All Chapters of Sold to be a Billionaires Slave: Chapter 41 - Chapter 45

When I walked into the apartment, Clara was on the couch, eating ice cream straight from the tub. She looked up instantly. “Well?” she demanded. “How was it? Did you kiss? Is he secretly boring?” I set my bag down, still processing. “It was… fine.” Clara narrowed her eyes. “That’s your lying voice.” “Clara.” “Spill.” I sighed, sinking onto the couch. “Fine. It wasn’t boring. But something happened.” Her spoon paused midair. “Define something.” “We ran into Alessia and Leonardo.” Her mouth dropped open. “What? Where? Oh, I bet she was nasty.” “She was worse than nasty.” I leaned back. “Adrian shut her down, though.” “Well, good for him.” “Yeah, except…” I hesitated. “Leonardo recognized him.” “As what?” “As the heir to the Moretti empire.” Clara blinked. Then blinked again. “Wait. Like the Morettis? The Italian mafia guys with private jets and blood feuds?” I nodded. She let out a low whistle. “Girl. You don’t do small drama, do you?” “I didn’t know!” I groaned, cover

Adrian’s gaze flicked from Brayden to me, the lilies trembling slightly in his hand. For a moment, no one spoke. The air thickened.“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Adrian said finally, his voice calm but guarded. “Clara called. Said you’d gone into labor.”He took a few steps inside, his presence soft but steady, a quiet contrast to Brayden’s storm. He set the flowers down beside the bassinets, his fingers brushing one of the ribbons tied around the newborns’ wrists. “They’re perfect,” he murmured.Brayden rose to his full height, every inch of him drawn tight like a wire about to snap. “You can leave now.”“Brayden,” Clara hissed from the doorway, but he didn’t look at her. His focus stayed locked on Adrian, a silent warning that needed no words.Adrian met it without flinching. “You don’t get to dictate this,” he said evenly. “Not anymore.”I could feel my pulse pounding in my throat. The tension between them was a current crackling through the sterile hospital air, threatening to ignit

The first night home was nothing like I imagined.There were no soft lullabies, no quiet sighs of contentment, only the fragile rhythm of newborn cries, the shuffle of feet, the clink of bottles, and Clara’s sleepy muttering about caffeine and divine punishment.The twins had their own rhythm, a demanding, unpredictable one. If one stirred, the other followed. If one quieted, the other found a reason to wail.By 3 a.m., I’d lost count of the diaper changes.“Remind me,” Clara mumbled from the couch, hair sticking out in every possible direction, “why people keep doing this to themselves voluntarily?”“Because they forget this part,” I whispered, rocking our daughter gently.Clara groaned, pulling a blanket over her head. “Selective amnesia. Mother nature’s cruel joke.”I smiled faintly, exhaustion heavy behind my eyes. But when I looked down at the tiny bundle in my arms, with her button nose and impossibly small fingers, the fatigue melted a little.She blinked up at me, curious and