Semua Bab The Billionaire's Hidden Vows: Bab 51 - Bab 60

The rain whispered against the windows like a voice from the past. Savannah stood unmoving in the safehouse’s dim study, the old laptop casting a faint blue light against her face. Beside her, Rhett inserted the USB with the deliberate reverence of a priest handling sacred text. Neither spoke as the screen flickered to life.The timestamp blinked: Seven Years Ago.Location: Oakridge Memorial Hospital.Savannah's pulse throbbed in her neck. The angle was wide, impersonal—hospital security footage, grainy and colorless. Then movement.A figure strode through double doors, carrying something… someone. The camera lagged a moment before sharpening focus.Colton.His face was younger, lips pressed into a hard line, soaked from rain. He cradled a girl’s limp body in his arms like a ghost he couldn’t put down. Her hair was unmistakable—red and tangled, like fire dying in the dark.“Magnolia,” Savannah whispered.“She was checked in under a false name,” Rhett murmured. “No medical record. No i

The note was waiting like a curse.Savannah noticed it before she turned the key in the safehouse door. Folded once, damp from dew and something darker—red streaks bled along the edge like the remnants of a papercut dragged across skin. It bore no envelope. Just a childlike scrawl pressed in graphite too heavy for pencil alone."One sister lives. One sister dies. Choose."She stood in silence, the metal key still hovering near the lock, her heart suspending like a pendulum in a broken clock. That handwriting—curved too wide, like someone mimicking innocence—wasn’t Magnolia’s. Nor Colton’s. Nor Echo’s. It wasn’t a hand she recognized at all, which made it worse.Behind her, the street slept in unnatural stillness. The porch lamp crackled. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once—sharp, warning, then silence again.She unfolded the note. There was no address, no time, no further instructions.Just that sentence.Like scripture. Or damnation.Savannah’s eyes burned, but she didn’t cr

The moment split her open.Savannah’s scream rose like shattered glass through the penthouse corridor, echoing off marble and steel. Her back arched against the wall, knees buckling beneath the punishing weight of another contraction. Fire coursed through her belly, primal and ancient. This pain was not simply of the body. It was grief transmuted, a storm compressed inside a cage of flesh.“Colton!” she shrieked, but her voice dissolved into breathless gasps.She was alone—except for the ghost of the child trying to be born through her refusal to surrender.A streak of blood ran down her thigh.She pressed both hands to her abdomen. Her fingertips dug into skin, clinging to the very life threatening to escape.Not like this. Not here. Not in this gilded mausoleum.Footsteps thundered. Colton appeared at the far end of the hallway, soaking wet, breathless, eyes wide. In his expression was not panic but calculation. A man torn between love and control.He ran to her, catching her just a

The penthouse was too quiet.Savannah entered like a woman who had returned from her own funeral. Her skin still carried the pallor of hemorrhage and sleeplessness, her steps too careful, as if the floor might shatter beneath her. The apartment had not changed—glass, steel, violet orchids in vases too expensive to water themselves—but she had. Everything within her was stitched wrong.The nursery door was ajar.She didn’t remember walking toward it, only arriving, her hand pressing lightly against the edge, pushing it open with the breath of a ghost.Inside, the crib stood untouched. Still white. Still cruelly pristine.Blankets had been folded into perfect hospital corners. Stuffed animals untouched, tags still stiff around their necks. A rocker by the window sat facing the city skyline—where Colton had once promised they’d sit together, just the three of them.Now it was just her.Her fingers gripped the crib rail.She didn’t cry.Not because the tears weren’t there—they were—but be

The jet hung suspended in the black infinity above, humming with mechanical life. Savannah faced Weston across a polished black obsidian table that gleamed like the void. She looked at him through a storm-cloud mind, her silk blouse clinging damply to her like funeral silk soaked in tears. Somewhere beyond the sliding cabin door, her daughter cried—first muffled, then urgent—tiny riffs of existence pulsing through the metal hull.“You’re not even pretending anymore, are you?” Savannah’s voice was hollowed, shredded, precise. She waited for the lie.Weston’s smile was grotesque in its perfection. Black on black, a tuxedo funeral for her sanity. “Pretending takes energy,” he said, slow like poison. “Rebuilding a legacy is more efficient when there’s no masquerade.”With that, he pushed a contract toward her—gold pen in hand, signature prepared. A binding agreement. Legal custody. Full guardianship granted to Mr. and Mrs. Weston Briggs. Each word a verdict. She scanned the lines and felt