The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

Sophie's POV The Blackstone data center was colder than the grave. The moment the security doors hissed shut behind me, the temperature dropped twenty degrees, the sterile chill biting through my thin sweater like teeth. My breath fogged in the arctic air as I slipped between towering server racks, their blinking LED lights like watching eyes in the darkness. The hum of cooling fans filled the space with a constant, droning white noise that set my nerves on edge. Somewhere in this frozen tomb lay Terminal 7—Damien's personal access node, the digital heart of his empire. The emergency exit sign cast a bloody glow across the concrete floor, painting a path through the labyrinth of machines. My fingers trailed along the metal racks as I moved, the cold steel leeching warmth from my skin. Every footstep echoed too loud in the cavernous space, every rustle of my clothing magnified by the silence. "Three left turns. Past the backup generators. Through the biometric scanner." The c

Sophie's POV The phone's vibration against the marble nightstand jolted me awake at 3:17 AM. A cruel coincidence that same minute when my father had taken his last breath years before. The hospital's caller ID glared up at me like an accusation in the dark. "Miss Laurent," the administrator's voice was crisp, sterile as an operating room, "we regret to inform you that without immediate payment, your sister's private care facility will terminate her treatment." A pause. The sound of papers shuffling. "The Blackstone Foundation has withdrawn its funding." The words hit like a physical blow. My stomach plummeted as the digital clock's red numbers seared themselves into my vision 03:18 AM now. "Marcus," I breathed, the name tasting like poison. Across the bedroom, Damien slept like a man who'd already conquered the world, one arm thrown carelessly over his face. Moonlight caught on the flash drive left carelessly on the dresser his so-called gift, his test. The silver casing win

Sophie's POV The storm outside the safe house didn't just rattle the windows,it shook the very foundations, as if the sky itself were furious. Rain lashed against the bulletproof glass in relentless sheets, each drop exploding like a tiny bomb against the reinforced panes. Somewhere in the distance, thunder growled like a living thing, the sound vibrating through my bones. Lillian slept fitfully in the next room, her breath hitching every few minutes as another nightmare took hold. The FBI agent the one with Damien's piercing green eyes and the same sharp cheekbones had left an hour ago, but his warning still hung in the air like the acrid scent of gunpowder after a shot. "Arthur Blackstone doesn't make empty threats."I was still staring at the door, my fingers curled into the fabric of my sweater, when Damien's shadow filled the hallway. He didn't speak at first. He didn't have to. The air around him was charged, electric, like the moment before lightning strikes. "Tell m

Sophie's pov **The Storage Unit** The warped canvases smell like turpentine and betrayal. I crouch on the cold concrete floor of the storage unit, my fingers tracing the edges of my father’s old files, the ones Damien conveniently locked away here, just out of reach. The ones he never wanted me to see. The overhead fluorescent light buzzes like a dying insect, casting jagged shadows over the papers strewn around me. Bank statements. Contracts. Medical records. A paper trail leading straight to my father’s grave. And then there it is. **Laurent Holdings Offshore Transfer Records** - *Date: 11/14 (the night before Dad’s suicide)* - *Amount: $27 million* - *Destination Account: SBH-4289* My breath catches. “I know that account.” A memory flickers Dad’s study, the night before he died. His hands shook as he handed me a sleek black card. "For emergencies, Sophie. Only you." The numbers match. “It’s mine. How is this possible?” The documents spread a

Sophie's pov ** Taxi** The encrypted message burns across my phone screen at 9:47 AM, just as our taxi swerves around a delivery truck on Fifth Avenue. The text is clinical in its brutality: "Emergency board meeting. Divorce vote underway. Floor 92. Move now." Elena's hand slams against the cracked leather headrest hard enough to leave nail marks. "Faster," she snarls at the driver, her usually composed voice fraying at the edges. When the cabbie mutters about traffic laws, she peels five hundred-dollar bills from a money clip and throws them over the partition. The tires scream against wet pavement. Blackstone Tower looms ahead through the rain-streaked windshield ,a glass-and-steel monument to power, its upper floors disappearing into low-hanging storm clouds. My left hand spasms in my lap, the platinum wedding band catching fractured light. "Still there." After everything - the FBI raid, the vicious words we'd hurled like knives in that penthouse confrontat