My Billionaire Just Can’t Let Me Go のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Amelia’s POVI hadn’t expected to see him there.The cemetery was supposed to be quiet, private—a place where I could come when the guilt of living Sophie’s perfect life weighed too heacvily on my chest. But as soon as I stepped between the headstones, I saw him.Cayden sat slumped in front of Amelia’s grave, shoulders hunched, hair falling over his eyes. He looked like he’d been there for hours, maybe all day. His suit jacket lay crumpled beside him, his shirt creased, his hands tangled in his hair.Worse than he had looked at the launch. Worse than the first time I’d seen him in a year.I froze. Part of me wanted to turn and leave before he noticed. But my feet rooted to the ground.I hadn’t come here for him. I came for her—for Sophie, for Amelia, for the twin I barely had time to know before fate twisted us into this cruel exchange. But standing there, watching Cayden break down in front of a stone, I hated myself for noticing the curve of his jaw, for remembering the way his vo

Amelia’s POV“I didn’t like it.” I kept my voice steady, though the way his eyes fixed on me made my stomach tighten. “So I picked another one.”Miles’s face hardly moved, but I caught the flicker—something cold, something sharp. “Sophie chose that dress,” he said slowly. “For the wedding video. It fit the mood board. The brand aesthetic. Everything we planned.”My pulse quickened. “Maybe Sophie chose it,” I shot back. “But I didn’t. This is my wedding now. Don’t I get a say in it?”His jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t have changed it on your own. Not without asking, at least.”That word—asking. Like permission. Like I was a child sneaking behind his back. Heat rushed into my chest. “It’s my dress, Miles.” My voice cracked with anger. “Why should I need to ask?”His tone chilled, every syllable measured. “This isn’t just about a dress, Amelia. It’s about continuity. If you suddenly appear in something the fans have never seen before, questions will start. And questions…” His gaze bore

Amelia’s POVThe station smelled like old coffee and disinfectant, sharp and unwelcoming. The stranger who had attacked me sat opposite us, his wrists cuffed to the table. His lip was split, one eye already swelling shut from Cayden’s punches. He looked smaller in here, diminished, but the way his gaze darted toward me made my skin crawl.A door swung open. The police chief walked in, graying hair slicked back, uniform pressed sharp. His eyes landed on Cayden, and his expression softened just a fraction. “Mr. Morgan.”Cayden rose slightly, extending a hand. “Chief.” His voice was low, stiffly polite.The handshake was quick. The chief’s gaze shifted to me, to the cuffs biting into the attacker’s wrists, and then he motioned for the officer at his side to read the man’s statement.The words spilled out: he was a fan. My “biggest fan.” He followed my channel, watched every video, every stream. He said he couldn’t stand the thought of me marrying Miles. That I was “meant” for someone be

Amelia’s POVPRESENT“The police said the man got drunk, fell into the sea, and drowned,” Eric told me as I scrolled down his phone screen. A blurry photo of the shoreline filled the article—police tape, uniforms, a body blurred out under a sheet.“That is insane,” I muttered, shoving the phone back at him. “How did he even get to leave the station? He attacked me. They should’ve kept him locked up.”Eric shrugged, tapping the screen closed like the story wasn’t worth another thought. “Maybe someone paid his bail. Happens all the time. Guy walks free, gets drunk, does something stupid. The report says his blood alcohol was through the roof. Open and shut.”Open and shut.But something twisted in my gut. The ribs on the platter in front of us, shiny with glaze, suddenly smelled too rich, too heavy, like oil in the back of my throat. The words on the article replayed in my head. Fell into the sea. Drowned. Just like that?I shifted in my chair, unsettled. The chatter, the clinking of

Amelia’s POVScarlett knew exactly what she was doing when she went live wearing that dress. The post, the video, the little captions that came with her rehearsed laugh—none of it was an accident. She was dangling the dress, the one I had loved and returned, right in front of me like bait on a hook. And the public ate it up. Comments calling her “classy,” “elegant,” “the real winner.”My phone buzzed again. A message from the anonymous ID—the one who had tipped me during the livestream.Sorry. I didn’t expect the dress would cause trouble.I stared at the words for a moment, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I typed back.Thank you for helping me that day. It was my choice to return the dress. How could I blame you for that?The typing bubble blinked once. Then nothing. Silence. Whoever they were, they’d said their piece and disappeared.I tossed the phone on the sofa, running both hands through my hair. I hated how Scarlett got under my skin. I hated even more that part of me w