Semua Bab FALLING FOR THE COLD BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR: Bab 21 - Bab 30

VivianThe second the car door opened, the night erupted.“Vivian! Vivian, over here!”“Vincent! Look this way—are you together?”“Miss Kim, is this a comeback? Are you his date tonight?”A wall of flashes exploded, white light bursting so fast it blurred the ground beneath my heels. Voices clashed together—shouts, demands, speculation—all pulling at me from every angle.For half a heartbeat, panic threatened—the old fear, sharp and familiar, coiled low in my chest. But then I remembered Vincent’s words in the lobby: Tonight is about control.So I straightened—shoulders back, chin high, every step measured like the runway I’d once owned. The chaos became background noise, the cameras my spotlight. If they wanted a show, I would give them one—but on my terms.Beside me, Vincent moved with the same quiet power, his hand resting lightly against the small of my back as though guiding me forward. He didn’t flinch at the noise or the flashing bulbs; he walked as though we owned the night.“

VivianThe hallway was quiet the night it almost happened.We had stood beneath the soft strip lighting outside my door, the city thudding far below like a distant pulse. My keycard hovered between my fingers and his eyes were too close. Everything else narrowed to the space between us. He had stepped forward, the air charged, and for one impossible second I believed the world had been reduced to two people and a single decision.He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek like it was the simplest thing in the world. I felt the warmth of his hand against my face long after it dropped away. I should have pulled back. I should have closed the door and gone inside and never let that moment breathe.Then my phone buzzed in my bag and the moment broke. He said goodnight. I did not know if the breath I lost then would ever come back.Two weeks later, the echo of that touch still hummed under my skin. He had left two days after the gala on some business trip the board had demanded. The tower f

VivianThree days.Three days since smoke and sprinklers drowned my world. Since the fire clawed through my apartment and ruined months of sketches—the beginnings of the brand I had finally started to believe in.I could still see them if I closed my eyes: fabric swatches darkened with soot, pencil lines smeared into nothing by dirty water, pages curling at the edges like wounded wings. They weren’t just drawings. They were the pieces of me I’d dared to put on paper.Losing them felt like losing air.Since then, I’d been pretending. Pretending to Aurora that I was “fine” when she peeked into the guest room at night, pretending to Vincent that his apartment was just a roof over my head and not a daily reminder that he’d been the one to pull me out when I froze.Mostly, I coped by avoiding.I timed my showers when he was in meetings. Ate in the kitchen after Aurora pulled him into long phone calls. Slept on the far side of the guest room with the door locked, even though I knew locks me

VincentThe weights moved smoothly in my hands, but the heaviness in my chest refused to lift. Sleep had been a stranger these past nights. Work reports, calls with overseas partners, the constant pulse of the scandal in the press—it all gnawed at the edges of my focus.So, I came here. To the gym. At three in the morning, when even this restless city pretended to be asleep. Iron and silence. They were things I could control.The barbell hovered above my chest when the doors hissed open. My grip faltered.She stood there.Vivian.Her silhouette framed by the soft strip of light from the hallway, leggings hugging her legs, hair pulled back, water bottle clutched tight like a shield.Of all the hours she could’ve chosen, she had to walk into mine.Her eyes widened, then shuttered quickly as if pretending not to be caught. For a moment, neither of us moved. Then I broke the silence.“Couldn’t sleep?” My voice came out lower than I intended.She shifted, defensive even in her stance. “Jus

Vivian The boutique smelled faintly of lavender and leather, the kind of fragrance that clung to the air and wrapped itself around you whether you wanted it or not. The racks gleamed in neat rows, each hung with fabrics that shimmered under the warm ceiling lights. I trailed my fingers across them as I followed Yvonne deeper into the store. It had been weeks since I’d seen her properly. Sure, we’d exchanged a few texts, a voice note and few video calls here and there, but nothing face-to-face. She had buried herself in her new script, and I—well, I’d been buried in Vincent. Not in the way Yvonne would immediately assume, though. Not yet. “You’ve been ghosting me,” I accused lightly, holding up a blouse against my frame in the mirror. Yvonne smirked, one hand buried in a rack of sundresses, the other clutching her oversized tote bag stuffed with papers. Script pages peeked out like rebellious feathers. “Not ghosting. Just chained to my laptop. This script is eating my brain al