All Chapters of FALLING FOR THE COLD BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

VincentHe blinked. “…Sorry. Where?”“Flower shop.”There was a beat of silence. Then his mouth curved. “You? Buying flowers? Should I alert the press?”I shot him a glare. “Drive.”“Fine, fine.” He held up both hands, grinning like a fool as we slid into the car. “But this I gotta see. What are we talking about? Roses? Daisies? Maybe something exotic, since you’ve got the budget for it—”“Damon.” My voice was a warning.He snorted. “Alright. I’ll keep quiet. Just… wow. Flowers. This is history.”The ride felt longer than usual. My palms rested against my knees, restless. I had faced boardrooms filled with sharks without blinking. But this? The thought of choosing a bouquet made my throat tighten.When the car pulled up to a corner shop with a green awning and glass windows filled with color, Damon leaned back. “Want me to come in and help translate? You know, make sure you don’t end up walking out with funeral flowers or something?”“No.” I adjusted my coat. “Stay in the car.”His gr

VincentBy the time we finished the last wall, it was nearly midnight.Vivian leaned against the ladder, her hair in a messy bun, faint streaks of pale blue paint on her forearm. The studio smelled faintly of fresh color and victory.She looked exhausted—but satisfied.“Done,” she breathed out, stretching her arms. “Finally.”I checked my watch. “Eleven fifty-two.”Her eyes widened. “No way. We’ve been painting for fifteen hours?”“Thirteen and a half,” I corrected, peeling off the last strip of masking tape. “You took a snack break. Splashing me with paint. And stuffing your face with bacon and cheese sandwiches”“That was one sandwich,” she protested, laughing tiredly. “And you stole half.”I smiled faintly. “Evidence?”“Crumbs on your sleeve,” she shot back, pointing.She was right.For a moment, we both just stood there, staring at the finished space. Her studio. The place that would soon carry her name.“You did great,” I said finally.She turned to me, her smile small but warm.

VivianI stood in front of my mirror, surrounded by what could only be described as a fabric crime scene. Dresses, blouses, and half-zipped heels littered the floor. Every time I thought I’d picked something, I changed my mind two seconds later.It wasn’t even a date.It was dinner. Simple. Friendly. Non-threatening.Right?Then why did my heart keep acting like it was about to run a marathon?I picked up a deep emerald dress, held it to my body, frowned, and tossed it on the bed. Too formal. Then I grabbed a cream top and jeans. Too casual. Then a fitted black dress. Too obvious.I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair. “You’re being ridiculous,” I muttered to my reflection.But the thing was—I wanted to look nice. Not glamorous, not over the top. Just… nice.The kind of nice that made Vincent pause for a second when he saw me.Ugh.My phone buzzed on the vanity, saving me from my spiraling thoughts.Vincent: “Running a bit late. The meeting dragged on longer than expected.”Vince

Vivian The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the studio windows, painting the room gold. I was sketching on my tablet, lost in the rhythm of the background music, when my phone buzzed on the table.Vincent’s name lit up the screen.I frowned. He rarely called in the middle of the day—he usually texted, short and to the point.“Vincent?” I answered, half curious, half worried.His voice was tight, rushed. “Vivian, I’m sorry to call like this, but I need a favor.”Something in his tone made my pulse skip. “What happened?”“Aurora got into a fight at school. The principal called. I’m out of town for a meeting, and the earliest flight back is in a few hours.”I was already standing, grabbing my keys. “Is she hurt?”“No. At least, not that they said. I just—” He exhaled. “Could you go there? Please?”He didn’t even have to ask.“Text me the address,” I said. “I’m already on my way.”There was a pause on the line. “Thank you, Vivian.”Something in the way he said it—low, earnest—lin

VivianThe air in Avron smelled different this time of year — faint rain in the distance, sun-warmed stone, and the sweet scent of bread from the little bakery down the hill. Dad’s house sat on a quiet street fringed with lilacs, the kind of place that felt untouched by time.We sat outside on the porch steps, two mugs of green tea steaming between us. His old camera lay beside him, its leather strap frayed from years of use. I watched him adjust the focus ring idly, as if muscle memory alone kept him company these days.“So,” he said after a long pause, eyes still on the viewfinder, “the clothes are finally in production?”I smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah. They started last week. The factory sent me some progress photos this morning — the blazers look even better than I imagined.”“That’s good,” he said, and a small, proud smile creased his face. “You always find a way to make ideas real. You get that from your mother.”I made a face. “You mean the overthinking