Semua Bab THE PROXY BRIDE: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The Honeymoon CageThe Riviera villa wasn’t a sanctuary. It was a gilded trap.Cassian’s driver deposited me at the entrance—a fortress of white stucco and arched windows overlooking the Orada Sea—and vanished without a word. No husband. No welcome. Just silence and the scent of jasmine thick enough to choke on. I dragged my suitcase up the steps, the wheels catching on cobblestones like my own stumbling heart. One hour, Grandma’s voice echoed in my skull. Be packed. The clock is ticking.Inside, the villa breathed luxury like a living thing. Marble floors gleamed under vaulted ceilings, French doors framed the sea like a painting, and the air smelled of lemon polish and something colder—expectation. But it was the absence that terrified me most. No staff. No Cassian. Just the hollow click of my suitcase wheels and the deafening thud of my pulse in my ears.What am I more afraid of? The question coiled in my chest as I stood in the cavernous foyer.• Cassian discovering I’m not Selene

I didn’t move for a full minute after Cassian left.He knows.The truth echoed in the hollow where fear had lived. He knows I’m not Selene. But he hadn’t exposed me. Hadn’t demanded the library’s destruction. Hadn’t touched me.No baby-making process. The realization hit like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. I pressed my palm flat against the mattress—no weight beside me, no stranger’s breath on my neck. Just the cool cotton sheet and the ghost of his thumb tracing my scar. He watched me sleep but didn’t cross the threshold. Relief flooded me, so fierce it burned my eyes. Mama’s books are safe for one more day.But then his words slithered back: "I bought Selene Veyron. I got you instead."Why a blonde? I turned the question over in my mind like a rare manuscript. A trust amendment shouldn’t demand a specific hair color. Cassian’s explanation felt thin—a bandage over a bullet wound. Grandma’s monocle flashed when she said "weak chins like Julian’s wife." Clarisse’s ink-stained

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 restricti

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 Garden (A.K.A. How to Breathe Before Drowning)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,