All Chapters of THE PROXY BRIDE: His bride. Her Secret. : Chapter 11 - Chapter 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. 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 something sharp. Grandma’s monocle flashing when she said “weak c

Cassian’s pen still hovered over the “MATERNITY PROTOCOL” box when the truth hit me like a rogue wave of realization:I should be relieved.So why did my chest feel like it was caving in?The air inside the villa was too still, too deliberate. The faint hum of the ceiling fan blended with the sound of my heartbeat. But the real storm raged inside me. This isn’t what I dreamed of, I thought, staring at the contract spread across the marble table. Not even close.>> Some Years Ago. Monaco.I could remember it clearly—so vividly it almost hurt.“Mama! Mama!” I’d skidded to a stop in the garden, clutching a tiny crown of wildflowers and dandelions I’d spent the whole afternoon braiding. “I made this for my wedding!”She’d laughed—warm as honey—and pulled me onto her lap. “Ah, ma chérie! Tell me everything.”I’d grinned proudly. “Papa will carry me down the aisle! And there’ll be millions of roses! And cake with sugar birds that sing!” I’d pressed the lopsided crown onto her head. “

Then came the knock.Thud. Thud. Thud.It wasn’t a polite sound. It carried purpose—the kind of knock that expected obedience, not permission.“Mademoiselle Veyron?” A woman’s voice, clipped and cold. “It’s Lyra Quinnell.”Amara’s stomach dropped. Cassian’s personal assistant. The woman whose eyes in Monaco had followed her every breath, dissecting every gesture. She had the quiet cruelty of someone who never needed to raise her voice to be feared.Amara glanced at the mirror, caught her reflection—a tangle of loose hair, an ivory robe draped over sleep-wrinkled pajamas—and exhaled sharply. Too human. Too Amara. She smoothed the robe, raised her chin, and opened the door.Lyra Quinnell stood there, immaculate as always. A tailored black suit, pressed to severity; a sharp bob framing a face built from symmetry and discipline. Even her perfume—something faintly metallic—smelled like order.“Good morning,” Lyra said, though the greeting felt more like an accusation. Without waiting for an

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 her night dress.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, past maids pruning petals with surgical precision. Everything here is curated, she realized. Ev