Lahat ng Kabanata ng The Billionaire's Rebellious Bride: Kabanata 101 - Kabanata 107

The first thing I feel is the cold. It is a deep, biting cold that seeps through the floor and into my bones. My head throbbed with a rhythm that matched the heavy beating of my heart. Every pulse felt like a hammer striking the inside of my skull. I try to open my eyes, but the lids feel like they are glued shut with dried blood and grit. I groan, the sound raspy and weak in the silent room.The last thing I remember is Santino’s office. Blurry images of the way the light caught the gold rings on his fingers. I remember the wooden baseball bat swinging through the air. His curled up lips before I slipped into the painful unconsciousness.Now, the world is gray. I finally force my eyes open. I am lying on a thin, stained mattress on a concrete floor. The walls are made of rough stone that looks damp. There are no windows. The only light comes from a small, flickering bulb high up on the ceiling. It casts long, shaky shadows that dance like ghosts. My wrists felt heavy as if something

I stand in the center of the room that used to be a sanctuary. This place where Santino and I shared breaths, whispers, and a passion that I now realize was laced with poison. I am dressed simply in a black tank top that clings to my skin and a pair of worn jeans. I feel light, almost weightless, as if the person who lived in this room before has already evaporated into the air.I take a slow, deliberate breath. The room is perfect. It is hauntingly clean. The beds are made with sharp, hospital-like precision. The mahogany floors are polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the dim light from the hallway. There isn't a single speck of dust. It is a museum dedicated to a lie.My eyes drift to the right bedside table. There, sitting exactly where I left it, is a rose. But it is no longer the flower I remember. The petals have wilted so completely they have turned to a fine, gray dust. Even the stem is a brittle, blackened stick. Yet, miraculously, it has kept the exact shape it had the da

The world is a roar of orange and a suffocating blanket of gray. The floorboards beneath us groan, a long, terminal sound of wood surrendering to heat. Santino’s body collapses in front of me. It’s a heavy weight against mine, his blood warm and sticky where it seeps through my tank top and onto my skin. I look up at his father, the man who just fired the shot, expecting to see a face of triumph. Instead, I see a mask of cold, clinical indifference. He looks at his own son as if he is just another piece of trash to be swept away.The old man begins to squeeze the trigger again, the barrel leveled at my face. He wants to finish the job. But he forgot one thing. He isn't the only ghost in this house.From the thick, swirling smoke behind him, a figure emerges like a wraith. It is Lorenzo. His face is blackened with soot, his eyes wide and bloodshot, leaking tears from the sting of the fumes. He lunges, his arms wrapping around his father’s waist, driving the old man backward toward