บททั้งหมดของ The Cross Family: บทที่ 41 - บทที่ 50

The café was quiet that afternoon, tucked off a side street away from the noise of the city. A warm breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying the faint scent of roasted coffee beans and cinnamon. Mya sat across from Keith, sunlight spilling through the glass and catching the gold edges of her sunglasses. For the first time in weeks, she looked peaceful—tired, yes, but lighter somehow.The chaos of the press conference had settled. The world had begun to see her differently, not as a scandal to pity but as a survivor to respect. People smiled at her now when she walked by, whispered her name in admiration instead of judgment. It was new, fragile ground, but it felt good.Keith stirred his coffee lazily, watching her over the rim of his cup. “So,” he said, his tone soft but teasing, “what’s next for the woman who just changed her whole life?”Mya smiled, dipping a fry in ketchup. “Hopefully something normal. Like finishing a meal without someone taking a picture.”Keith chuckled

The glass in Sloane’s hand trembled as she watched the live report. Her reflection wavered in the expensive mirror behind her—a warped version of herself, beautiful still, but brittle.The anchor’s voice cut through the quiet like a scalpel.“Damon Smith’s assets have reportedly been frozen pending investigation into his involvement in the defamation case filed by Cross Industries’ heiress, Mya Cross. Sources close to the investigation confirm that new evidence links both Smith and Monroe to the forged media campaign that sparked the scandal.”Sloane’s chest constricted. She turned the volume down, but the words still echoed in her skull.Links both Smith and Monroe.Her name. Said aloud. Broadcast to millions.Her nails scraped against the crystal rim of her glass. “You idiot,” she hissed under her breath—not sure if she meant Damon or herself.The penthouse that had once felt like triumph now felt like a cage. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and dying roses. Ha

The sound of the elevator doors sliding open was hollow—too loud in the quiet that had become Damon’s life. Once, that same sound had heralded assistants rushing forward with files, investors waiting with handshakes, flashes of cameras from interviews that painted him as the unstoppable CEO of Smith Industries.Now, it was only the echo of his own footsteps and the stale air of a building that no longer belonged to him.He walked into his office—former office—and stared at the stripped walls. The Smith logo that had once glowed proudly behind his desk was gone, removed like a wound covered too late. His desk, once cluttered with contracts and stock reports, was bare except for a single envelope.Inside were the final documents: confirmation of his bankruptcy filing. The end of everything he’d built.His fingers tightened around the papers. The ink seemed to shimmer under the harsh fluorescent light, like it was mocking him.He had thought he was untouchable.He had thought he was the

The roses had just opened.Mya stood in the south garden with a pair of shears in her hand, clipping pale blooms for the arrangements that would go to the women’s shelter that afternoon. Morning light poured over the lawn in a bright spill, turning dew into diamonds and the long gravel drive into a silver ribbon that disappeared through the trees.Peace lived here now. She could feel it in her shoulders, in the unhurried way her lungs filled and emptied. The house behind her hummed faintly—Casey’s music somewhere upstairs, the distant murmur of staff setting out tea, the safe, domestic sounds of a life she hadn’t known she wanted until she had it.She reached for another stem.Gravel crunched.She didn’t turn at first; deliveries used the side path. But then the footsteps kept coming—slow, deliberate, not the clipped rhythm of staff or security. The hairs along her arms lifted. She lowered the shears and looked up.Damon stood halfway down the path.For a second, the world went out of

The afternoon light spilled through Adrian’s penthouse in honeyed sheets, the kind of light that made everything—marble counters, glass tables, even the shadows—look expensive. The faint hum of jazz floated from the sound system, low enough not to interrupt the rhythm of domestic life that had settled between them.Trina padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles, a towel wrapped around her head and one of Adrian’s shirts hanging loosely off her shoulders. She was humming, something upbeat, snapping her fingers in time. The smell of coffee and something sweet—his attempt at breakfast, late as usual—lingered in the air.“You used my French press again,” Adrian said from the living room, voice dry but fond.“You left it on the counter,” she countered. “That’s basically consent.”He looked up from his laptop, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. “If that logic ever holds up in court, I’ll let you know.”Trina laughed, brushing past him to grab her cup. “You’re cute when you pretend yo