All Chapters of The Billionaire's Secret Bride: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Liam’s living room smelled faintly of cedar and fresh coffee, a cozy scent that should have been comforting. But today, it carried a weight, an undercurrent of something unspoken. Ethan had just returned from months abroad, his PhD finally completed, and the moment he stepped into the house, the air seemed to shift.“Liam,” Ethan’s voice was warm but carried that easy confidence he always had—the kind that made him seem untouchable. He dropped his bag by the couch and stretched. “Feels weird being back. Feels like I blinked, and—bam—I’m home again.”Liam laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ve missed you, man. The place hasn’t been the same without you tripping over my messy kitchen or stealing my snacks.”“You mean without me judging your cooking and silently wondering why you live like a bachelor still.” Ethan grinned, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Evelyn, and something tightened in the room. She was perched on the armchair, hands clasped neatly in her lap, pretending to

The morning light crept lazily through the tall windows, casting long stripes across the living room carpet. Liam had already left for work, his briefcase in hand, the faint scent of his cologne lingering in the air like a memory. Ethan sat slouched on the edge of the couch, arms draped over his knees, eyes tracking the door even after it clicked shut. Evelyn stood near the kitchen counter, tea in hand, posture stiff but controlled, as though the room itself demanded perfection. “You know,” Evelyn began carefully, her voice soft but firm, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” She didn’t look at him, focusing instead on the rim of her teacup, tracing invisible patterns with the tip of her finger. Ethan raised a brow, leaning back against the couch, one ankle crossed over the other. “Hmm?” His tone was casual, but his eyes were sharp, measuring, impatient. “Why,” she said, turning her gaze toward him at last, “are you always staring at me?” The words were gentle, almost casual,

Liam came home just after seven, the familiar sound of his key scraping gently into the lock. Evelyn was in the kitchen, stirring a pot she had already turned off minutes ago—a nervous habit. She heard the door, heard his soft exhale like he was putting the whole day down at the threshold. Ethan was on the couch, one leg stretched out, flipping through channels with an absent mind. He looked tired too, though in a different way—restless energy running under his skin, like he’d been pacing mentally all day. Evelyn wiped her palms on her apron before she even realized she was doing it. Liam stepped in, loosened his tie, and smiled the way he always did when he saw her. Warm. Familiar. Safe. “Smells good,” he murmured, leaning in to press a quick kiss to her cheek. It should have made her heart relax. Instead, guilt pinched something deep inside her chest. Quiet, but sharp. Ethan’s eyes flicked over for just a second. Too quick. Too controlled. As if he were holding himself i

She didn’t turn around right away. If she looked at him, it would feel real. The past. The fear. The mistake of ever loving him. Ethan took one lazy step closer, each footfall a show of control. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people,” she said, though the iciness in her tone wavered around the edges. “I didn’t sneak,” he replied. “You just don’t pay attention.” She spun then — too fast — forcing confidence into her shoulders even when her pulse betrayed her. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t expect the corpse to rise.” He smirked. “See? You still care.” She barked a humorless laugh. “Not even a little.” “Liar.” The word slid between them like the strike of a match. His gaze dipped — to the trembling of her hands she tried to hide by curling them into fists. He noticed everything. Always had. “Tell me something,” he murmured, head tilting as if she were a puzzle he used to own. “Does he know? About us?” Her stomach clenched. “There is no us.” He ignored that. Ethan always

Evelyn leaned against the counter, fingers curling around the edge as if it could anchor her to something solid. The quiet in the house was heavy, not peaceful. Every small sound — the faint hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the wall clock — seemed magnified. Ethan lay back on the couch, the blanket draped over him, pale in a way that only the act of pretending could achieve. She hated that she could see through him. Every fake groan, every delicate sigh. She knew him too well. “Feeling any better?” she asked, voice tight, brittle. He let out a small, half-hearted groan, eyes barely opening. “A little. But my legs… they’re still weak.” Her hands tightened around the counter. He wasn’t sick. He was pretending. “Ethan,” she said carefully, testing her tone. “You don’t have to do this. Liam isn’t here. You can just… be honest.” A smirk tugged at his lips, though his eyes glinted with something sharper. Dangerous. “Honest about what? He will be home soon.” Her pulse jumped, and s