บททั้งหมดของ The Billionaire’s Cure: The Betrayed Bride : บทที่ 21 - บทที่ 30

The city blurred past the tinted windows of the limousine, streaks of light and shadow painting the night. The roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the weight of a thousand eyes—all of it faded into the soft hum of the engine and the gentle rhythm of the rain tapping against the roof. Inside, silence. Not an awkward or heavy silence, but a peaceful one. A quiet space carved out of the chaos.Amara sat beside Damian, still in her floor-length gown, the silver embroidery catching the faint glow of the streetlights. A few curls had escaped her elaborate hairstyle, a single strand falling over her shoulder, a soft defiance against the formal elegance of the night. She looked like a woman who had just stepped off a throne, weary from battle but victorious.Damian sat across from her, his posture relaxed despite his formal attire. His gloves were still on, his coat buttoned, his face shield clipped to his lapel, an arsenal of protection he hadn’t felt the need to shed yet. But his sharp

The call came on a quiet Sunday morning, and it felt like the world held its breath just for her.Amara was on the balcony, the crisp autumn air a welcome contrast to the warmth of her tea. Her robe was a soft, familiar weight against her skin. The script for Phantom lay on the table beside her, its pages soft and slightly worn at the edges from her constant touch. She hadn't been working on the lines, not in the way one rehearses a play. Instead, she had been living with them, letting the words settle into her bones like dust.Her phone buzzed, a sharp vibration against the quiet of the morning.Mama.She answered, her voice a low hum. “Hey.”“You’re still thinking about Phantom,” Lena said, her voice a soft statement, not a question. There was a pause, a beat of shared understanding that existed between them, a language of glances and half-finished sentences.“I am,” Amara confirmed, picking up the script, running her thumb over the title. “It’s… different.”“You’ve never taken role

Dr. Voss arrived in twelve minutes. It was an impossible time, a testament to the speed and efficiency with which Damian's world operated. When the private elevator doors opened, Voss was already in motion, a grim silhouette in full protective gear. He wore a sealed bio-suit from head to toe, a face shield that obscured his features, gloves, and a respirator that hissed with every breath. He carried a black medical case that looked like a fortress, and he moved with the cold, practiced precision of a man who had done this too many times to be rattled by the sight of human suffering.Amara met him at the door to the elevator bank, her body a rigid line of exhaustion and fear. “He’s in the living room,” she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Unconscious. Breathing, but weak.” She didn’t need to offer more. The brief, cryptic message she had left for him had been a silent confirmation of a known, terrifying pattern.Voss didn’t respond. He simply nodded, his helmeted head a blur o

The soup was hot, a fragrant, comforting presence in the quiet morning. Amara carried the bowl carefully down the long, silent hall, her movements slow and deliberate. Steam curled from the rim, a ghost of warmth in the cool, air-conditioned air, and the scent of thyme and chicken filled the space. Her steps were cautious—not just to avoid spilling, but to steady herself against the emotional tremors that still rattled her from the night before.She hadn’t slept. Not a single minute. She had spent the night as a sentinel, guarding a door, guarding a man, guarding a secret she didn't fully understand. She had yelled at him, a fierce, raw outpouring of fear and frustration. She had broken down in her mother's arms, a torrent of tears that had been held back for years. And now? Now she was walking toward his room, a simple bowl of soup in her hands, to feed the man who had almost died—and who still, infuriatingly, made her heart race every time he looked at her.She reached his room. The

The black leather suitcase sat open on the bed, a dark maw waiting to swallow up her belongings. Amara folded her clothes slowly, the movements of her hands deliberate and almost meditative. Soft sweaters, comfortable rehearsal outfits, a chic black trench coat for the final scene—each item was a piece of the new life she was stepping into. The coastal set for Phantom was hours away, a remote haven nestled between jagged cliffs and crashing waves. Three weeks of filming. Three weeks away from the penthouse. From the relentless hum of the city. From him.She zipped the bag with a sharp, final sound. Then, with a sigh that was part frustration and part indecision, she unzipped it. She took out the silk robe he had given her months ago. It wasn't a grand, theatrical gesture for the cameras. He had simply seen her shiver on a cool evening and handed it to her with a quiet, “You should wear this.” The fabric was soft and cool against her skin. She folded it carefully, a silent tribute to a