Semua Bab The Billionaire Replaced Me With My Assistant : Bab 51 - Bab 60

Sophia's POVThe apartment was quiet, in one of those rare moments of peace on a Saturday afternoon. The sun streamed in through the living room window, illuminating dust particles. My phone was off; the idea was to enjoy the moment by lying on the sofa, with my feet resting against Emma's leg. She had her eyes fixed on the screen of the laptop on her lap, probably preparing for the work she mentioned earlier."He really did seem like a great guy," I commented, breaking the silence. We were talking about Patrick. "Polite, funny. You can tell he really likes you."Emma lowered the laptop screen and smiled, a goofy smile she tried to hide. "Yeah, he's... different. He's been super sweet, you know? I think I like him."I raised an eyebrow, staring at her. "Oh, really? Just 'like'?""Okay, maybe a little more than that," she admitted, blushing slightly. "But it's just one percent more, it's nothing major."I chuckled softly and grabbed a small cushion from the sofa. "Who are you trying to

Victoria's POV The silence in the Pierce mansion was heavy, broken only by the sound of my own hurried steps on the Persian rug. Saturday. I hadn't slept at home, obviously. The night out was... necessary. But now, only one thing mattered. My old room was as always: cold, full of useless memories, and, hopefully, hiding my dirtiest secret. I threw my bag onto the armchair and went straight to the back of the closet, opening the hiding place behind the loose board. My hand trembled slightly as I picked up the revolver. It wasn't a toy. It was the tool I had kept since I was secretary to that... to Sophia. I held the familiar weight of the metal in my hand.A cold, sharp hatred rose in my throat. If that slut breathed, I would have no peace. I wouldn't have Alexander for real. He was mine, he always had been, but her shadow loomed over everything. She had to disappear. Period. Monday. Chicago. The shareholders' meeting. The plan was ready: the private jet today. It was just a m

Sophia's POV The air in the warehouse was heavy and cold. Patrick stopped the car far from the weak light coming from the entrance. Two men waited there. "Stay here," he said, his voice low but clear. "I'll go first." "She's an elderly woman, Patrick. This is wrong," I said. My hands were cold. Emma turned to me in the back seat. "Breathe, Soph. It'll be okay." She took my hand and squeezed. "At least we'll find out something." "That doesn't comfort me, Em." "Was it supposed to?" she frowned, letting go of my hand. "Oh, damn. I thought it would work. Where's that new Sophia 2.0 who faces Pierce as an equal? Look, that woman, whoever she is, is physically fine, right? I understand you're worried, Soph, I am too, but you're the one who wants to know what she's hiding. And Patrick, I know he's from the underworld, but he would never do anything to hurt us, I know what he's like, and he also knows how to make people talk without... well, you know." She gestured with her hands, as

Sophia's POV I typed rapidly into the spreadsheets, a throbbing headache building behind my eyes. The harsh light from the computer screen aggravated my already strained vision. Two days had passed since the incident at the warehouse. For two nights, I had replayed the moment Ruth, with her last words, uttered that name: "Eleonor." And I couldn't stop thinking about the grandchildren she had left behind. I let out a sigh and stopped typing. I needed to hear my friend's voice, something to ground me in the present. My hand was already reaching for the phone when someone knocked on the door—a light, almost hesitant tap. "Come in." My voice came out rougher than I intended. The door opened and Mark entered. His dark gray suit was impeccable, his white shirt perfectly crisp, his hair meticulously styled. I noticed he wasn't wearing his glasses, and his cologne, a subtle scent of sandalwood and cedar, was different from usual. "Good morning, Sophia. I hope I'm not interrupting."

Sophia's POV The vibration of the phone in my purse felt like a fire alarm in the middle of that night's perfect facade. Mrs. Thompson's hug was still warm on my shoulders, the echo of Mr. Thompson's pride still reverberated in the air, and Mark's fingers were still laced with mine, a contact that was already beginning to feel strangely familiar. "I need to take this," I said, my smile to his parents a bit tense. "Excuse me, it's… work. Just a minute." Mrs. Thompson let out an understanding "Oh, dear!", while Mark let go of my hand, his eyes scanning my face for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He could feel the shift in my energy. "Let's order a bottle of that red wine you like, son," I heard Mr. Thompson say as I walked away, plunging into the relative gloom of the hallway leading to the restrooms. I leaned against the cold wall, my heart beating a rapid rhythm, completely different from minutes before. The phone screen illuminated my face like a beacon from an