All Chapters of His Wife On Paper : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Eliora's POV "It gets worse, Zoey. Much worse."I leaned in, the steam from my coffee mug dampening my face. The diamond on my left hand caught the dull morning light from the kitchen window—a heavy, cold reminder of the performance I was supposed to be giving."Worse than picking up Kian Donovan from a bar at 2 AM?" Zoey asked, setting her mug down on the table with a sharp clack. She leaned forward, her eyes wide with a mix of horror and fascination. "Eli, that’s already a ten on the disaster scale. What could possibly top that? Did he try to kiss you? Did he confess his undying love again while smelling like a brewery?""Again?" my brows furrowed together.Zoey shook her head, waving her hand dismissively, "it's nothing."She sipped her coffee, looking away briefly, "Now tell me," she whined."No, he did not confess his undying love." I whispered, my heart doing a slow, painful roll in my chest. "He pouted. He looked exactly like Ezra, Zo. It broke me for a second. But that’s not

Eliora's POV The Donovan estate always felt like a museum, quiet, expensive, and filled with things that weren't meant to be touched. As I walked down the long, mahogany-paneled hallway toward Kian’s study, my heels made a sharp, rhythmic sound that echoed off the high ceilings.I was here for an interview. That was the story. I had my digital recorder in my bag and a list of questions about Kian’s early years in London. But as I passed his bedroom door, my pace faltered. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, uneven beat. I knew he was downstairs in the kitchen, but the pull of that bedside drawer was a physical force.I slipped inside the bedroom. The scent of him, sandalwood and a hint of cold air, hit me like a blow to the stomach. It was a scent that lived in my marrow. I hurried to the nightstand, my fingers trembling as I gripped the handle. I pulled.Nothing.The drawer was empty, save for a stray pen and a notepad. I checked the other side. I checked the top of the dre

Eliora's POV "What?"The word left my lips as a hollow rasp, barely audible over the sudden, frantic thudding of my heart. I didn't move. I couldn't. I felt as though the floorboards beneath my boots had turned into thin air, leaving me suspended in a vacuum where oxygen no longer existed."I didn't mean to! I was drunk, well tipsy" Zoey sobbed, her voice cracking as she finally broke. She reached out, her fingers trembling as she clutched at the air between us. "The one thing you were trying to protect... I just—"She collapsed back into her velvet chair, her face buried in her palms, her shoulders racking with the kind of violent shivers that come from pure, unadulterated terror. The Anchor was drifting, lost in a sea of her own guilt.I looked at her. I should have been screaming. I should have been calculating how many hours I had left before Kian came thundering through my door to claim the son he thought was a ghost. But as I watched Zoey fall apart, the anger I expected to fee

Kian's POV The amber liquid swirled in the heavy crystal glass, catching the weak, flickering glow of the desk lamp. It was the only light in the study—a small, defiant circle of warmth against the suffocating shadows that claimed the rest of the room. Outside, New York was a distant hum of indifferent lives and neon lights, but in here, the silence was heavy, smelling of old leather, expensive scotch, and the sharp, metallic tang of a past I couldn't outrun.In my left hand, the weight of the divorce papers felt heavier than the skyscrapers I owned. I stared at the signature line—the empty, white space where my name should have been three years ago. It looked like a scar that refused to heal, a blank promise I had never kept.I drowned the remaining scotch in one gulp, relishing the hot, jagged burn as it tore down my throat. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted it to numb the deeper, duller ache that had been my constant companion since the moment I walked into an empty house three years a

Eliora's POV The building stood like a tombstone against the gray New York skyline—an elegant, pre-war limestone structure on the Upper East Side that screamed of old money and secrets kept behind heavy drapes. I stood on the sidewalk, the cold wind whipping my hair across my face, stinging my eyes.I took a breath, held it until my lungs ached, and let it out. In and out. Just a person. Just a woman. But she wasn’t just a woman. She was the woman who had brought me into a world she never wanted me to occupy. Using the influence I had as the "famous writer Eliora." I had contacted the hotel and made inquiries. One phone call was all it took. Her voice on the line hadn’t sounded like a mother’s; it sounded like a ghost—thin, reedy, and entirely devoid of warmth.I walked into the lobby. The marble floors echoed with the sharp, hollow click-clack of my heels, a sound that felt like a countdown.When I reached the apartment, the door was already ajar, as if she couldn’t be bothered to