All Chapters of THE PROXY BRIDE: His bride. Her Secret. : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The limousine idled at the curb, its headlights cutting through the Monaco night. Amara swayed on the ballroom steps, the sapphire silk dress now rumpled from dancing, her platinum blonde wig slightly askew but not exposing her secrets. The wine had done its work—not enough to slur her words, but enough to soften the edges of her world. She giggled at nothing, tracing the bubbles in her champagne flute with a fingertip."Selene," Lyra murmured, guiding her elbow. "Let’s get you to the car."Amara blinked up at her, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and unguarded. "The bubbles," she whispered, holding up the glass. "They’re like tiny stars. Did you know stars are just... bubbles in the sky?" She squinted at the city lights, her nose scrunching in concentration—a fleeting, childlike expression Lyra had never seen on Selene Veyron’s face."Come on," Lyra urged, steering her toward the limousine. "You’re exhausted.""Exhausted?" Amara laughed, a bright, unpolished sound. "I’m floating! Like Mama’s

Amara woke tangled in silk sheets, sunlight painting gold stripes across her room. For a heartbeat, she floated in that hazy space between dreams and realitySaturday. The word settled in her bones like a lullaby.She stretched, limbs heavy with unearned rest. Just quiet. She pressed her palm to the mattress—still warm from sleep—and smiled. All this time. One Saturday.Downstairs, Jacques’ voice cut through the calm:MADAME: SATURDAY CONTINUES.WIND SPEED: 27 KNOTS.FORECAST: GALE-FORCE BREEZES.Amara snorted. "Noted," she called to the empty room, peeling off sleep-creased silk pajamas. She pulled on a new dress.She decided to take a walk at the pool side. Without her wig, afterall nobody was watching. The maids were busy cleaning somewhere else.>> The Orada Sea called to her like a promise.Amara stepped onto the cliffside patio, barefoot and blinking in the afternoon light. The Orada stretched before her—a liquid sapphire mirror. No office. No metrics. Just wind, water, a

Amara found Elara in the sun-drenched laundry room, the scent of lemon polish and fresh linen hanging thick in the air. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching dust motes dancing above stacks of impossibly white linens. Elara stood at the ironing board, her hands moving with the quiet precision of a woman who’d folded a thousand truths into crisp corners."Madame," she murmured without turning, smoothing a crease from a silk pillowcase. "I’ve laid out your dress for tomorrow. The buttons are stubborn—best left to me."Amara leaned against the doorframe, "I keep meaning to thank you," she said, her voice softer than Selene’s usual airy tone. "For the room and dress. For... everything."Elara finally looked up. Her hazel eyes held no judgment, no curiosity—just the calm warmth of someone who’d seen too many storms to fear the rain. "The room was Monsieur’s idea. I just made sure you ae comfortable." She nodded toward the nightstand where Amara always placed her white rose.

The glass doors of the office swung open as Amara stepped inside, heels clicking against the polished marble floor. It had been a week since she last worked properly, and the familiar rush of coffee scents, paper rustling, and constant chatter felt almost overwhelming. But today, she wasn’t just another employee walking into an office—today, she was returning with a sharper awareness of her surroundings, and maybe, a keener eye for certain faces.The office was bigger than she remembered. Or perhaps she had simply forgotten how vast the editorial wing truly was—an ocean of desks that seemed to expand endlessly, each cubicle occupied by someone busy typing, answering phones, or shuffling papers.There was always someone new. Every day brought in interns, guest writers, and contributors who drifted through like waves.Her desk had been cleaned, a small mercy, though the faint smell of dust clung to the corners. Just as she was settling in, she felt three shadows hovering above her.“Sele

The office held its breath.Not with gasps or whispers, but with the quiet tension of a room where two storms refuse to collide. Brenda’s return had turned Drevane Holdings into a minefield—every desk, every corridor, every shared glance between Amara and Julien now a potential detonation point.Linda called it "the silence war," but Amara knew better. This wasn’t silence. It was the deafening roar of two women circling the same throne.Brenda moved like a shadow through the executive wing—always where Amara wasn’t, yet felt where Amara was. Her crimson ink bled across treaties left on Amara’s desk. Her perfume—bergamot and regret—lingered in the archives vault after Amara had passed through. And her eyes? Always watching. Always waiting.But Amara refused to flinch.>> MondayAmara arrived at 7:55 AM—ten minutes before Cassian. She placed the corrected Arctic Shipping Consortium reports on Julien’s desk, her ink precise, her French flawless. Brenda appeared at 8:03 AM, her na