The Baker's Billionaire のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

MARIONThe sun in Los Angeles had a way of showing off, brash, golden, unapologetic. I had the top down on my Rolls-Royce Dawn, the wind teasing Demetria’s black waves as she leaned her head back, oversized sunglasses shielding her eyes. Music hummed low through the speakers, something smooth with bass, the kind of song that matched the lazy pulse of the city.She looked… free. Arms resting against the door, her face tilted toward the sky as if daring the sun to touch her more than I could.“Enjoying yourself, Wildfire?” I asked, my voice carrying over the breeze.She turned, her lips curving in that half-smile that set my blood running hotter than the afternoon heat. “For once, yes. You don’t drive like a man in a hurry.”I chuckled. “That’s because I’m not. Today’s your day.”We cut through West Hollywood traffic, heading toward Beverly Hills. The plan was simple: give her a taste of the life she deserved, a life most only ever pressed their noses against glass to glimpse.Rodeo Driv

MARION My phone buzzed on the table. I ignored it at first; nothing was more important than the way Demetria licked the corner of her lip after finishing a bite of yellowtail sashimi. But the buzzing didn’t stop. With a sigh, I reached for it. One glance at the screen, and my jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Paula. Of all the people. Of all the moments. Demetria glanced at me, curiosity flickering across her face. I turned the phone face down, but the damage was done. The name had already burned itself into my mind, and maybe into hers, too. Fuck. Dinner had been perfect, not the way I’d planned it, but perfect nonetheless. She’d been tired, so instead of the full Nobu Malibu scene, I’d ordered everything to go. Now, in the comfort of my penthouse, we sat cross-legged on the rug like two teenagers, chopsticks in hand, her laughter filling the room louder than the jazz playlist I’d set. She looked beautiful even in her exhaustion, hair loose, eyes gleaming under the low lig

MARION “I’m also here, Mother,” I teased as she turned to leave with Demetria. “You aren’t a guest, Marion. A little rejection won’t hurt. Right, Demetria?” “Of course, Mrs. Whitfield,” she replied smoothly, glancing back at me with a smirk that made my chest tighten. I shook my head, amused, and followed them into the living room. The room was the same as it always had been, polished oak shelves lined with books my mother insisted she would read one day, framed photographs of galas and family trips, and my father’s leather armchair planted like a throne by the window. The smell of roasted lamb drifted in from the kitchen, carried by the hum of conversation from the staff preparing the table. Mother moved with purpose, her hand lightly resting on Demetria’s back as if she had already claimed her as one of her own. “Darling, I’d like you to meet my husband, Maxwell Whitfield,” she said, her voice carrying that effortless warmth she reserved for people she approved of. My father s

MARION “Let’s head back inside, Wildfire. The sun’s already set.” I swung down from my black stallion, boots landing softly against the grass. The cool evening air brushed over us, the horizon fading into purples and grays. I turned, reaching up toward her. “Come on,” I said, my voice low but certain. She slid one leg over her mare, and for a moment, her body shifted into my hands. I gripped her waist, steadying her as she descended. Her weight pressed into me before she found her footing. But she didn’t pull back right away. Her eyes caught mine, warm and teasing, lips curving into that smirk that always made me want to take her right then and there. “Smooth, Mr. Whitfield,” she whispered. “Always.” My hands lingered a beat too long before I finally released her, but not without brushing my thumb along her hip. The horses were restless, pawing at the ground, sensing the change in the air. I patted my stallion, then whistled for one of the stable hands. “Take them in,” I instruct

MARION I had a meeting with a landowner here in my resort, Oceanview, so I couldn’t drive Demetria to her bakery. Stephen did that. The meeting took place in my office at the resort. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls framing the Pacific Ocean, sunlight bouncing off the water straight into the room. Everything was deliberate, from the black marble desk to the Italian leather chairs, designed to remind anyone sitting across from me of who held the upper hand. Mr. Buckman sat opposite, nursing a glass of water my assistant had set down. He was on his third rambling story about how his grandfather first rode horses across those Santa Barbara acres back in the 1940s. Papers were already spread across the table, contracts drafted, ready for my signature. This land would be mine. The resort expansion in Santa Barbara would be another empire stamped with my name. The resort would fit perfectly into my portfolio, another jewel in the crown. I knew the numbers already. It would print money, just l