Semua Bab FALLING FOR THE COLD BILLIONAIRE NEXT DOOR: Bab 71 - Bab 80

VivianThe smell of sautéed garlic and tomatoes filled my kitchen, warm and homey in a way that could only mean one thing—Yvonne was cooking again.“Move,” she said, waving me away from the stove. “You’re going to burn something, and I refuse to eat another one of your ‘experimental’ pasta recipes.”I rolled my eyes but stepped back, perched on the counter. “For the record, my pasta wasn’t burnt. It was just… slightly caramelized.”“That’s not a flavor,” Yvonne deadpanned, stirring her sauce with the precision of a chef on a mission. “That’s a cry for help.”I laughed, shaking my head. “Remind me again why you’re doing my weekend cooking?”She shrugged. “Because Fallon’s gone golfing, Aurora’s with her friends, and you looked like you hadn’t eaten a proper meal since fashion week ended.”“Fair point,” I admitted.Truthfully, it had been a whirlwind—between the PR event, brand meetings, and the thousand little things that came with launching Vivian Kim, I barely had time to breathe. It

VivianIt had been a month since the PR event — a month since my name started meaning something outside headlines about Vincent Evans.The noise had finally faded, replaced by soft applause from boutique owners and editors who suddenly wanted to talk to me. The world wasn’t screaming “rumor” anymore. They were whispering Vivian Kim.And somehow, that was scarier.The hum of the sewing machines filled my studio, steady and calming. Rolls of satin and linen were stacked by the windows, sketches pinned on corkboards with messy handwriting — my handwriting. A small part of me still couldn’t believe this was real. My space. My name. My team.Noelle was on the floor, cutting patterns with her usual precision. “Viv, I adjusted the sleeve seam like you wanted,” she said without looking up. Bea, my new PR assistant leaned over her tablet, muttering to herself about media pitches, while Tomas, a talented junior designer fresh out of school, darted between mannequins with a pin cushion strappe

Vincent I wasn’t supposed to be here.Not in this city. Not on this flight. Not chasing someone across time zones with no plan, no translator, and no idea what I was doing.But logic stopped mattering the moment Vivian told me she was in Seoul — to visit her mother’s grave.The message had been simple, almost casual. But I knew her well enough to hear what she wasn’t saying.She hadn’t been at her mum’s grave ever since she died.And if there was one thing I’d learned about Vivian Kim, it was that silence often meant she was trying not to fall apart.So I arranged my private jet to fly me out of Avron.No calls. No warnings. Just instinct.⸻Damon had texted three times before takeoff.Damon 💬: Are you seriously flying across the world for her?Me 💬: It’s not across the world. Just halfway.Damon 💬: You didn’t even bring a translator app last time we went to Paris.Me 💬: I’ll manage.Damon 💬: Famous last words.He wasn’t wrong.⸻The twelve-hour flight felt endless. Turns out ev

VivianVincent’s arms were solid and warm around me, his heartbeat steady against my ear.For a moment, the world tilted — all the air, the silence, the ache that had lived in my chest since morning — gone.He didn’t speak at first. He just held me, steady and sure, like he’d been waiting to do it all day.When I finally pulled back, my voice came out small. “You came.”He nodded, lips curving slightly. “Of course I did.”I blinked up at him, still trying to make sense of it. “But… you didn’t tell me.”“That was the point,” he said quietly. “I wanted to surprise you. Though, honestly, getting here was… something else.”I frowned. “Something else?”A soft laugh escaped him. “Let’s just say not speaking a word of Korean makes you really bad at explaining things at the airport. I must’ve looked like a lost child trying to ask for directions. Eventually, I just showed them your dad’s message.”That made me laugh — a real one, light and sudden. “You really came all this way and survived In

VivianThe restaurant on the top floor of the hotel glowed with a kind of quiet elegance — soft gold lighting, the faint hum of jazz, glasses clinking gently against each other. I sat across from my dad, Vincent beside me, and for the first time that week, I felt something close to normal.Dad was telling a story — something about the early days of his photography career in London — and I could see the faint amusement on Vincent’s face, like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or take notes.“So, you’re telling me you used an entire roll of film because your subject sneezed?” Vincent asked, leaning forward slightly.Dad grinned. “Perfection takes patience, Evans. You of all people should know that.”I almost choked on my water. “Dad, that’s not—”Vincent chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong. I might’ve done worse for a campaign shoot once.”They both laughed, and I found myself smiling quietly between them. I hadn’t realized until that moment how strange — and yet how comforting —