All Chapters of The Billionaire Replaced Me With My Assistant : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Sophia's POV The world slowed down until it stopped. The muffled scream, Mrs. Thompson's elegant body folding like a rag doll, her hand clutching her chest with desperate force. Every detail was imprinted on my retina with terrifying clarity."Ma'am!"My voice came out as a hoarse cry. I didn't think. I acted. I pushed myself from the edge of the pool, my wet feet slipping on the wooden deck, ignoring the water dripping from my body. I ran to her, landing on my knees beside her. Michael was right behind me, his presence an anchor in a moment of chaos."Mrs. Thompson! Please, breathe," I pleaded, holding her ice-cold hand. Her eyes, wide open and full of indescribable panic, were fixed on me. "Soph... Soph..." was all she could whisper, her voice a thread of raspy air. My name came out like an accusation, a lament."No, no, no," I repeated, mechanically, rubbing her hand, trying to convey some warmth, some comfort that I myself didn't feel. My heart hammered against my ribs, a drum of

Sophia's POV Mark's confession hung in the air between us, heavy and warm. He still had his back to me, but he was no longer looking at the ceiling. His head was now tilted forward, his gaze lost on an indefinite point on the polished wooden floor."Did something happen? With your mother?" I asked, my voice little more than a whisper, fearing that any louder sound might break the fragile thread of his openness.He shook his head slowly, a gesture of profound weariness. "No. My mother is recovering well. Thank God." There was a pause, and he took a deep breath, as if gathering strength. "This... this is about me."Finally, he slowly swiveled the armchair to face me. His face was pale, his eyes marked by a vulnerability I had never seen in him. This was the Mark behind the executive's facade, the perfect son, the man who always seemed to have everything under control."From the first day," he began, his voice low but clear, "the day Irina introduced me to you, saying I would be your su

Sophia's POV The apartment I shared with Emma was wrapped in a rare domestic calm. Michael and I were curled up on the sofa, some movie serving as the backdrop for our kisses. His touch was gentle, a welcome contrast to the constant chaos that seemed to follow me. The scent of his cologne, now so familiar, mingled with the aroma of the dinner we had made together. It was one of those moments of peace that I was learning to savor. But a tiny unease began to gnaw at me. I looked at the clock on the living room wall. "This is strange," I murmured, breaking the kiss. "Emma isn't usually out this late without sending a message. And she won that big case today, she should be celebrating." Michael pulled me closer, burying his face in my hair. "Don't worry, love. She's an adult. She's probably celebrating with Patrick. Or she went straight to his place." It made sense. Patrick, the stubborn detective who had become a constant presence in her life, despite her initial refusals. "Ye

Sophia's POV It was 4:17 in the morning, according to the digital display on the TV box. The city outside, visible through the windows of her Gold Coast apartment, was dark and asleep. I, however, was wide awake. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Emma, pale and broken in that hospital bed, I heard the sound of the monitors and felt the ice of her hand in mine. The bedroom door opened softly. Michael entered, holding a mug from which a faint steam rose. The sweet, herbal smell of chamomile tea filled the air. "Sophia," he said, his voice low and hoarse from worry and the late hour. "You need to drink this. And try to eat something." He placed the mug on the nightstand beside me. "It's been over six hours without putting anything in your stomach. You're not going to help anyone, least of all Emma, if you faint from exhaustion." He was right. My worry was a hurricane consuming everything, including hunger and tiredness. But my body was beginning to succumb to exhaustion, trem

Irina's POV Morgan was hunched over the desk, her eyes swollen and red, her trembling hands still clutching a tissue. Weakness. Always the same pathetic weakness that so many women carry like a banner. I placed the immaculate white envelope right in the center of the desk, creating a deliberate contrast with the mess of scattered documents. "A proposal?" she asked, her voice still hoarse and unsteady after what I assumed were hours of crying. "What do you mean, a proposal?" I almost let out a sigh of exasperation. It was always like this with emotional people - everything needed to be explained, detailed, chewed over as if they were children. How had she gotten this far with such an inability to understand nuance? "Don't make me waste time with questions whose answers are literally right in front of you, Miss Morgan." My voice came out sharper than strictly necessary, but she needed to understand she wasn't dealing with a coworker. "Open it. Read it. And draw your own conclusio