Semua Bab The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress : Bab 41 - Bab 50

Sophie's pov ** The Chase Begins** Marble floors reflect my distorted silhouette as I sprint through Blackstone Tower's lobby. My Louis Vuitton's, the red-soled ones Damien bought me in Paris,slip on the polished surface, but I don't slow down. The security guards tense but don't intervene; not when they see the feral glint in my eyes, not when they spot the Glock 26 strapped to my thigh in a holster Damien himself taught me to use. Claire materializes from behind a pillar like a specter. Her manicured fingers are always perfect, always professional dig into my wrist with surprising strength as she yanks me into a service elevator. The doors close just as two Blackstone security officers round the corner. "Marcus took him," she breathes against my ear. The elevator cameras blink red still recording so she presses closer, her Chanel No. 19 mixing with the acrid scent of fear. "Forty minutes ago. Black SUV with diplomatic plates." The numbers climb “52...67...78” but my pulse

Sophie's pov The Blackstone Tower blueprints glow on my tablet, every air duct and service corridor highlighted in neon pink the exact shade I once used to mark champagne stations for charity galas, back when my biggest concern was whether the Veuve Clicquot would be chilled properly. The irony tastes like gunpowder on my tongue. "Guard rotation every 47 minutes," Claire whispers, her manicured nail tapping a staff staircase on the screen. The Chanel polish is chipped the first time I've ever seen her imperfect. "But Marcus added a new security measure after the docks." I zoom in until the pixels blur. "The fire suppression system." My finger traces the isolated piping. "It's not tied to the main alarms. He'll have manual override in the sub-basement." Elena leans over my shoulder, her signature jasmine perfume undercut by the acrid scent of adrenaline. "You want to burn him out?" I tap the emergency exit routes the ones I personally designed last year when planning the Chil

Sophie's pov **The ICU** The cardiac monitor beeps a jagged rhythm forty-seven beats per minute, too slow, too weak, too Damien. Each mechanical breath from the ventilator sounds like the “Scheherazade” groaning against its moorings. The scent of antiseptic can't quite mask the lingering copper of blood. His blood still crusted under my fingernails in rust-colored half-moons. I press my forehead against the cool glass partition, watching the medical team swarm around his motionless body like worker ants tending their dying queen. Their voices slice through the sterile air: "Massive blood loss we're looking at seven units transfused..." "Nicked hepatic artery miraculously it didn't fully rupture..." "If he makes it through the night..." Lillian's wheelchair squeaks beside me, the sound jarring against the ICU's mechanical hum. Her fingers still too thin from months in her own hospital bed, the skin stretched translucent over her knuckles as she dug into my bicep with sur

Sophie's pov The Blackstone logo glares up at me from the sale documents, its sharp platinum edges dulled by Damien's aggressive pen strokes. The conference room air smells like lemon wood polish and impending revolution. "Last chance to change your mind," I whisper as he initiates another page. My reflection wavers in the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, the Manhattan skyline he once owned stretched across the glass like a conquered kingdom. Damien doesn't hesitate. His fountain pen, the Montblanc I gave him on our first anniversary - scratches across the paper. "I've wanted to burn this place since I was fourteen," he says, voice low with decades-old venom. His cufflinks catch the morning light as he slides the papers to the new CEO , a wedding gift, platinum with "No More Lies" engraved in my handwriting. The man's tan pales to parchment when he reads the final clause: "All Blackstone patents released to the public domain effective immediately." Including the

Sophie's pov **Dawn at the Villa** 8:17 AM. The antique brass clock on the seaside villa's mantel chimes softly, its melody swallowed by the crash of Mediterranean waves against the cliffs below. Morning light spills through the open French doors, painting the hardwood floors in liquid gold. The scent of salt and Damien's freshly brewed coffee is always too strong, just how I like it wraps around me like a second skin as I dip my sable brush into cerulean blue. The canvas before me is new. Untouched. Uncharted. Just like the life growing inside me. My free hand drifts to the swell beneath my paint-splattered smock. Twenty-three weeks today. The baby kicks in response like a tiny rebellion against my ribs, as stubborn as their father and I bite back a smile. From the garden, laughter floats in on the citrus-scented breeze. "You're cheating!" Lillian's voice rings out, followed by the violent splash of pool water. "It's called strategy, not everyone has it" Damien c