All Chapters of Terms and Temptations: The CEO spoils me silly: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Emma’s POV It started with chocolate cake. Specifically, my craving for it. At 11:47 p.m. And of course, there was none in the apartment. “I could Postmate it,” Xander offered, already reaching for his phone like the superhero husband he was trying to be. I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not the same.” He paused. “You want freshly baked chocolate cake?” I nodded solemnly. “I want the kind that’s still warm in the middle. The gooey kind. With vanilla ice cream on the side. And maybe strawberries. But the strawberries are optional. The gooey part is not.” He stared at me. I stared back. “Alright,” he said, already pulling on sweatpants. “Let’s make it.” --- Twenty minutes later, our penthouse kitchen looked like a war zone. There was flour in my hair, cocoa powder on Xander’s nose, and one very suspicious looking bowl of “batter” that resembled mud more than dessert. “This feels illegal,” I muttered, holding the whisk like a weapon. “You’re a CEO. Shouldn’t you have staff for

Emma’s POV When I opened my inbox that morning, I wasn’t expecting a message from them. Not after what happened two years ago. Not after the public fallout. Not after I’d quietly disappeared from that world and swore I’d never look back. But there it was. Subject: Let’s Talk — A New Vision for Belle & Hue I stared at the email for a full five minutes before opening it. --- Hi Emma, We’ve been watching your recent design work from afar (yes, even the private commissions — stunning stuff). A lot has changed since you left, and frankly, so have we. We’re relaunching Belle & Hue under new leadership, new direction… and we want you back. Not as a junior. Not as a ghost designer. As creative lead. We’re rebuilding from the ground up, and we want your vision. If you’re even a little curious, let’s meet. We’ll fly to you. No pressure. Hope to hear from you, Serena Alcott CEO, Belle & Hue --- I sat there in stunned silence. Belle & Hue. The fashion house that nearly broke

Emma’s POV I didn’t sleep that night. Not because I was anxious. But because I was… alive. My mind danced with fabric textures, silhouettes, color swatches, and campaign concepts. The same way it used to, before heartbreak, before betrayal, before death. Only now, I wasn’t chasing approval. I wasn’t waiting for someone to notice me. I was the notice. --- By morning, I had a mood board pinned up on the wall, six rough sketches on the table, and my old tablet charged up and glowing beside my bed. I rubbed my belly absently as I walked to the kitchen. Xander stood at the stove, shirtless, flipping pancakes. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon curled through the air. His back flexed with every movement. Domestic and lethal. That should be illegal. He turned around with a lazy smile. “You’re glowing.” “I haven’t slept.” “Still glowing.” He walked over and kissed my forehead, one hand resting instinctively on my stomach. “You’re scaring me a little,” he murmured. “In a good w

Diane’s POV The bar smelled like spilled beer and betrayal. Dim lights hung low from the cracked ceiling, flickering every few seconds like the electricity couldn’t decide whether to hold on or give up. It was the kind of place where forgotten men gathered, where whispered secrets clung to dusty tabletops and spilled into cheap wine. Perfect for people like us. I tugged my coat tighter around my body, more for privacy than warmth, and scanned the room for familiar faces. None. Just broken people with broken drinks in broken chairs. Then I spotted him—Robert—already seated in a far corner, nursing his second glass of scotch like he owned the world and was bored of it. I slid into the seat across from him and didn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’re late,” he said without looking up. “You’re drunk,” I countered. He smirked and downed the rest of his glass. “Right on time, then.” I hated working with him. Hated the sound of his voice, the way he never took anything seriously un

Emma’s POV I didn’t sleep the night before the video dropped. I paced the living room. Checked the clock. Held my phone and kept refreshing, even though the video wasn’t scheduled to go live until 9 a.m. Xander watched me from the couch, patient and calm, like always. “You don’t have to watch it,” he said. “I do,” I replied. “I need to see it. I need to see myself choose my own story.” When the clock finally hit 9:00, Danielle sent me the link. I clicked it, heart pounding, and let the video play. The screen faded in from black. No dramatic music. No flashy graphics. Just me, seated in a warm, sunlit room. A soft gray backdrop. A quiet heartbeat of a piano playing faintly beneath my voice. “My name is Emma Davis-Blake,” I said to the camera. “And I’m not ashamed of my story.” The video was only seven minutes long. Short. Measured. But every word had been chosen with care. I didn’t speak about everything. Not yet. But I talked about my past — being used, being manipulated, s