Semua Bab THE PROXY BRIDE: Bab 31 - Bab 40

The Drevane library smelled of dust and defiance. Amara ran her fingers along the spines of leather-bound volumes, the only room in the estate where the air didn’t taste like judgment. Here, the silence wasn’t a weapon—it was a balm. She’d come to escape Grandma’s latest "fertility assessment," a ritual involving thermometers and timed walks that left her feeling like a lab rat in a gilded cage. Outside, rain lashed the Orada cliffs, but here, the only sound was the soft shush of pages turning.Then the door creaked.Amara froze, instinctively tucking a stray dark root beneath her platinum wig. But it wasn’t Grandma’s monocle or Cassian’s storm-gray eyes that filled the doorway. It was Clarisse.Julian’s wife stood motionless, a ghost in dove-gray silk. Her ink-stained pinky tapped the doorframe—a nervous habit Amara had noticed at dinner, when Grandma mentioned miscarriages and Clarisse’s knuckles had whitened around her fork. Today, her usually immaculate chignon was slightly askew,

Two weeks after the Drevane estate’s suffocating formality, Cassian drove Amara to his private cliffside home as the afternoon sun gilded the sea. Amara braced for another gilded cage—but stepped into a circus designed by a mad scientist with excellent taste.Cassian pushed open the front door—a revolving panel of frosted champagne bubbles—and Amara immediately spun like a top, arms windmilling. She shot across the polished onyx floor (so slick it defied physics) and crashed into The Koi, a floor-to-ceiling aquarium where robotic fish darted through liquid light. Water sloshed as she clung to the glass, her reflection warping comically."Solar-powered bubbles," Cassian said, steadying her with a smirk. "Generates energy. The floor? Pure pettiness. My architect thought ‘why walk when you can glide?’" He tapped the glass where a silver carp nuzzled Amara’s distorted reflection. "That’s Bubbles. He’s harmless. Mostly judges your posture."Amara glared at the carp. "He’s smirking.""Roboti

Amara decided to stop dissecting Elara’s quiet watchfulness and the swan etched in crystal. Watch how things unfold, she told herself, shifting the white rose three inches left on her nightstand. Some truths reveal themselves in silence.Three days later, Cassian drove her to Drevane Holdings—a monolith of glass and steel piercing the Monaco skyline like a dagger. From the street, it looked sterile, imposing. But as the elevator soared past the thirtieth floor, Amara saw the truth.This wasn’t a building.It was a living organism.The lobby stretched before them like a canyon of white marble where light refracted through a suspended sculpture of ten thousand silver spoons—Drevane’s original symbol of "measured success." Staff moved like synchronized swimmers, heels clicking in unison. Cassian didn’t break stride as he murmured, "First rule. Never step on the spoon shadows. They mark power hierarchies."Beyond the lobby, the trading floor roared—a cathedral of chaos where dozens of scre

Amara settled into Drevane Holdings like a ghost learning to haunt.By day three, she’d memorized the spoon shadows (avoid the silver ones near Accounting), the espresso machine’s death rattle at 10:07 AM, and Cassian’s "never interrupt when he’s scowling" rule. But her real education began at 2:14 PM daily—when Julien Morel walked past her desk on his way to the archives.-----------MondayAmara was correcting a maritime treaty when Julien appeared down the hall. Sunlight caught the silver at his temples as he strode past—shoulders back, jaw set, radiating "I own this building and your heartbeat." She dropped her fountain pen. Ink bled across the "salvage" clause like a crime scene."Clumsy," she hissed at her traitorous hands, mopping ink with Selene’s lace handkerchief."Very clumsy," Julien murmured, pausing beside her desk. His storm-amber eyes flicked to the treaty. "Shipwrecks are tragic, but ink disasters?" He vanished down the hall, leaving Amara clutching a treaty about sunk

The company dinner wasn’t a gala.It was war.Drevane Holdings’ annual dinner filled the grand ballroom like a storm—hundreds of sharp suits, clinking glasses, the air thick with ambition and perfume. No chandeliers dripping diamonds. No queens claiming thrones. Just power, raw and hungry, served on silver platters.Amara stood in her sanctuary room, the Provence mural glowing in candlelight. She’d never attended a company event. Cassian had made it clear: Stay invisible. Stay useful. But tonight, the invitation had come—mandatory attendance—and she needed his permission.She found him in the library, reviewing Arctic Shipping Consortium reports under the glow of a single desk lamp."I’m going," she said, her voice steady. "To the dinner."Cassian didn’t look up. "As long as Selene Veyron walks in, Selene Veyron walks out. No mistakes." He finally lifted his eyes—storm-gray, cold as the sea at midnight. "Lyra will represent me. I don’t attend these affairs.""You never do," Amara murmu