Semua Bab After One Night Stand I Became His Wife : Bab 1 - Bab 10

The world dissolved into an oppressive, suffocating darkness. Rough hands, impersonal and unyielding, bound a thick cloth around Layla’s eyes, plunging her into a terrifying void. The muffled roar of traffic, the subtle shifts and turns, told her they were moving swiftly through the city. Each bump and swerve sent a fresh wave of nausea through her. She was a parcel, an object, stripped of her agency. The fear, a cold, sharp blade, pierced deeper with every passing second.Eventually, the movement ceased. The doors opened, and the chill of an air-conditioned environment washed over her. She was guided, prodded, through what felt like a vast, echoing space. Footsteps, crisp and precise, clicked on a hard floor. The air grew colder, almost icier, carrying with it the scent of expensive polish and a faint, masculine cologne. It was a scent she dimly recognized, a ghost of memory from that terrifying, forgotten night. The blindfold was yanked off, the sudden light searing her eyes. She

The journey from the courthouse to her new "home" was a blur, the tinted windows of the sleek black car obscuring the outside world, much like the opaque future ahead of her. When the vehicle finally slowed, Layla felt a tremor of apprehension. She was led out not to a towering mansion, but to a luxurious modern house nestled on the edge of the city. It wasn’t ostentatious, but its clean lines, expansive glass panels, and meticulously manicured gardens spoke of understated wealth and impeccable taste. It was far, far nicer than anywhere she had ever lived, a stark contrast to the cramped apartments and the suffocating atmosphere of her adoptive home.As she stepped inside, the cool air enveloped her, carrying a faint scent of fresh flowers and expensive wood polish. The interior was a symphony of modern design: high ceilings, polished concrete floors softened by plush rugs, minimalist furniture, and large windows that offered breathtaking views of the urban sprawl blending into the d

Soft music floated through the air of the luxurious spa — faint strings, the scent of white jasmine, the sound of water trickling from a marble fountain. The light was dim, warm, meant for serenity. But serenity was the one thing Elara Vance never truly possessed.She lay half-reclined on the massage bed, a silk robe falling open at her collarbone. Her skin glowed under the golden light, her features sharp, beautiful, dangerous. She could have been carved from glass — perfect, and likely to cut whoever got too close.The masseuse’s fingers pressed gently into her shoulders, working to ease the tension gathered there, but Elara’s mind was elsewhere. Her phone rested beside her, silent and cold. Colden hadn’t called in weeks. No texts, no replies. Only silence. That kind of silence could drive a woman like her insane.The door opened. A man in a dark suit entered, hesitating before speaking. “Miss Elara…” His voice trembled slightly. “There’s news about Mr. Colden.”Her eyes snapped ope

The mansion loomed over the hill like a silent beast, shrouded in mist and authority. Its sprawling white stone walls gleamed beneath the muted afternoon light, each pillar carved with the kind of grandeur that whispered money, legacy, control.Layla’s heart gave a reluctant tremor as the car stopped before the iron gates that opened soundlessly, like something out of an old, aristocratic nightmare. She pressed her palms against her dress, smoothing the fabric just to have something to do.Colden didn’t say a word beside her. He sat like a king in exile, his sharp profile cut against the glass window, eyes fixed forward. His silence wasn’t the gentle kind—it carried weight, filling the car like a command no one dared disobey.When the car rolled to a stop before the grand staircase, a row of maids and footmen already waited. The moment Layla stepped out, the air shifted.Eyes—too many, too curious—watched her.She forced a polite smile, unsure if it was the right thing to do here. The

The clinking of silverware filled the silence.Layla sat stiffly beside Colden, the crystal chandelier above them scattering pale gold light across the glossy mahogany table. Every glittering surface reflected wealth, power — and judgment.She could feel every gaze, every whispered thought pricking at her skin.They’d been polite when she arrived — smiles too sweet, questions too smooth — but the warmth was poisoned sugar.“So,” one of the women began, swirling her wine like it was an extension of her venom, “where are you from, dear?”Layla set her fork down slowly. “A small town outside the city,” she said softly, hoping that simplicity might end it there.No such luck.“And what do your parents do?” another asked, tone dripping with curiosity that wasn’t really curiosity.Her throat tightened. “They... run a small shop.”She doesn't want to talk about them. “Ah,” came the response — faintly disappointed, faintly mocking. “So modest.”Someone else leaned forward. “And your school?