All Chapters of The Billionaire's Proxy Bride : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Please, Lena. Don’t ask questions. Just come.”The call had come ten minutes ago from Amara whose voice sounded shaky, nearly drowned out by the heavy downpour.It hadn’t sounded like the poised heiress who had commissioned her portrait two weeks earlier. This voice was frightened,almost desperate. Midnight thunder tore the sky open as Lena’s headlights carved a thin, trembling truth across the wet road.Amara’s voice still rattled in her ears—breathless, urgent, the kind of panicked whisper that made her stomach flip: “If anything happens, tell Damon I had always wanted to tell him.”She had listened to the note three times at the café between orders, palms sticky with coffee and worry,and then when it was time to close, she packed up her rolled canvas into her knapsack and drove because what else could she do when someone you barely knew suddenly asks you for help. Lena had never been raised for heroics nor did she know how to be one. She was an art-school dropout with paint-stain

It had been two days since she had been released from the ward at Hale's estate and two days since her life returned semi back to normal. And it turns out that despite the swarm of reporters that surrounded the estate for those two days, none of them actually saw her face nor knew who she was. They just knew she had been receiving treatment there but she was kept anonymous from the public eye. The apartment was exactly as they’d left it: cracked paint, the faint smell of linseed oil from her unfinished portraits, the tiny window that leaked whenever it rained. But now, even the familiar things felt strange—like props from a life that no longer belonged to her. Light rain tapped softly on the windowpane, slipping down in crooked lines.The hum of the city below was distant tonight, as if it had decided to move on without her.She sat at the small dining table with her sketchbook open, though she hadn’t drawn a single line in hours. Beside it lay a pile of unpaid bills — hospital statem

Morning spilled into the room in bands of white light. It crawled up the floorboards and caught on the glass vials and silver trays scattered across the vanity table. Lena sat in the same chair as the day before, hair pinned, collarbones dusted with translucent powder. The stylists were already at work — one adjusting the nape of her cream suit, another pressing concealer into the hollow beneath her eyes. She barely got enough sleep last night despite the enormous queen size bed and she couldn't tell whether it was due to guilt or the fact that she had left home on bad terms with her brother.“Hold still,” murmured the makeup artist. “We’re almost done with the eyes.”She nodded faintly. Her phone sat on the edge of the table idle as she waited for a call back from Eli.When the woman turned to fetch a brush, she reached for it.The stylists’ chatter soon dissolved into a low hum as she barely heard them the moment she pressed call.No answer.She tried again.“Eli, it’s me,” she whispe

The staff froze when they saw her storming through the hall barefoot.“Miss Wren—” one of the housemaids started, clutching her apron.“I need to see Mr. Hale.”“But ma’am, he doesn’t receive anyone this early—”They exchanged uneasy looks. Someone muttered, “No one enters his room without permission.”But Lena didn’t stop. She reached the tall mahogany door and pushed her way in,ignoring the startled protests behind her.The hinges gave a deep groan, as the sound sliced through the still morning.“Let her be,” he said to the stunned staff without raising his voice.They hesitated, then bowed their heads and slipped away, closing the door softly behind them.Lena stood in the middle of the room, her chest rising and falling as the phone trembled in her hand.“Someone is threatening me,” she said, stepping closer.She shoved the phone almost into his face. “Look at it! I got this message last night from an anonymous number. They said ‘You’re not Amara. Leave before he buries you too.’”H

Damon padded down the marble steps barefoot, still tugging at the belt of his robe,eyes half-shut from from mist if the sleep he had been deprived off since the incident.The faint clink of a spoon against porcelain drew his attention, and when he looked up, he almost flinched.“Dad?”The older man sat at the far end of the dining table,cup in one hand raised to his lips,newspaper in the other. Streaks of his grey hair caught the light like frost. He was dressed already in a crisp white shirt, casual beige trousers and glasses perched halfway down his nose.“Ah,finally you’re up,” his father said, without looking up.“I’ve been waiting for you.” he replied simply,folding the newspaper with precision.Damon frowned, rubbing his eyes. “For me? Why?”“Why not?” He sipped his coffee. “It’s Saturday.”“And?”His father’s eyes glinted. “We golf on Saturdays.”Damon blinked, sure he’d misheard. “We what?”“We golf,” his father repeated,as though explaining to a child.“The last time we golfed