Todos los capítulos de The billionaire virgin wife: Capítulo 41 - Capítulo 50

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “She’s taunting you.”“No,” Isabella whispered. “She’s declaring war.”Just as the elevator doors opened into the Jaxon Corp executive floor, they were met by chaos.Flashes of phones.Voices shouting questions.Security struggling to hold back a sea of reporters who had managed to infiltrate the lobby below.“IS IT TRUE YOU LIED TO YOUR HUSBAND?”“WHAT DID YOU MEAN WHEN YOU WROTE ‘I’M NOT WHO HE THINKS I AM’?”“IS DAMIAN KNIGHT PROTECTING A CRIMINAL?”Each question pierced Isabella’s chest like a blade.She flinched at the word criminal.Her legs felt weak, but Damian’s hand wrapped tightly around hers. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He looked into the cameras like a man made of stone.“Let me talk to them,” she whispered.Isabella’s chest ached with the weight of shame. But under that shame was rage—hot, bitter, and clawing at her ribcage.“Let me speak, Damian. Please,” she said again. “They need to see I’m not hiding.”“You’re not,” he said. “But I

Snow was falling when they landed in Moscow. Thick, heavy flakes that blanketed the tarmac like a warning: this was not New York. This was not home. This was the beginning of everything. And maybe, the end.This was where everything began. And where too many secrets still slept.The snow brought memories she had buried deep. The sound of heels crunching ice. A girl who was herself at eight, pressing her hands over her ears as a woman screamed in the dark. The sharp scent of vodka. The sting of frost through thin socks.Moscow had never been kind. It had taught her to run before she could speak. To fear before she could dream.“This city never let me go,” she whispered into the cold glass of the window. “It just waited.”Isabella’s heart thumped hard against her ribs as she stepped off the jet, Roman close behind her. Her hands were clenched at her sides, knuckles white despite the black gloves she wore. The cold bit into her bones, but she barely felt it.All she could think about was

After Damian woke up, stronger and more better, the first thing he did was reach for Isabella’s hand.“You’re still here,” he rasped, his throat dry from the meds and the blood loss.“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered, though the truth was that she couldn’t stay in Russia another night. Not after what she’d learned.The house had felt like a tomb. Every corner reminded her of her father. Every wall whispered the secrets Clarissa had kept hidden for years. That night, she couldn’t sleep. Not even beside Damian.By morning, the decision was made.“Take us back to New York,” Isabella said.Damian nodded without question.Not when Isabella couldn’t close her eyes without hearing the metal clang of the orphanage gate, or smelling vodka and smoke, or seeing her father’s signature on that cursed paper.They boarded Damian’s jet before sunrise. Roman flew with them, sitting silently across the aisle, eyes never leaving the clouds beyond the window.Isabella leaned against Damian’s chest

The house was quiet—too quiet.Not even the tick of the antique grandfather clock echoed through the penthouse walls. Damian sat at the desk in his private study, sleeves rolled up, the faint sting of a healing wound pulling with every breath.But he didn’t care about the pain.Not when the flash drive sat between his fingers like a blade aimed at his wife’s heart.Roman stood near the door, arms crossed, his stance tense.“Still think I shouldn’t open it?” Damian asked, already reaching for his encrypted laptop.“I think,” Roman said slowly, “once you do… there’s no going back.”Damian plugged the drive in anyway.The screen blinked to life, static and Russian code filtering through. Firewalls auto-deployed, and the laptop’s defense system kicked in. But one folder broke through like a ghost.Volkov_Files_Internal—CONFIDENTIAL—DO NOT DUPLICATEHe clicked.Inside, a video file. A grainy recording from decades ago. Audio fuzzed. Image shaky.Two men sat at a long wooden table. One of t

The next morning, the storm hadn’t cleared.It had simply gone quiet.And Damian Knight didn’t trust quiet.He stood at the massive window of his penthouse, coffee cooling in his hand, his sharp gaze locked on the greyed cityscape that stretched far beyond. The skyline blinked with early morning life—headlights, elevators, distant sirens—but everything inside his head echoed with a single word:“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance…”Clarissa’s voice wasn’t something easily erased. It had a way of weaving itself into the silence, lodging beneath the skin, like a splinter too deep to remove.He hadn’t told Isabella about the message.Not yet.Not after the blood.Not after the break-in.Not after the way she’d curled against him like her very bones were shaking, and he’d realized—truly realized—that no vault, no system, no fortress could keep her safe from the ghosts that had already crawled inside.She needed rest.A morning of stillness.Even if it was built on lies.Even