All Chapters of The Billionaire's Hidden Vows: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The light crept in like a trespasser, pale and guilty, slipping between the sheer curtains that lined the east wall of the penthouse. Savannah stirred under linen sheets that felt colder than they had the night before—though she couldn’t say why. Her mind was half-submerged in sleep, chest rising with breath that hadn’t yet found rhythm.And then she saw it.It sat innocently atop her pillow—clear, plastic, familiar. That cursed hospital bracelet.Her name stared back at her in the same sterile blue ink from months ago. Savannah Cole. Patient No. 149327. Observation – Suicide Watch.The room shrank. Her breath caught in her throat like a hook. She reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the band as if confirming it were real—its coldness, its flexibility, the way it folded in on itself like memory. Her pulse began to roar in her ears, a rising tide of rage and dread and the sickening twist of déjà vu.She hadn’t seen it since the night she left the institution.She glanced around

The velvet hush of the press room was ruptured by a single gasp. A dozen cameras clicked into frenzy as the woman stepped onto the stage—not the shadow of a woman, not a ghost, not a myth. Savannah Quinn Briggs stood alive beneath the gold-stamped seal of Briggs Industries.Her hair was no longer curled in soft pageant waves. It was slicked back like a crown of wet obsidian. She wore a simple black sheath dress and no jewelry—no armor, no flair. Just skin. Just truth.Behind her, the screen flashed a single slide: “You erased me. But I remember everything.”Gasps rippled through the room like a rising tide. The news anchors fumbled their mics. PR staff scattered to alert legal. But Savannah stood silent, letting the quiet violence of her presence speak.“Mrs. Quinn-Briggs,” a male reporter stammered, “we—we were told you were deceased. That you—”“That I was never real?” Her voice sliced the air like piano wire. “That Magnolia Briggs was the bride, and I was just the bait? You were me

Late night. The sky poured heavy with rain, each drop against the windows like sorrowful applause. Colton stepped inside the gutted remains of the mansion they once called home. The fire had been surgical—no alarms, no sirens, no media. Just smoke dancing in the cold air, drifting through soot-coated chandeliers and scorched beams.He moved through charred furniture and ash-dusted rugs, tools of comfort twisted into tools of erasure. Every step echoed like a funeral march. A single beam of moonlight found its way through a fractured ceiling, settling on the only pristine object left on the mantle: a compact mirror, etched with his mother’s crest, its silver edges gleaming defiantly.He lifted it. Inside, scrawled in precise black kohl across the glass:“You married a ghost. But I remember.”The mirror trembled in his hand—a stone dropped into a lake that rippled across his chest. Here was her message: not triumph, not surrender, but survival. She had survived the fire. She had survive

Rain hammered the clinic’s asphalt like relentless accusation. Savannah stood in the alley behind the emergency entrance, shirt soaked, mascara running in streaks. She heard muffled voices inside: the clip of ambulance doors swinging shut, footsteps, a hushed cacophony of urgency. But it was nothing compared to the blade sliding into her heart.They wheeled out the body bag. She recognized the hospital personnel’s cold efficiency. No one watched or acknowledged her existence. They cleared a path silently, purposefully—as if sweeping her grief into a drawer.Her world fractured in that moment, splintering into pieces she didn’t know she still carried: motherhood, trust, hope. The wind caught in the palm behind her and rattled like applause. She pressed both palms to the brick wall, letting her knees buckle.The sob came like tidal wave. Pain tore through her, primitive and raw. She hung there, shaking, sobs matching the drum of rain.“Was that… his?” Her voice a strangled whisper. “Col

Rhett’s underground sanctum—even in its dim, fluorescent glow—felt sacred. Against cascading screens and towers of manila folders, Savannah stepped in with deliberate calm. The air was thick with heat and dust, punctuated by the hum of old scanners and the soft staccato of a printer feeding paper.She moved toward the shelf labeled Heiform Ridge – Adoptions 1987. Her fingertips trembled as she slid out the heavy binder. Inside, brittle pages carried the names and birthmarks of infants long separated by choice—Magnolia, Mira, and another whose name she now recognized as hers. The form listed Quinn A, B, C—identical birth dates stamped beneath a single hospital seal. Rows of identical thumbprints appeared next to each name, a mark of shared origin.She flicked to the back. A handwritten annotation read:Project E: Blood isolation — do not alert twins.The words felt like a straitjacket around her lungs.Her eyes burned as she took in the notes: “Ensure split for inheritance control… twi