All Chapters of FALLING FOR THE COLD BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

CHAPTER TWO Vivian The elevator hummed softly as it carried me higher and higher until it finally dinged open to reveal the fifty-ninth floor. The air felt different up here—cleaner, lighter, like it had never been touched by the chaos downstairs. I dragged my suitcase into a small private lobby and immediately noticed two doors facing each other. Only two penthouses per floor. For a second, I wondered who my neighbor was. My key clicked smoothly into the lock, and when I stepped inside, I had to pause. The entire place looked like it had been stolen from a glossy magazine. The walls were painted the palest blue, not cold but calm, like the sky before dawn. The floors were pale hardwood, sleek and warm beneath my shoes. The furniture was minimalist—low white sofas, glass tables, silver accents that caught the evening light streaming through the wall-to-ceiling windows. The view almost stole my breath. The entire city of Avron stretched beneath me, sparkling like it had been sc

CHAPTER FOUR Vincent I was born into comfort, but I don’t remember much of it. My earliest memory is not my mother’s face or my father’s laugh—it’s the sound of sirens. My parents had been bank workers. Not rich, not poor, just steady. The day of the crash, I was two years old, strapped in the back seat while they argued about something I’ll never know. Metal screamed against metal, glass shattered, and when the world finally stopped spinning, I was the only one left breathing. I should have been grateful to survive. But survival is a lonely prize when everyone else is gone. My uncle took me in for a short while. At first, he tried. But he had a family of his own, mouths to feed, bills piling higher than his patience. One night, he drove me to Evans Orphanage. Said it was temporary. Said he’d come back when things got better. He never did. That’s how I became Vincent Evans. The orphanage was concrete walls and rationed food, but it was also where I learned the first rule

CHAPTER SIX Vincent There was something about mornings that demanded discipline. Wake early, run, suit up, and read the financial reports before most of the city stirred. Order, routine, control. Those were the tools I had forged my life on, the only way to silence the chaos of my beginnings. And then there was her. Vivian Kim. I hadn’t planned to run into her outside the penthouse that morning. The way her eyes narrowed the second she saw me, sharp enough to slice steel, I knew she remembered. The bag incident. My mistake. My failure to apologize. I had opened my mouth, intending to fix it — which for me was no small concession — when Aurora’s voice had cut across mine, full of breathless excitement. “You’re Vivian Kim!” Just like that, I was dismissed. Not by Vivian, but by my own sister’s wide-eyed worship. I’d seen the type before. Models. Entertainers. People who lived for applause, whose smiles were practiced weapons. Beautiful, yes, but beauty was fickle. I had spent to

VincentBy late afternoon, the boardroom was finally empty, leaving only the faint scent of burnt coffee and the stack of contracts waiting on my desk. Meetings drained most people. I thrived on them. Details, numbers, negotiations—they gave shape to the chaos.Damon Anderson arrived at my office on cue, a neat stack of folders in his arms. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he had been working as hard as I had. He placed the files precisely on my desk before speaking.“All set. Tomorrow’s meetings are confirmed, your flight itinerary is updated, and the revised projections are already in your inbox.” His voice carried the calm cadence of someone who knew his job inside out. Then he paused, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Should I also book you an appointment with daylight? Word is the sun has been asking for you.”I looked up, unimpressed. “Sunlight doesn’t close deals.”“No, but neither does glaring at spreadsheets like they personally

Vincent I came to Yves for business, not for pleasure. That was the only reason I stepped into the club’s pulsing chaos on a Friday night. My client preferred the noise, the velvet booths, and the illusion of power the place carried. I did not. But I sat through the meeting anyway, listening to numbers slurred over glasses of whiskey, and made sure the deal was closed before midnight. The moment it was done, I should have left. Instead, I found myself scanning the crowd as if something was holding me there. That was when I saw her. Vivian. She was in the lounge at first, a glass in her hand, her posture too graceful to be careless but too weary to be intentional. Yvonne was with her for a while, but then she disappeared, and Vivian remained. Alone. Something about her pulled the eye without trying. She was not laughing like the others, not performing for the room. She was quiet, but she carried a kind of presence that demanded attention without asking for it. A few minutes later