All Chapters of The Billionaire's Proxy Bride : Chapter 51 - Chapter 59

Damon didn’t come into the room until much later — long past the hour when anyone would reasonably still be awake. He pushed the door open quietly, assuming she would be asleep after their brutal exchange in the garden. Lena lay on her side, back toward the door, the faint glow of the bedside lamp casting a soft line across her shoulder. He looked at her for a while and exhaled gently,running a tired hand through his hair. He began undoing his shirt, the buttons slipping open one by one as he walked toward the wardrobe.He grabbed a towel, clearly intending to shower, to drown whatever storm churned in his head. And then she moved, turning her entire body to face him as she sat up. She wasn't asleep after all. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even turn fully. He just resumed unbuckling his watch with a stiff jaw, pretending her sudden wakefulness didn’t startle him. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said,

The next morning, Lena stirred under the warm weight of the cotton sheets, a faint stiffness pulled through her lower back, a reminder of everything she’d done…and everything she shouldn’t have done. She blinked her eyes open slowly. Damon was sitting up beside her, propped against the headboard, staring at her. She'd been intimate with a couple of people but no one ever stared at her like some creepy psychopath. Her stomach tightened. So it hadn’t been a dream after all. She actually shared a vulnerable moment with her boss—or whatever the hell he was to her now—and then proceeded to fuck him afterward. There was nothing normal about that. She forced a small sound out of her throat, a shaky attempt at normalcy. “Morning,” she mused, her voice softer and scratchier than she expected. Her fingers curled instinctively toward the sheets, tugging them up over her chest. “I um—” “About last night.” He started before she could finish, his voice low, gravelly in the morning quiet.

Somewhere in New York A single bulb swung overhead in the dimly lit warehouse, casting uneven shadows that dragged and stretched as the men shifted.Richard sat at the head of the old metal table, fingers drumming in an unbroken rhythm. His jaw was locked, his posture composed, but the tension brewing underneath was volcanic.Across from him, Gideon Vale reclined in his chair with the unhurried confidence of someone who owned fear. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His expression was unreadable as he lifted a cigarette to his lips and took a long, slow drag.The ember glowed, reflecting briefly in his eyes.Then he exhaled—one lazy plume of smoke drifting upward, curling in the cold air.Marco, one of his men stood at his left, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the ground. Diego leaned against a support beam near the table, arms folded, chewing the inside of his cheek. Tomas paced, restless, his large boots thudding softly on the cracked floor.Gideo

THREE NIGHTS AGOThe rain that night didn’t fall so much as it slashed—thin, knifing sheets that made everything outside the hospital blur into streaks of drowning yellow light. Perfect weather for slipping into places one didn't belong in. He stood across the street first, hood drawn low, hands shoved into the pockets of a stolen orderly’s jacket. Gideon hadn’t said much when he gave the order—just that flat, cold “Find out.” The kind of command that meant come back with the truth or don’t come back at all. Diego swallowed, pulled his mask up over his nose, and crossed the road.He moved through the lobby toward the elevators, passing nurses with paperwork, a security guard scrolling through his phone, a janitor leaning on her mop. None of them looked at him twice.Good.He slid into the elevator just as the doors began to close.The fluorescent light overhead buzzed as he tugged at the collar of the too-tight jacket and watched the numbers climb—3… 4… 5…When the doors opened, the a