Todos los capítulos de The Bride He Bought : Capítulo 141 - Capítulo 150

𝘿𝘼𝙉𝙏𝙀 I’m standing in the precinct hallway, waiting for Matteo to finish his call with the prosecutor, when my phone vibrates. My head lowers to look down at the screen. It’s from the driver. > The plane just took off, Signore. For a moment, I just stare at the text. It’s strange, the way something so small can knock the air out of you. I don’t know what I’m feeling exactly. It’s not sadness, not really. Just this dull emptiness in my chest, like I let go of something I shouldn’t have. I slide the phone back into my pocket. There's no time to try and understand what I currently feel. Matteo steps out of the office, closing the door behind him. “They’ve agreed to reopen the file,” he announces brightly. “We’ll have to resubmit everything through the official chain. No back channels this time.” “Meaning?” “Meaning it’ll take longer. They want everything documented, reviewed, and signed off by the anti-corruption unit before it goes to court.” I nod. “Fine. Then we start n

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼 Time has done what it always does, moved on, even when I didn’t want it to. It's been six months since Milan and five since the divorce papers came. I thought by now it would all fade, but the memories still follow me around like background noise I can’t switch off. When I first came back, I kept hoping, foolishly, that he would reach out. Maybe he’d miss me. Maybe he’d even just miss the sex and call. For days, I kept checking my phone like an idiot, waiting for a text or a missed call, anything. But it was radio silence. And after those papers came, something in me finally broke loose. I stopped waiting and decided to move on. Now, that entire part of my life feels like a fever dream. Sometimes I wonder if I made it up, if the marriage, the months in Milan, even our very passionate nights together ever really happened. The only proof I have is the wedding ring I still keep tucked away in a drawer. And Dad, he never brings it up. It’s like it never happened at all. Sti

𝘿𝘼𝙉𝙏𝙀 Mama returns a few minutes later with a file clutched to her chest. The way she holds it, carefully, almost reverently, makes my stomach twist. “What's that?” I ask, even though I already have a guess. She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are soft, but they are accompanied by an invisible weight in them now. She walks back to the bed, sits, and places the file on her lap. And in that moment, my heart sinks. I know exactly what this is about. No. Not again. “Mama…” I start, shaking my head. “Please don’t.” She exhales, ignoring my plea. “Before mio padre died,” she begins calmly, “he wrote a will. And in that will, he left a clause for who would inherit the family estate. You remember I told you he never had sons. Only me and my sister, Valeria. The first of us to give birth to a boy—” “Mama, stop,” I demand desperately. She keeps going, almost like she’s afraid if she stops, she’ll lose the courage to finish. “The first of us to give birth to a boy would have it w

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙍𝘼 Dante rises from his seat. The light from the window hits his face, those deep blue eyes, that sharp jawline, the faint stubble that makes him look both refined and devastatingly human. He’s dressed simply: a dark blue sweater that fits too well, sleeves rolled to his elbows, black trousers and a watch gleaming faintly on his wrist. He looks a little older, but a lot calmer. And in all, a lot more devastatingly beautiful. Then his lips stretch into a slow smile. And he spreads his arms. Before I can even think, I walk straight into them. He wraps me up instantly, his arms strong and warm, his heartbeat loud against my ear. For a moment, everything just fades and the only thing in my focus is just him, being wrapped around him as his woodsy scent envelops my senses. When we finally pull apart, he cups my face, his thumb brushing my cheekbone as he looks down at me like I’m something miraculous. His lips curve slightly. “It’s so good to see you.” I bite my lip, unabl

𝘿𝘼𝙉𝙏𝙀 There’s a tiny pair of feet pounding across the garden again. “Ricardo!” Alera’s voice carries through the warm afternoon. “No running, sweetheart!” The boy only laughs, his black curls bouncing as he darts through the hydrangeas, his little shoes kicks up bits of soil as he runs. Two years old and faster than lightning, he's definitely her son, though he’s got my grin, my stubborn streak, and my complete disregard for rules. I’m kneeling beside a half finished ramp that I swore I’d build myself. Ten minutes in, I’ve already lost a screw and my patience. The nails don’t sit right, the boards are uneven, and there’s a hammer mark somewhere it doesn’t belong. I sigh, drag a hand through my hair, and mutter under my breath, “I was built for deals, not carpentry.” From the patio, Alera waddles out. She's radiant and round with our second child, one hand on her back, the other shading her eyes from the sunlight. She’s in one of my old shirts that now barely fits over her