Married To My Arrogant Billionaire Enemy のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

BROOKLYNThe rain hadn’t stopped since we got home from the hospital.It drummed steadily against the windows of the East Wing, a rhythmic reminder that the world kept turning despite the fact mine had stopped. I hadn’t slept. Not really. I’d laid awake most of the night, staring at the ceiling, replaying the doctor’s words like a broken record.Cerebral arteriovenous malformation.I couldn’t even pronounce it right the first few times. All I knew was that it sounded deadly. Life-threatening. And it was inside Elliot’s brain.Riley called and said she had an interview and wouldn’t be able to come visit. It’s fine.The clock ticked past 9 a.m. I was already dressed and pacing when I called the hospital. The nurse was polite but brief.Elliot had slept through the night, his oxygen levels were stable, and the doctor would be available later in the morning if I wanted to come in.That wasn’t even a question.I grabbed my coat and slipped on boots, but when I stepped into the hallway, Mr.

DOMINICMornings were usually my sanctuary.Before the noise. Before the expectations. Before the mask.But not today.I sat at the long mahogany dining table, black coffee untouched, scrolling through backlogged emails on my phone. Deals. Board meetings. Deadlines. And none of them mattered as much as the tight knot still sitting in my chest since he was discharged from the hospital.Elliot.I hadn’t realized how quickly the kid had grown on me in such short amount of time. I told myself I was just helping Brooklyn because I could. Because it was efficient strategic and clean.But that little boy had looked up at me with so much trust and now I couldn’t stop picturing the oxygen mask on his face or the panic in Brooklyn’s eyes.The kitchen door swung open. I glanced up.Marta, the head cook, entered with her usual authority, wearing her white apron and signature frown. “Good morning, Mr. Blackwell,” she said, placing down a tray.The smell of bacon, freshly baked bread, and eggs fil

BROOKLYNThe house felt different this morning…quieter, heavier, as if yesterday’s argument had seeped into the walls and was now watching me from the corners.I descended the east wing staircase slowly, one hand brushing the smooth mahogany banister, the other gripping the railing just enough to ground myself. The echo of my bare footsteps filled the space. Somewhere in the back of my mind, the memory of Dominic’s voice—sharp and biting replayed like a broken record.I hated that I still felt that sting in my chest.The moment I stepped into the kitchen doorway, a hum of voices cut through my thoughts. Mr. Alcott, Martha, and three other members of the staff were huddled together near the pantry. Their voices were low, almost conspiratorial, punctuated by the occasional laugh.But the second my presence registered, the air changed. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.The group broke apart like they’d been caught committing a crime, scattering toward different corners of the kitchen.

BROOKLYNThe quiet after dinner was the kind that made you notice every little sound, the clink of silverware being cleared by Martha, the faint hum of the refrigerator, the tap of my own nails against my mug. Dominic hadn’t spoken to me beyond a curt “pass the salt,” and I’d matched his energy by not saying a single unnecessary word.Now, hours later, the mansion had gone still. Elliot was asleep in his room which was next to mine and I could faintly make out the sounds of his breathing even through the wall. I should have been sleeping too, but my mind wouldn’t let me.The doctor’s words had been looping in my head all evening. Routine examination… surgery… potential treatment options. Every word was both hope and fear, tangled into one. If I let myself think too hard about what “treatment” might mean..surgery, risks, recovery. I’d fall into a pit I couldn’t climb out of tonight.I sat cross-legged on my bed, trying to read the same page of a novel I’d been stuck on for the past th

BROOKLYNThe dress Dominic’s stylist picked for me was… dangerous. Not in the literal sense, but in the you could topple kingdoms with this look sense. Deep emerald silk that clung like it knew all my secrets, cut low in the back, the slit stopping just shy of indecent. The kind of dress that whispered instead of shouted, though the slit had a habit of shouting when I walked.My hair was in a sleek, side-parted wave, my makeup a masterclass in “effortless” that had actually taken an hour and two professionals. Dominic, of course, looked like he’d been poured into his midnight-black tux by the gods of arrogance themselves, impeccable, lethal, and very aware of it.When we stepped out of the car, the sound hit me first. Cameras, shouting, that collective roar of people trying to catch your name, your face, your attention.“Smile, Mrs. Blackwell,” Dominic murmured, offering his arm.The way he said Mrs. made it sound more like a title than a role. I slid my hand into the crook of his elb