Todos los capítulos de THE PROXY BRIDE: His bride. Her Secret. : Capítulo 71 - Capítulo 80

The days contunued in a quiet, measured way, with sunlight streaming through the tall windows of the office. Amara had been bent over her work, pen scratching across parchment, the steady rhythm a small comfort amidst the storm that her life had become. She thought, briefly, of the lilies from Cassian, of Clarisse’s warnings, and of Julien’s patient gaze. She had steeled herself to remain focused, to push away the chaos of her heart and mind.But the chaos had a way of finding her.Brenda appeared like a storm breaking over the horizon, sharp and unannounced. Her footsteps echoed across the polished floor, heavy and deliberate, each one carrying the weight of anger that seemed to vibrate through the air itself. Before Amara could react, a hand rose and struck her cheek. The slap was sharp, a stinging shock that burned both skin and pride.Amara’s hand went instinctively to her cheek, the surprise frozen on her features. Brenda’s eyes blazed with fury, her entire frame trembling with un

The evening air was still, the kind of silence that felt almost deliberate, as though the sea itself had paused to listen. Amara leaned against the wide balcony doors of her sanctuary room, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The Orada Sea stretched endlessly before her, its surface fractured by pale ribbons of moonlight. Waves rose and fell like heavy sighs, their rhythm echoing the turmoil that had not left her chest since her encounter with Julien.She pressed a hand against the glass. The chill seeped into her skin, grounding her. For a long moment she allowed herself to breathe in the immensity of the water, its vastness both a comfort and a reminder of how small she truly was in this labyrinth of secrets and desires.At last, she turned away. Her room, bathed in muted amber from the wall sconces, waited quietly. Amara moved into the adjoining bath, undressing slowly as though shedding not only her garments but also the fragments of emotions clinging to her. She had pinned the wig up,

Beneath the surface, shadows breathe,Secrets coil like thieves in sheaths.A glance, a word, a hidden sigh,Truths that twist and never die.Walls have ears, and floors can speak,Silent games the fearless seek.Every lock hides a story untold,Every shadow, a hand to hold.Trust is fragile, fate a knife,Every secret cuts like life.Yet in the darkness, a spark may gleam,The hidden pulse of a waking dream.

"My mother,” she began again. A continuation of what she said earlier, her voice low, “always warned me that this mansion was not a home, but a grave that walks. And at the center of it all was the Drevane grandfather. His hands are red, Madame—stained with blood that time itself cannot wash away. He has silenced more than I dare speak. He has built an empire from bone and ruin, and yet the world still bows to him as if he were a king. But behind his mask of power, he is nothing more than a butcher.”Amara’s throat tightened, a shiver ghosting down her spine. The chandelier’s light flickered faintly, casting shadows that seemed to crawl along the walls. “So it all leads back to him…” she whispered, the words heavy as stones.“Yes.” Elara’s gaze darkened. “Every shadow here belongs to him. But not Cassian.” She paused, her tone shifting, softening as though she feared her words might betray her. “Cassian is not his grandfather’s mirror or his own father's mirror. He wears coldness like

The mansion groaned with silence, its walls heavy with secrets Amara carried in her heart. Clarisse’s warning, Elara’s revelations—she kept them all tucked away, deciding not to crumble beneath them but to plan, to play along, and to see where fate would drag her.And now, fate had given her a countdown.Two weeks. Just two weeks before the contract that bound her to Cassian Drevane would unravel. Two weeks before her mask as Selene might slip, or the truth might devour her.But in those two weeks, Amara had decided on her own salvation: she would make Cassian fall for her—or at the very least, make him notice her beyond the cold, sharp way he always did.Her method? Not seduction, nor secrecy, but something far more dangerous.Kindness.And a little foolishness.The first attempt began over breakfast. Cassian sat at the long dining table, a fortress of cold elegance, reading the morning reports while Jacques served quietly.Amara, however, burst into the room holding a plate of badly