All Chapters of FALLING FOR THE COLD BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR: Chapter 51 - Chapter 57

VincentThe meeting room was finally empty.Contracts lay scattered across the polished table, the air still carrying the faint bite of coffee and too many voices.It was exhausting. But it was the kind of exhausting that came with satisfaction.We weren’t talking about another ordinary Evans Corp deal. This was different. Bold. Expensive. Audacious. High-rise buildings that weren’t just glass and steel monoliths, but self-sustaining ecosystems—living spaces designed to breathe with the city, not choke it. Architects, environmental consultants, and even a few analysts from international firms had filled these seats moments ago, and every single one of them had been forced to admit, however reluctantly, that what we were planning was revolutionary.Exactly the kind of project that carried my name.Fallon leaned back in his chair, loosening his tie. “Good session. If half those projections hold, you’ll be eating your competitors for breakfast.”“They’ll hold,” I replied, closing the

VivianThe bouquet had sat on my nightstand all week.Not because I was sentimental—at least, that’s what I kept telling myself—but because every time I walked past it, I remembered the look on Vincent’s face when he handed them over. Nervous, almost boyish, like he wasn’t sure if he’d done something completely ridiculous.Freesias. Pale and soft, carrying a meaning I hadn’t needed a florist to explain. New beginnings. Friendship. Trust.Lilies. White and elegant, with a subtle fragrance that never failed to catch me off guard when I entered my room.I had smiled when I first unwrapped them, alone in my room. Not because of the flowers themselves, but because he’d thought of it. Vincent Evans, of all people, standing in a flower shop and choosing something for me. The image was so absurd that it made me laugh. But it also made something warm curl quietly in my chest.And then came the texts.It started simple.Vincent: Did you get brushes?Me: Yes.Vincent: Rollers?Me: …yes.Vincent:

VivianIt had only been a few days since the studio painting, but something about it still clung to me—like the faint smell of paint that refused to leave my clothes.Or maybe it wasn’t the paint. Perhaps it was him.Vincent Evans.The same man who once looked allergic to emotions now texted me daily, sometimes just to argue about paint shades or ask if I’d eaten breakfast. It was weird. And kind of… nice.He’d sent me a message earlier that morning:Vincent: “Is this color too dull or does my phone camera hate me?”Attached was a picture of a paint swatch that looked exactly like every other shade he’d shown me.Apparently, our little but not-so-little painting session has inspired him to change his studio’s wall color.I typed back:Me: “It’s beige. They all look like sadness.”Vincent: “You have no taste.”Me: “You have no range.”Vincent: “Remind me again why I let you help me design anything?”Me: “Because I’m right 90% of the time.”There was a long pause before he replied:Vinc

VivianDinner had gone far better than I’d expected.Maybe it was the soft lighting, or the teasing that never seemed to stop—Yvonne and Fallon bickering like teenagers, Aurora making jokes at Vincent’s expense every chance she got.Or maybe it was him.Vincent had been relaxed tonight, laughing more than I’d ever seen him. It was rare—seeing him without that edge of restraint he usually carried. For a moment, it almost felt like we’d known each other for years, not months.When the last of the plates were cleared and Yvonne made a joke about stealing the restaurant’s chef, we all stood to leave. Vincent walked beside me, his jacket slung casually over his arm. His hand brushed mine once—by accident, I told myself—and a strange warmth lingered.The night air was cool when we stepped outside, the street glowing with the faint hum of city lights. We were only a few steps from the parking lot when a voice I hadn’t heard in weeks cut sharply through the calm.“Well, if it isn’t the perfec