All Chapters of The billionaire virgin wife: Chapter 171 - Chapter 180

The penthouse felt impossibly quiet, the city lights outside a cold, indifferent glow against the storm raging inside.The silence was not the silence of peace. It was sharp, jagged, as though the walls themselves were listening, as though the glittering glass windows wanted to trap their voices and reflect them back like accusations. The hum of the city below, the muted horns of traffic, the faint wail of sirens, all seemed so far away. Inside these walls, there was only tension, tight and suffocating.Isabella looked up at Damian, her tears streaking her cheeks, voice barely a whisper. “Please… you have to believe me. You know I was a virgin before you married me… how can you believe I have a child.”Her plea trembled into the air, soft yet piercing, as if the sound itself was fragile enough to shatter. Her chest rose and fell with the uneven rhythm of her breath, and her hands twisted in front of her, desperate to hold onto something real when everything felt like it was slipping a

In the dimly lit penthouse across town, Helena lounged on her velvet sofa, her legs crossed with a predatory elegance that seemed rehearsed, as though every angle of her body had been deliberately arranged to radiate superiority. The velvet clung to her frame, rich in color, shimmering faintly under the soft glow of the crystal chandeliers that dangled above. Those chandeliers had been imported from Venice, each droplet of cut glass polished until it gleamed like starlight. They illuminated the room with a golden haze that softened the expensive art on the walls but did nothing to soften the sharp edges of Helena’s smile.The penthouse itself was a masterpiece of wealth and intimidation. Black marble floors stretched across the wide space, reflecting the light in shallow pools of gold. Sculptures stood in corners, tall, sleek, and cold, their shadows long and almost sinister in the dimness. Beyond the glass walls, the city sprawled in all directions, towers rising into the night sky l

The penthouse was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the floor to ceiling windows. The skyline shimmered with silver and gold as if mocking the shadows that had settled inside. Damian sat alone at his desk, the untouched glass of whiskey sweating beside a pile of damning documents. His reflection stared back at him from the dark windowpane, a distorted image of a man who looked nothing like the one the world believed him to be.His eyes burned from hours of staring at the pages, but no matter how many times he read the words, the gnawing weight in his chest only grew heavier. Each paragraph was a knife, each signature a carefully crafted blade twisting deeper into his confidence.He saw Isabella’s face every time he closed his eyes. Tear streaked, lips trembling, eyes filled with a betrayal that she had never deserved. Her voice still echoed inside his skull, splintering the silence with cruel precision.“You swore to protect me… and now even you doubt

Helena’s penthouse glittered with cold elegance, a fortress of glass and steel perched above the city. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline like a painting, lights scattered across the horizon as if the heavens themselves had shattered and fallen to earth. A dozen sleek phones were spread across the long marble table. Their screens lit up and vibrated in relentless rhythm, the voices of gossip columnists, digital vultures, and faceless rumor merchants buzzing like a swarm of flies around a carcass. Every ping was another headline, another rumor, another piece of venom injected into the veins of the city.Helena sat at the head of the table as if presiding over court. She was draped in silk, her raven hair pinned high, her lips painted a deep crimson that gleamed when she smirked. In her presence the air seemed thinner, as though even oxygen bent to her will.Clarissa lounged on a velvet chaise near the window, her legs crossed, a glossy magazine dangling from her fingers.

The Moscow archives were not easy to penetrate. Hidden behind layers of bureaucracy, red tape, and outdated filing systems, they were designed to bury secrets as much as preserve them. The building itself felt like a fortress of silence, each hallway stretching into dimly lit corridors where the air smelled of paper, dust, and the faint musk of old varnish. Even the walls seemed to listen, thick with history, as though they had absorbed centuries of secrets and refused to give them back easily.Marcus moved with quiet determination, his hands steady as he slipped a folded envelope of rubles into the archivist’s trembling hands. The man, no older than fifty but with the eyes of someone who had aged twice that much, muttered in Russian, his words carrying both fear and reluctance. His eyes darted nervously toward the doors, toward the shadows, as if someone might burst in at any second to catch him. When he finally disappeared into the back room, the silence deepened.Damian’s gaze wand