All Chapters of The billionaire virgin wife: Chapter 161 - Chapter 170

The city had never seen such a wedding.By the time Damian and Isabella stepped out of the church, the air outside had turned electric. The streets shimmered under the late afternoon sun, which glanced off the glass of towering skyscrapers and bounced across the sea of faces below. Bells tolled in wild celebration, their clear, sonorous notes swallowed almost instantly by the roar of thousands who had lined barricades for blocks, eager to witness history. Confetti rained from balconies, streaming like ribbons of light and glitter, while car horns blared in rhythmic harmony as if the whole city had taken a single, collective breath in reverence and joy.Reporters shouted questions, their cameras flashing in a frenzy that painted the crowd in strobe-like pulses. “How does it feel to be Mrs. Knight?” — “What’s your honeymoon destination?” — “When’s the first heir?” Isabella barely heard them. The words bounced off her, meaningless against the surge of exhilaration and disbelief pulsing t

The suite was silent, but the air between them crackled like fire. Damian carried Isabella across the threshold, and the click of the door behind them was a promise of the night to come. Outside, the city roared, but inside, there was only heat, shadows, and a hunger that made Isabella’s skin tingle with anticipation.Rose petals were scattered across the bed, crimson and soft, a seductive trail to a night of surrender. Candles flickered along the walls, bathing the room in molten gold light. Shadows danced along the ceiling, teasing what the flames revealed, soft curves, delicate skin, the promise of every forbidden pleasure.Isabella’s heart thundered. Her wedding dress clung to her body, concealing and inviting all at once. Her breath came in sharp, tremulous gasps, every nerve alive with desire. She had dreamed of this night, imagined Damian’s hands, his mouth, his claim, but reality pressed against her like a physical force, hotter, hungrier, consuming.Damian’s eyes darkened. He

Two days of bliss had passed.Isabella had barely left Damian’s arms since the wedding night, their world reduced to whispers, laughter, and stolen kisses in the golden glow of the penthouse. It felt as though nothing and no one could touch them now.The penthouse had been a sanctuary, the outside world forgotten. Isabella would wake every morning to find Damian watching her, his fingers brushing through her hair as though she were his most priceless treasure. They had eaten breakfast in bed, showered together, teased each other like lovers who had been together forever yet still discovered something new with each touch. She had danced barefoot in the living room with him, her silk slip fluttering as he pulled her against his chest, their laughter echoing against the tall windows.Every moment felt stolen from a dream, one she feared waking from.Until the morning the world turned against her.Damian was in his study, reviewing contracts, his shirtsleeves rolled up, dark hair falling

The interview spread like wildfire. By dawn, every news outlet carried the blurred image of the so-called witness who claimed Isabella had worked in a Russian brothel. Her words were quoted, replayed, dissected until they sounded like gospel.But it did not stop there.By noon, new images began to surface online. Grainy photographs of a young woman with Isabella’s face, dressed in revealing clothes, standing outside dimly lit clubs, began to appear on every gossip site imaginable. The captions were merciless.“Isabella Knight, before she married her billionaire savior.”“Proof of her dark past revealed.”Inside Helena’s penthouse, the atmosphere was electric, tinged with triumph.Clarissa leaned back against the velvet sofa, smirking. “The photos turned out even better than I hoped. I almost fooled myself.”Cynthia laughed, her fingers scrolling through her phone with a sinister kind of delight. “Society always wanted to hate her. We are just giving them what they want to believe.”He

Damian sat alone in his study, the city lights outside flickering across the glass like a million tiny witnesses. Each reflection of the city seemed to stare at him, judging him, silently reminding him of the life he had meticulously built and how easily it could unravel. The hum of the city, usually comforting in its consistency, now felt distant, almost mocking, like a taunt from an unseen enemy. The room was quiet, but his mind was a storm, and even the faint rustle of papers made him flinch. He glanced at the polished desk, at the neat stack of documents that now seemed like instruments of torture rather than order.The dossier Irina had “confirmed,” the blurred photos, the forged documents , every piece screamed one thing: Isabella had a dark, hidden past. Each page seemed to carry accusation in the way the ink lay on it. Every photograph seemed to freeze a moment of guilt that never existed. Even the receipts, fabricated with precision, made him pause, shaking the foundations of