Semua Bab THE PROXY BRIDE: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The Riviera villa was not a refuge. It was a gilded trap, beautiful and purposeful, each stone set with intention to hold whatever it captured.Cassian’s driver left me at the arched entrance as if depositing an animal for observation. The white stucco façade loomed above the cobblestones, French doors like patient eyes watching the sea. He vanished without a backward glance. No welcome. No hand to take mine. Only jasmine—thick and sweet and almost obscene—clung to the air, pressing at my throat until I tasted it like sugar and rot. One hour, Grandma’s voice had said. Be packed. The clock is ticking. The admonition threaded itself into my bones and would not let go.Inside the villa breath smelled of lemon polish and an air-conditioning hum that pretended to be wind. Vaulted ceilings and marble floors reflected everything twice, making sound echo and doubt larger. I dragged my suitcase across tiles that felt too smooth, as if every step might announce me to researchers in another room.

I didn’t move for a full minute after Cassian left.He knows.The truth echoed inside me, filling the hollow where fear had lived for days. He knows I’m not Selene. Yet he hadn’t exposed me. Hadn’t demanded the library’s destruction. Hadn’t touched me.No forced consummation. No claim staked in flesh. The realization struck like sunlight piercing a storm. I pressed my palm flat against the mattress. Cool cotton. Empty space beside me. No stranger’s weight, no breath on my neck—only silence, only the ghost of his thumb tracing the scar on my wrist. He’d stood there. Watched me sleep. But he hadn’t crossed the threshold.Relief burned my eyes. Mama’s books are safe—for one more day.But then his words returned, slick and venomous: “I bought Selene Veyron. I got you instead.”Why a blonde?I turned the thought over like a rare manuscript, fragile and dangerous. A trust amendment couldn’t demand a specific shade of hair. His explanation had been too thin, a flimsy cloth draped over somethi

Cassian’s pen still hovered over the "MATERNITY PROTOCOL" box when the truth hit me like a rogue wave: I should be relieved.Two months.Sixty days until I vanish.Sixty days until the library is safe.Sixty days until I’m free.So why did my chest feel like it was caving in?Across the breakfast table, Cassian watched me—storm-gray eyes unreadable, scarred wrist resting on the walnut surface where it mirrored mine. The Orada Sea roared beyond the windows, but the real storm raged inside me. This isn’t what I dreamed of, I thought, staring at the contract. Not even close.Fifteen Years Ago. Monaco.Sunlight streamed through the library’s leaded windows, painting gold squares on Persian rugs. I was eight, barefoot and breathless, bursting through the oak doors with a dandelion crown clutched in my grubby hands. Mama sat at her restoration desk, vellum and ink staining her fingers like battle scars."Mama! Mama!" I’d skidded to a stop, holding up the crown. "I made this for my wedding!"

Amara slumped into the velvet couch, the only furniture in the Riviera villa that didn’t feel like a museum exhibit. She kicked off Selene’s impractical heels, wiggling her toes against the cool marble floor. Sixty days, she thought, staring at the ceiling. Sixty days until freedom. For the first time since the wedding, the silence felt almost peaceful.Then came the knock.Thud. Thud. Thud."Mademoiselle Veyron? It’s Lyra Quinnell."Amara’s stomach dropped. Cassian’s PA. The woman who’d watched her like a hawk since Monaco. She smoothed Selene’s ivory robe over her pajamas and flung open the door.Lyra stood there—crisp black suit, sharp bob, eyes that missed nothing. She didn’t wait for an invitation. Just strode past Amara, balancing a stack of documents taller than a house of cards. "Mr. Drevane requested you review these before Monday." She dumped the pile onto the coffee table with a thwump. "Your role as Executive Secretary. His preferences. Meeting protocols. Dietary restrictio

Sunlight bled through ivory silk curtains, painting stripes across the cold marble floor. Amara blinked awake to silence—the kind that screamed he’s gone. Cassian’s chaise lounge stood empty, pillow flattened where his head should have been. Of course he left, she thought, pressing her palm against the bedsheet. Rich heirs don’t joke with their money. Or their deadlines.She slid from the bed, bare feet meeting marble. No wig. No Selene’s vacant smile. Just Amara Veyron in borrowed silk pajamas, tracing the scar on her wrist—the ink of her story.At least for now, before leaving the room. At least the only person that knows of her true identity is her so called husband.Avoid the drama, she decided. Just for an hour.------The Drevane Estate gardens sprawled like a living cathedral—rows of roses so perfect they looked airbrushed, fountains where water arced in silent spirals, hedges sculpted into geometric labyrinths. Amara wandered deeper, past butlers polishing vintage Aston Martins