Semua Bab The Billionaire’s Cure: The Betrayed Bride : Bab 1 - Bab 10

The morning light cut through the penthouse like a blade. Damian Blackwell stood motionless by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his private suite, his silhouette sharp against the skyline of Manhattan. The city below was already awake—rushing, roaring, alive. But inside the penthouse, silence reigned. A silence so complete it echoed.He hadn’t slept. Not really.He’d existed in the aftermath of the night before—his mind replaying fragments, trying to make sense of something that defied all logic.Because last night, for the first time in ten years, he had touched another human being.And nothing had happened.No pain. No burning. No allergic reaction. No swelling, no inflammation, no emergency dose of epinephrine. Just... skin on skin.And the most impossible sensation of relief.He lifted his hand, turning it slowly in the light. His palms were smooth. Unmarked. No redness. No irritation. Nothing.It should have been impossible.His condition—dermatographic urticaria with extreme immu

The house smelled like her childhood.Lemon polish. Fresh linen. The phantom scent of her mother's jasmine perfume, clinging to the curtains like a ghost that refused to leave.Amara stood in the center of the room, suitcase open on the bed, clothes half-folded, half-tossed. She hadn't packed like this since college—a frantic, chaotic scramble, as if running from something she couldn’t name. Only now, she wasn’t running away.She was running into the heart of a storm."Amara," her mother said softly from the doorway, her voice a fragile whisper against the silence. "You don't have to do this. We can fight them. Together."Amara didn't look up. She folded a silk blouse—the one she'd worn to her first red carpet, her first moment of real triumph—with a forced, methodical precision, as if the act itself could restore order to the chaos of her life."I do, Mama."Lena stepped inside, her bare feet silent on the wooden floor. "This man... Damian Blackwell. You barely know him. You said he

The phone rang at 2:18 p.m.Amara was in her suite, curled on the white linen sofa, sunlight spilling across the marble floor like liquid gold. She had been staring at the city, not seeing it—her mind drifting between memories of the past and the fragile future she was trying to build.When her phone rang.Mama.She answered.“Amara,” Lena said, voice tight, “you need to turn on Variety. Or Entertainment Weekly. Or any news site. Right now.”Amara sat up. “What happened?”“James and Lila,” Lena said. “They held a press conference this morning. Together. Hand in hand. Smiling like they’ve just found true love.”Amara’s breath stilled.“Go on,” she whispered.“They said… they said that the man you married was wgo you cheated with. And that Lila was just there for him after you destroyed everything. And that… that they fell in love in the wreckage.”Amara closed her eyes.Of course.They weren’t just covering their tracks.They were rewriting history.“I saw the videos,” James had said i

The limousine glided through the Manhattan night, its black shell reflecting the city's electric pulse. Inside, Amara sat rigid, her spine pressed against the cool leather, her fingers knotted in her lap. She stared at her reflection in the tinted window, just a ghost of light and shadow, but she saw everything.The woman before her was not the same one who had collapsed in shame two weeks ago. This Amara wore a gown of midnight blue silk, its neckline a delicate plunge, the fabric hugging her curves like a second skin. Diamonds glittered at her ears and throat. Her hair was swept into a loose, smoky updo, tendrils framing her face like whispered secrets. Her makeup was flawless, bold eyes, soft lips, a warrior’s composure painted over trembling nerves.This was her first public appearance since the scandal. Since the pole. The videos. The betrayal. Since the world had branded her a slut.And now, she was walking back into the fire on the arm of a man who had become her shield, her my

Amara woke to the soft hum of medical monitors and the faint scent of antiseptic laced with something warm—cedar, maybe, or sandalwood. Her head rested on something firm, yet strangely comforting. Not a pillow.A chest.Her eyes snapped open.She was lying against Damian.Not beside him.On him.His arm was wrapped around her waist, his gloved hand resting just above her hip. His other arm was beneath her, a solid, unyielding support. His chin rested lightly on the crown of her head. His breathing was deep, even—still asleep.They were on the biometric bed in VIP Room 7 at Dr. Voss’s clinic. The same bed built for one. The same narrow space that should have made this impossible.And yet, here they were—pressed together, tangled in the same sheet, bodies aligned as if they’d been made to fit.She tried to move.She couldn't.His hold on her was gentle, but unbreakable. Every time she shifted, his arm tightened slightly, pulling her back into the curve of his body. She was practically g