Todos los capítulos de THE SWITCHED HEIRESS : Capítulo 31 - Capítulo 40

London glimmered beneath a white sky, the kind that promised nothing but cold light. From the penthouse window of the Corinthian Residences, Charles Rivera stood motionless, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a tumbler of untouched whiskey.He didn’t drink anymore. Not since Italy.On the television behind him, the city’s society channel replayed the wedding of the year: The Castell–Moretti union. The anchor’s voice floated through the air like perfume,sweet, polished, false.> “The ceremony took place at St. Verena’s Cathedral this morning. The bride, radiant in her wedding dress, was accompanied by Castell patriarch Edwin Castell himself, who appeared frail but proud. The groom, Dimitri Moretti, heir to the Moretti banking family, looked dashing beside her…”Charles didn’t turn around. He didn’t need to. He’d already memorized the frame before the sound even began, her face, lifted beneath the veil, pale and perfect, eyes steady as though she wasn’t walking into a tr

The Castell press conference wasn’t just an announcement, it was a performance.Every camera, every whispered question, every strategically placed glass of champagne was a weapon polished to shine.The venue, Castell Tower’s twenty-seventh-floor glass atrium, overlooked the London skyline in the sleek defiance of the gray afternoon. Hazel stood beside Dimitri, her posture perfect, her smile precise.She’d learned long ago that stillness was power, that silence drew more attention than any words. She could feel the weight of cameras on her like heat, each click sealing the illusion of the flawless Castell heiress and her perfect husband.Dimitri’s hand rested lightly at the small of her back, a touch that felt more rehearsed than intimate. He leaned in for the flashbulbs, lowering his head just enough to whisper something that looked affectionate but wasn’t.Her smile didn’t falter.“Mrs. Moretti,” one of the reporters called out, his accent sharp, his grin eager. “Congratulations on

Hazel didn’t plan to follow him.She just needed to know.Dimitri had left the mansion saying something about a “late dinner with a client.” His smile had been flawless, his tone effortlessly calm.But his eyes had that flicker again, the faint, bored sharpness of a man who’d already left in his mind before his body followed.She told herself it didn’t matter.She told herself she was done caring.But her body betrayed her before her heart did. One minute she was standing at the top of the stairs; the next, she was in her car, headlights cutting through the London drizzle, tailing his Bentley through the quiet streets.The city was half-asleep, silvered by streetlights and rain.Hazel kept her distance, following through narrow lanes until the car turned into the circular driveway of the Mayfair Royale Hotel.Her fingers curled around the steering wheel.A woman waited under the glass canopy, her hair swept elegantly, her c

Dimitri hadn’t slept.He sat in Valentina’s study, surrounded by half-drunk glasses of whiskey and scattered pages from the investigator’s report. The name Charles Rivera glared back at him from every file.Every document said the same thing, international investor, Italian ties, philanthropic beginnings. But something in the clean perfection of it all felt wrong. Too polished. Too deliberate.He’d seen men like that before, the ones who built empires in the dark.And now one of them was circling his wife.The thought twisted something deep inside him.He was still staring at the file when Valentina entered without knocking.“Working late, I see,” she said softly, her perfume announcing her before her voice. “You look troubled, darling. I don’t like troubled men.”Dimitri closed the file, his expression smooth. “Curiosity doesn’t suit you, Valentina.”“Oh, but it does,” she purred, gliding closer. “Especially when the object of curiosity concerns Hazel.”He said nothing.Valentina smi

Hazel never planned to see him again after that night. She told herself it was a mistake, a beautiful, reckless mistake, one she should fold neatly into memory and hide. But the heart has its own logic. And logic has never been Hazel Castell’s strength when it comes to Charles Rivera. It started with a message. Not a long one, not even a question. Just his name flashing across her screen, followed by: > “I have something to show you.” She stared at it for a minute before typing back, When? > “Tonight.” The city was alive with lights when she stepped out of the car that evening. He waited by the entrance of a quiet art gallery downtown, small, private, the kind of place the tabloids never cared about. Inside, the walls were lined with muted canvases, all grays and soft blues. One painting stood apart, a woman sitting by a window, her back to the viewer, hair undone. Hazel stopped. “She looks like…” “You,” he finished softly. Her lips parted, but no words came out. Charl