All Chapters of His Playmate : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

NOT EDITEDI looked at the stack of bedsheets, ready for me. I sighed in frustration and set it down on the laundry basket. Focusing on this white bedsheet felt like a real struggle, especially when the stain wouldn’t come out easily. “I should have done this earlier,” I gasped as soon as an idea struck me. I saw a bottle of bleach in the corner. They are gazing at me, anticipating my arrival. I looked at my fingers, offering them my apologies. They don’t deserve what I went through. I took the bottle of bleach and poured it into the washing machine without a second thought.In the same way, I took the duvet and placed it with the white bedsheet, allowing it to rest for a few minutes. I filled another washing machine halfway with water and detergent, then added the second bedsheet. I observed it absorbing water, growing heavy in my hand. I focused intently, biting my lips to ease the discomfort in my hands and shoulders. It was quite an unpleasant experience, and I was relieved that

The daylight streamed faintly through the half-closed blinds, cutting across my room in sharp, angled lines. It was one of those slow afternoons where everything outside seemed too calm, too ordinary, while my mind ran through chaos. Papers were spread across my bed—contracts, coded ledgers, and reports that reeked of carelessness.I hated this part of the day. Sitting idle, sorting through deals that should’ve been handled before sunrise. The men were slacking. The shipments were behind schedule. The accounts didn’t add up, and the stakes were lower than I demanded. I didn’t build an empire just to watch numbers crawl like insects on a page.I flipped through one of the files—another transaction from the harbor. Someone had trimmed a cut off the top, thinking I wouldn’t notice. I noticed everything. My thumb pressed against the edge of the paper until it tore.A knock at the door. Two short taps—Andrew.“Come in,” I said without looking up.He stepped inside quietly, his shoes soft a

It felt strange—how quiet everything became. The sound of the rain vanished. The cold that had been clawing at my skin seconds ago faded into something soft, almost warm. My body was weightless, drifting in a silence that felt… too gentle. “Am I dead already?” I whispered into the void, though I wasn’t sure if I actually spoke or just thought it. “Why does it feel so peaceful?” When I opened my eyes, I was no longer outside the mansion. The smell of rain and soap was gone. Instead, I stood in a narrow street lined with wildflowers and old fences I had climbed a hundred times as a child. The air was sweet, touched with the scent of ripe mangoes and sunlight. And ahead of me… was home. My childhood home. My throat tightened. The little yellow house stood just as it used to, the cracked front steps, the crooked mailbox, and the sound of the old wind chime that Luke’s father had hung for us years ago. “Luke?” I called softly, unsure why that was the first name that came to me. “Ju

Lucian's POV The storm had passed, but the night carried its ghost.Thunder still rolled somewhere beyond the hills, a low, distant growl fading into the quiet hum of rain against the glass. The mansion had gone still, like it was holding its breath — servants tucked away, corridors silent, lights dimmed except for the faint golden glow spilling from my bedside lamp.Julia lay motionless beneath the heavy blanket, her body curled toward the warmth, her breathing shallow but steady. She looked fragile — too fragile — like a single wrong move could shatter her. Her skin burned with fever, and strands of damp hair clung to her forehead.I sat back in the armchair near the bed, elbows on my knees, hands clasped tight. The faint smell of antiseptic and hot chocolate lingered in the air.I told myself I was only here to make sure she didn’t die. Nothing more.Punishment wasn’t meant to cross that line.But my thoughts wouldn’t stop.It wasn’t my fault, I repeated in my head.She was stubbo

Julia’s POV I was still angry. Angry that he had the nerve to tell me I’d be going out today. Shopping, of all things. As if my fever hadn’t nearly burned me alive last night. As if he didn’t see me barely able to lift my head from the pillow this morning. Lucian Moretti. The man had the emotional range of a storm cloud. One second silent, the next roaring down on me like thunder. And yet, somehow, the thought of his voice still lingered in my head. “You’ll be going with Yasmin later in the day. To buy new bedsheets.” I remembered how calmly he said it, like it was some royal decree. I hadn’t even answered. I just stared at him until he left the room, the door clicking softly behind him. Now, standing near the edge of the massive bed, I could still feel the faint warmth on the pillow beside mine. He’d slept there last night. My heart still refused to process that part. I didn’t want to think about it, but the memory kept creeping in—the way my hand had unconsciously found its way