after the third line. "Treatment Failure: Progression to Stage IV" The words blurred together, the medical jargon dissolving into one undeniable truth: “Lillian was running out of time.” I didn't hear him enter. One moment I was alone on the balcony, the cold iron railing biting into my palms as I tried to remember how to breathe. The next, the weight of Damien's suit jacket settled over my shoulders, still warm from his skin, carrying the faint scent of his cologne bergamot and something darker, something dangerous. I didn’t turn. I couldn’t. If he saw my face now it would be…"Sophie." His voice was rougher than usual, the way it got after back-to-back board meetings, whe