Lahat ng Kabanata ng The billionaire virgin wife: Kabanata 131 - Kabanata 140

The photos arrived like a poisoned gift.An unmarked envelope had been slid beneath Damian’s office door. He had been working late, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the weight of a dozen business deals waiting on his desk. Isabella had been curled up on the sofa near the window, her legs tucked beneath her, pretending to read but watching him with soft eyes that kept straying from the book.Neither of them noticed the envelope at first. It lay there on the Persian rug, innocent, silent, like a serpent coiled in the shadows.When Damian finally picked it up, his instincts screamed that something was wrong. No seal. No sender. Just a thick packet, heavy with intent.He slit it open with the edge of his letter opener, and the first glossy print slid into his hand.And Isabella’s world collapsed.Her breath hitched, strangled in her throat. Her pulse roared in her ears.There she was in the image. Or rather, someone who looked so unmistakably like her that denial would sound like a lie. Sh

The photo was worse than the first set.This time it was not blurry, nor crudely edited. The colors were sharp, the angle perfect, the scene believable enough to wound. Isabella sat across from a man in a dimly lit restaurant, candlelight flickering between them, his hand resting possessively over hers. The background even looked familiar, a well known restaurant she had seen once in a magazine. Whoever fabricated this had thought of every detail.Her pulse raced. She had never been there. Never even met this man. And yet, the image was flawless, cruel in its believability. The cruel part was not just the man’s hand over hers, but the way the photo captured her expression. In the picture she looked as though she were smiling softly at him, her head tilted slightly, as if she were leaning closer. It looked like intimacy. It looked like betrayal.Her heart hammered against her ribs. The room spun faintly as she dropped her phone onto the desk. She pressed both palms against her temples,

Isabella barely slept that night. Every time her eyes fluttered shut, the same image haunted her — the photographs. That frozen, merciless capture of her face beside a stranger’s, painted across every tabloid headline like some twisted work of art. A betrayal she never committed, immortalized in glossy print for the entire world to consume.When dawn crept into the room, she did not feel its warmth. She felt only the weight of it, the suffocating truth that nothing would ever be the same again. The city outside roared to life, but to her, every sound felt sharper, mocking, as if the world itself was reminding her of her new scarlet letter.She dressed in silence, pulling on her blouse with trembling fingers. Even the fabric seemed to resist her, clinging uncomfortably to her skin. She could not shake the sense that eyes were already on her, that every window, every passerby, every newsstand was whispering the same thing.By the time she stepped into the lobby, she felt the change. It

The text would not leave her mind.It haunted her like a ghost that refused to rest. The glow of the screen was gone now, but the image was carved into her memory as though someone had tattooed it onto her thoughts. Even when she closed her eyes, she saw it again, the cruel picture, the twisted suggestion, the silent accusation.All night, Isabella tossed and turned. She shifted beneath the weight of the silk sheets, restless, her body trapped between heat and chill. Damian’s steady breathing beside her was both a comfort and a torment. His presence reminded her that she was not alone, but his nearness also sharpened the terror that he might not believe her if he ever saw what she had seen.The rise and fall of his chest was steady, almost hypnotic. She watched his hand resting on the sheet, close enough to touch. She wanted to take it, to clutch him tightly, to whisper her fears against his shoulder.She wanted to wake him.Her fingers twitched toward the phone on the nightstand. She

Her fingers froze over the unfinished letter as the voice echoed through the penthouse.Cynthia.That sound ripped her open. The pen slipped from her grasp and rolled across the desk, tapping against the wood with a faint sound that seemed louder than thunder in her ears. Her chest tightened as if invisible hands were squeezing the air out of her lungs. The walls of the room began to close in.Nightmares clawed their way back to life. The attic. The darkness. The smell of mildew and dust, sharp and suffocating. The metallic tang of her own blood from split lips and raw wrists. Her stepmother’s Cynthia’s voice, cold as winter. Clarissa’s cruel laughter, ringing in her ears while she cried and begged.Her body refused to move. Her mind was trapped between now and then, torn open by the voice of the woman who had birthed her only to destroy her.“Isabella?”Damian’s voice floated up from downstairs. Calm, controlled, but there was a dangerous edge hidden beneath it, a warning she knew we