All Chapters of Married To My Arrogant Billionaire Enemy : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

DOMINIC ~next morning~ The morning light cut through the curtains in pale gold slashes, far too soft for the way my chest felt. I stood at the foot of the bed, jacket already on, tie knotted like armor, but my body refused to move. Brooklyn was awake. She looked better than yesterday—color back in her cheeks, no more tremors in her hands—but her eyes still betrayed the exhaustion. When they flicked to me, hazel catching the light, I felt the same irritation I always did when she looked at me like that—like she could see too much. “You’re going in?” Her voice was soft, but there was an edge to it, like she wanted to bite back the words and couldn’t. “I have a company to run,” I said. I didn’t add that I wanted to stay, that every instinct screamed at me not to leave her unguarded. But that wasn’t an option. Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t just assume it’s Isabelle.” The name landed like a strike across the jaw. I stilled. Her gaze didn’t waver. “You keep sayin

DOMINIC Gerald’s fingers flew. The system spat out matches and non-matches with machine efficiency. Names rolled across the screen like pieces of evidence sliding into place: a maintenance temp; a subcontracted pool cleaner; a vendor who’d been on the estate three times in the last month. Not definitive. Not yet. I tore my gaze away and moved to the east corridor feed. The angle there was worse — an oblique lens, more shadow than substance, but it showed movement: a man crossing the corridor at seven thirty-one, heading toward the pool area. He wore a dark-colored jacket, indistinct in features, but his gait had the kind of confident anonymity of someone used to being unnoticed. He paused, checked a phone, and then resumed. “Freeze that frame,” I said. “Enhance the gait. See if the stride matches any staff member footage around the estate.” Gerald complied. We started picking apart every second. Every clip added texture to the scene. The pieces were small: a delivery van arriving

DOMINICThat eveningThe house was quieter than it should’ve been. Too quiet.My footsteps echoed off marble as I came in, loosening my tie with a sharp tug, trying to shake the weight of the day. Rodriguez. Mateo. Burners and shadows. Pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t lock into place. It clung to me like smoke. I carried it inside whether I wanted to or not.But then—“Dominic.”Her voice.Brooklyn stood just past the hallway, leaning against the doorway like she’d been waiting. Her chestnut hair was loose, falling over one shoulder, and she wasn’t dressed up—no armor of heels or carefully chosen dresses. Just leggings and a soft oversized sweater that hung off one shoulder. Comfortable. Home.And dangerous.I stopped, tension still wound tight in me. “Everything alright?”She tilted her head, studying me, lips pressing into that line I’d come to know too well—the one she wore when she wanted to argue but wasn’t sure if it was worth the fight.“You don’t have to ask that every time yo

BROOKLYNTwo weeks. That’s how long it took for my life to tilt again.If you had told me a month ago that I’d be working in a bakery where the counters gleamed like mirrors, the pastries were displayed like fine jewelry, and the customers arrived in chauffeur-driven cars, I would’ve laughed in your face. But here I was—apron tied tight, hair pulled back, and trying not to feel like an imposter every time I stepped behind the glass counter.This wasn’t your ordinary corner bakery with flour dust floating in the air and coffee-stained menus. This was Étoile Patisserie—the kind of place where croissants cost more than my entire grocery budget used to be. The walls were cream-colored marble, the lighting warm and golden, and even the air smelled expensive—vanilla and butter, but cleaner, softer, almost as if someone had bottled “wealth” and sprayed it through the vents.At first, the other staff looked at me like I was a fraud. Which, to be fair, I probably was in their eyes. They whispe

DOMINICThe day was long. Too long.Not because the workload had increased—my schedule had always been suffocatingly full—but because the hours carried an unfamiliar emptiness.Normally, I thrived in it. Silence, order, the constant hum of money moving, numbers aligning, calls being made—it was my arena. But lately, in the pockets of quiet between negotiations, between back-to-back meetings, between my assistants rushing in with reports, I caught myself thinking about her.Brooklyn.It was becoming a habit I couldn’t control. My mind would circle back, unbidden, to the image of her in that ridiculous oversized sweater, hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes daring me to put my phone down and just be. To the sound of her laugh during the movie night Elliot had orchestrated, soft and unguarded. To the weight of her head against my shoulder when she’d finally drifted off, like it was the most natural thing in the world.She wasn’t supposed to make my house feel different. She wasn’t s