All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Cure: The Betrayed Bride : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The sun rose over the cliffs, a pale gold spilling across the vast expanse of the ocean. The air, crisp and sharp with salt and the faint scent of damp earth, carried a quiet energy. The set of Phantom buzzed with urgency, a symphony of purpose. Crew members adjusted massive C-stands, grips laid down black cables that snaked across the ground, and costume assistants moved like ghosts, ironing out final creases in the early morning light. The main structure of the set—a crumbling seaside theater, its walls cracked like old porcelain, its roof half-collapsed—stood like a ghostly monument to a forgotten past.Amara stepped out of her trailer, the cool air raising goosebumps on her arms. She wore the character’s costume: a simple, dark wool coat over an even simpler dress. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her face was bare, a canvas wiped clean of any artifice. She held the script in her hand, the pages a familiar weight.Today was the first day of filming. Not rehearsal. N

They didn’t move. Not for minutes, and then not for hours. The sun had vanished completely, taking with it the last of the day’s golden light. Outside the trailer, the low voices of the crew had finally faded into silence. The base camp quieted, the hum of distant generators becoming the only constant sound, a mechanical pulse in the vast, still night. The soft, rhythmic crash of waves below the cliffs was a distant, lonely whisper.Inside the trailer, the only light came from the small lamp in the corner, a warm pool of gold that did little to fight the encroaching darkness. Long shadows stretched and shifted across the walls, creating a world of their own. Amara sat on the sofa, knees drawn to her chest, wrapped in a blanket that had long since lost its warmth. Damian sat beside her, coat still on, gloves untouched, his posture relaxed but alert, a constant study in contrasts.He hadn’t let go. Not fully. His arm remained around her, a solid presence, a quiet anchor against the stor

Sunlight filtered through the blinds of the trailer, thin golden lines cutting across the floor, the sofa, the tangled sheets.Amara woke slowly. Not with a start. Not with panic. With a quiet awareness.She was on her side, the blanket half-off, her skin warm. And beside her — him. Damian.He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other resting on the mattress, just shy of touching her. His breathing was deep, even. His face was relaxed — not guarded, not tense. For once, he looked… peaceful.She blinked, and then it hit her. Last night. The kiss. The touch. The way he had looked at her. The way he had moved with her. The way she had chosen it.Her heart pounded, but not from fear. It was a rhythmic, joyful drumbeat of realization. It had been real. No drugs. No alcohol. No stolen memory. Just her. Him. And everything they had been pretending wasn’t there.She sat up slowly, pulling the sheet with her, wrapping it around her body like a shield. Damian stirred. His eyes opened.

He kissed her again.But this time — it wasn’t soft. It was urgent.His mouth crashed into hers — not rough, but sure. It was a kiss of release, of twelve days of unspoken longing, of a decade of silent devotion. One hand fisted in her hair, gripping just enough to tilt her head back. The other pulled her flush against him, closing the impossible distance between their bodies until she could feel the hard lines of his chest, the rapid, powerful beat of his heart.And she melted.Not from surprise. From a deep, primal recognition.This wasn’t just longing. It was hunger. A raw, aching pull low in her belly, a current of fire spreading through her like a shockwave. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands, which had been fumbling at his coat, now gripped the material, her knuckles white. Her body arched into his, a silent plea for more, a complete surrender to the moment.And he felt it. He responded to her need with a controlled ferocity, a quiet roar of his own.Because he broke the

​It had been a month.​A month since she had returned from Phantom, a month since the staged theater had dissolved into memory and she had found a new, quieter stage to inhabit. A month since she had launched herself at Damian, not as an actress playing a role, but as a woman desperate for home. And he had caught her like it was routine, like it was the most natural thing in the world. A month since they had made love in his room, in hers, and even, once, against the cool surface of the kitchen counter at two in the morning, slow and quiet and theirs.​And now?​Now it felt like a real marriage. Not the contract, not the arrangement. But this. This quiet, lived-in reality. It was a tapestry woven from a thousand small threads: morning coffee shared in silence, the soft clink of mugs as he set hers down beside him; the steady weight of his hand on the small of her back as they walked through the penthouse, a silent assurance that she was not alone; her stealing his sweater when she was