Semua Bab The billionaire Mafia's Pregnant maid: Bab 11 - Bab 20

Lucien leaned back in his leather chair, the office dim except for the slice of morning light spilling across his desk. The night before replayed in his head like a broken reel of film, flashes out of order, blurred at the edges, but impossible to ignore. A hand gripping his shoulder. The taste of skin. A soft voice gasping his name. He closed his eyes briefly, his jaw tightening. This wasn’t clarity. Lucien relied on clarity, whether in business or blood. He remembered every deal, every betrayal, every bullet. But this… this was fractured. His gaze cut to the crystal decanter on his desk, the whiskey inside still half-full. He remembered the glass in his hand, yes. But he also remembered the shift in his body, the heat that had taken root too fast, too strong. His hunger had not been his own. His fists clenched on the armrests, tendons taut. Someone had tampered with him. He could feel it in his bones. That wasn’t paranoia

A month had slipped by, though the echoes of that night refused to fade. Maya had buried herself in work, scrubbing floors until her fingers bled, polishing silver until her reflection blurred. Anything to keep her mind too occupied to remember.But sometimes, when the house fell quiet, she could still feel the heat of Lucien’s touch like a phantom pressed into her skin. She avoided him as much as she could, though avoidance was a dangerous game in a mansion where he saw everything.Lately, however, there was something else pressing on her—an ache she couldn’t ignore. Her stomach twisted in the mornings, waves of nausea making it hard to stand. She brushed it off at first, blaming exhaustion, the stress of constant vigilance under Georgia’s venomous eyes.Today, though, the dizziness hit harder. While arranging fresh linens in the hallway, her vision swam, and she steadied herself against the wall.“Careful there,” one of the maids muttered, givin

The morning of her day off arrived cloaked in pale light. For once, Maya didn’t put on her apron or polish the silver; she didn’t tie her hair back with the neat ribbon Mrs. Carbone insisted on. Instead, she stood before her small mirror and braided her hair loosely, strands slipping free no matter how she tried to tame them.Her reflection looked foreign, tired, pale, older than the girl who had walked into Lucien Santoro’s mansion months ago. There was a heaviness in her eyes now, shadows carved deep from nights of restless sleep and mornings where nausea clawed its way up her throat.She slipped into faded jeans and a loose blouse, the kind she used to wear back home, simple clothes that felt almost like armor. Clutching her worn satchel, she left through the side gates, grateful for the brief freedom her day off provided.But as she stepped into the bustling city, the weight didn’t lift. The streets were alive with merchants shouting their wares, child

The evening had fallen heavy over the Santoro mansion, a velvet stillness that pressed into every corner of the grand halls. The chandeliers had long since dimmed, leaving the house bathed in shadow, lit only by the occasional glow of sconces along the walls.Dinner had ended hours ago. The staff had dispersed, their soft chatter fading into distant quarters. Only the faint creak of pipes and the muted tick of the grandfather clock in the hall lingered as proof that time was still moving.Maya remained in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, her hands submerged in lukewarm water. She rinsed the last of the dishes with careful precision, though her mind was far away. The familiar rhythm should have calmed her, but tonight even the simple act of drying porcelain felt unbearable. Her fingers trembled, her chest tight with a weight she could neither name nor shake.She was exhausted, body and soul. Every day since her visit to the clinic had been a torment of waiti

The morning broke gray, clouds hanging low over the city as though the sky itself had been dragged into mourning. The Moretti car was waiting at the front steps, polished to a mirror shine, its tinted windows dark enough to swallow all questions.Maya hesitated before sliding inside, her hand lingering on the doorframe. The leather interior was too smooth, too polished, and she felt like a blemish against it, her simple pale dress wrinkling where her fingers clutched the fabric in her lap. It wasn’t a wedding gown, not even close. It had been chosen by a maid and laid across her bed that morning, pressed without ceremony, no explanation given. She was expected to wear it, so she had.There were no flowers. No veil. Nothing that spoke of joy.Lucien was already inside, immaculate in a tailored dark suit, his cufflinks glinting when he adjusted his sleeve. His silence pressed against her more than words could have. He did not look at her, but the sheer weigh