All Chapters of The CEO's Unwanted Wife : Chapter 141 - Chapter 150

Fiona POVThe hotel bed felt like a cloud beneath us, soft endless white sheets that bunched and twisted around our bodies every time Maverick moved inside me. We had left the bar together, hands brushing in the shadows, stolen glances turning into touches the second the door closed behind us. No words at first. Just mouths crashing, clothes hitting the floor in a frantic trail from the entrance to the bed. My red dress pooled near the armchair. His shirt landed on the lamp, casting warm uneven light across the room. The balcony doors were open, letting in the humid night air, the distant roll of waves, the faint salt smell that clung to everything on this island. The ceiling fan turned lazily overhead, stirring the warm breeze that carried the scent of jasmine from the gardens below. Everything felt suspended, like time had slowed just for us.He pushed me down gently at first, face down, hips lifted, knees spread on the mattress. I felt the cool sheets against my cheek, the heat

Fiona POVThat night the three of us gathered in the rented house for dinner, the dining area glowing softly under low pendant lights and candles flickering on the long wooden table. The chef had prepared something special: succulent lobsters caught that morning just offshore, grilled with garlic butter and finished with shaved black truffles, their shells cracked open to reveal sweet, tender meat that melted on the tongue. There were sides of roasted fingerling potatoes drizzled with olive oil and sea salt, a bright green salad with mango and avocado, and warm crusty bread that we tore apart with our hands. A bottle of chilled white wine sat sweating in an ice bucket, condensation running down the glass like slow tears. Soft bossa nova played from the speakers, gentle guitar and quiet vocals floating through the open windows where the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and night-blooming flowers.Maverick sat across from me, dressed casually in a loose white linen shirt with

Third POVSebastian Blackwood adjusted his collar in the rearview mirror of his black SUV for the third time, smoothing the crisp white shirt beneath his dark blazer until every fold looked perfect. The bouquet of deep red roses rested on the passenger seat like a silent accusation, two dozen long-stemmed beauties, each petal flawless, wrapped in matte black tissue paper and tied with a wide silk ribbon the exact shade of midnight. He had chosen them himself that morning at the florist on Madison Avenue, the one with the old wooden sign and the woman behind the counter who always remembered his name. He had asked for the freshest, most perfect ones they had, the kind that looked like they had been cut at dawn. She had smiled knowingly, as if she understood the weight of what he was about to do. He had spent the last hour driving in slow circles around the Upper East Side, rehearsing words he wasn’t sure he would get the chance to say, palms damp on the steering wheel despite the a

Fiona POV I jolted awake, gasping as if the air had been punched out of me. The bedroom in our London flat was dark except for the faint amber glow from the streetlights seeping past the curtains. Rain hammered the windows in uneven bursts, like someone throwing stones in anger. My nightgown stuck to my sweat soaked skin, cold and clinging. The sheets had knotted around my legs, trapping me the way the mangled seatbelt once had.The nightmare refused to let go. I could still feel the violent jolt when the black car rammed mine on that New York highway. Metal screamed as it folded. Glass rained inward. The airbag deployed like a fist to my chest. Then the sickening warmth between my thighs. In the dream I looked down and saw blood spreading across my lap, soaking my dress while the small swell of my belly, only two months along, barely showing, seemed to hollow out in agony. No kicks yet, no heartbeat heard on a monitor, just the promise of life ripped away in crimson silence. I ha

Fiona POV I had not planned to encounter Sebastian here today. Not really. But the moment I stepped off the plane and saw the city skyline through the tinted window of the town car, something shifted inside me. Corine's death notice had arrived in my inbox three months ago, a short, formal email from the family lawyer. I had stared at it for a long time, the screen blurring. I could not attend the funeral. I had been in London then, still raw from the divorce, still learning how to breathe without the weight of New York pressing on my chest. Guilt had settled in my stomach like lead. Corine had been the only person in that family who ever truly saw me. She had treated me like the granddaughter she never had, baking lemon cookies in the mansion kitchen when Sebastian was away on business, asking about my sketches, touching my arm gently when she spoke of the future. All she had wanted in those final years was a great-grandchild to spoil. And I had carried that hope for two short m