All Chapters of The Billionaire's Temporary Mistress : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Sophie's pov The elevator's chime slices through the penthouse silence like a scalpel through flesh. *3:17 AM* glows blood-red on the security panel, Damien's signature homecoming hour. I don't turn. Can't. My fingers remain locked around the jagged remains of his favorite Glencairn whiskey glass, the one I'd thrown at the security monitors hours ago. Crimson blooms across my palm where the crystal bit deep, dripping steadily onto the Carrara marble we'd chosen together. Each drop splatters like a tiny explosion, spreading in fractal patterns between the porcelain shards of his mother's Ming vase. The security wall hums with static - sixteen blank screens where I'd smashed the feeds after watching his plane go dark over the Atlantic. Sixteen empty eyes that had witnessed my unraveling. His footsteps are all wrong. “Too heavy” - the confident stride replaced by a laborious drag. “Too slow” - each step measured like a man counting his remaining breaths. “Too human” - t

Sophie's POV The bedroom door slammed shut behind me with a force that vibrated through my entire body, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the cavernous penthouse. I pressed my palms flat against the cool mahogany wood, my fingers splaying wide as if I could physically absorb the impact, and could somehow push back against the hurricane of emotions threatening to tear me apart from the inside out. My breath came in sharp, ragged gasps that burned my throat, each inhale tasting of salt and unshed tears. "Do whatever you want." Damien's words were so cold, so final played on an endless loop in my mind, each repetition like a knife twisting deeper between my ribs. I squeezed my eyes shut until stars burst behind my eyelids, but all I could see was the way his face had closed off completely in that moment, his stormy blue eyes turning to arctic ice, his sculpted mouth hardening into an unyielding line. The way he'd looked at me - like I was just another problem to be managed, an

Sophie's POV The first conscious sensation was the coppery tang of blood. My tongue, thick and unwieldy, peeled away from the roof of my mouth with an audible click. The metallic taste mixed with something bitter and chemical - the lingering remnants of whatever cocktail Lucian had slipped into my champagne. Venetian sunlight pierced through the narrow gaps in the blackout curtains like laser beams, each one stabbing directly into my optic nerves. I groaned, rolling onto my side. The movement sent a fresh wave of nausea crashing through me. My stomach clenched violently, bile rising in my throat. The sheets beneath me Frette linen, 1000-thread count - smelled faintly of Damien's sandalwood cologne and something antiseptic. *The Gritti Palace.*I recognized the particular way the morning light caught the Murano glass droplets of the chandelier, casting prismatic rainbows across the vaulted ceiling. The familiar comfort of the observation should have calmed me. Instead,

Sophie's POVRain, thick and greasy as motor oil, slid down the grimy windows of Jake’s Chinatown loft, warping the neon glare of the Dragon Palace sign across the street into bleeding smears of red and gold. Inside, the air hung thick and stale, a miasma of cold pepperoni pizza, spilled Red Bull, ozone from overheating electronics, and the underlying tang of desperation. The only illumination came from the wall of monitors dominating the cramped space, casting an eerie, shifting blue pall over everything. Lines of code, green and relentless, scrolled vertically on three screens like digital waterfalls, while a fourth displayed a dizzying real-time map of global data traffic, blinking nodes connecting continents in a frantic, silent dance.My fingers, icy despite clutching the lukewarm paper cup of sludge-black coffee Jake had thrust at me hours ago, trembled. The cheap styrofoam crackled under my white-knuckled grip. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a c

Sophie's pov The surgical waiting room on the 8th floor of Mount Sinai existed in a suspended reality, a bubble of hushed dread punctured only by the occasional tinny page over the intercom or the soft swish of automatic doors opening down the hall. Time lost all meaning, measured not in minutes or hours, but in the frantic, irregular beats of Damien’s heart where his hand clutched mine like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.We sat side-by-side on a utilitarian, cobalt-blue vinyl couch, its surface cold and unyielding despite the hours we’d occupied it. The harsh overhead fluorescent lights cast deep, bruise-like shadows beneath Damien’s eyes, etching lines of exhaustion and terror onto his face that hadn’t been there yesterday. He hadn’t moved much since collapsing against me. His posture remained rigid, hunched slightly forward, elbows braced on his knees, our joined hands resting on the cushion between us. His gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the double doors marked ‘SURGICAL