Todos los capítulos de Billionaire’s Pretend Wife To Be: Capítulo 121 - Capítulo 130

It had been three months since Clara’s arrival, and the pristine, intimidating silence of Conti Manor was officially dead. The house no longer smelled of expensive cleaning agents; it smelled of spilled milk, warm laundry, and the faintly sweet, powdery scent of a newborn. My life, once defined by the meticulous, sterile rules of a contract, was now defined by the utter, beautiful, exhausting chaos of two small girls.It was 6:15 a.m., and the house was running on fumes and panic.I was hunched over the kitchen island, trying to assemble Amelia’s breakfast—four years old, highly opinionated, and currently demanding his toast be cut into the shape of a giraffe. Meanwhile, Clara, who believed that the hours between five and seven in the morning were reserved for existential lamentations, was screaming bloody murder from her bouncer near the doorway.“A giraffe, sweetheart, is very complicated,” I pleaded, hacking a piece of toast vaguely into the shape of a rhombus. “How about a very en

I woke up on October 15th to the confusing sight of a completely cleared schedule and two empty suitcases sitting by the bedroom door. This was it—the anniversary. Not the date etched on the contract, the cold legal beginning, but the day exactly one year ago that Alessandro had proposed again, completely unprompted, with a fierce, honest commitment that finally tore down the walls between us. Our first true anniversary.Alessandro was already dressed, not in a suit, but in rugged jeans and a soft, dark jacket. He looked like an adventurer, and he was humming a cheerfully off-key tune while folding a heavy cashmere shawl into one of the bags.“Morning, Anniversary Wife,” he greeted me, his eyes full of playful secrets. “No need to ask what’s happening. You have exactly one hour to pack appropriate attire for high altitude, high humidity, and high levels of personal pampering.”“That covers roughly eighty percent of the globe, Alessandro,” I countered, sitting up. “And what about Ameli

The silence in the grand library was thick, the kind of heavy, expectant silence that only exists when Amelia is wrestling with a profound, grown-up idea.It was a drizzly Sunday evening. We were all gathered in the most formal room in the house, a space Alessandro had purposefully softened over the years with deep, comfortable sofas and mountains of blankets. Clara was asleep in a heap of soft cushions in the corner, her breathing light and steady. Amelia, however, was wide awake, perched on the edge of an armchair, his long legs dangling. He was holding a leather-bound history of the Conti family that Arthur had given him—a vast, intimidating tome filled with old portraits and footnotes about shipping empires.Amelia had been quiet all day, brooding over the book, occasionally running his finger over the stern, unsmiling face of his great-great-grandfather.“Papa?” he finally asked, the single word cutting through the quiet like glass. His voice, still shifting, held a tremor of ser

The beach was not a private estate. It was a stretch of public sand on the coast, littered with shells, slightly sticky with seawater, and packed shoulder-to-shoulder with other families. It was the antithesis of the insulated luxury Alessandro had been raised in, and it was, without question, his favorite place on earth.We were entrenched in a fortress of brightly colored beach towels and mismatched plastic shovels. Clara, who was six and believed she possessed magical architectural powers, was directing Alessandro in the construction of a sandcastle intended to withstand a tidal wave. Amelia, the pragmatic and recently self-appointed 'Junior Marine Biologist,' was three meters away, meticulously cataloging the difference between periwinkles and mussels with a tiny notebook and a magnifying glass.I was lying on a towel, theoretically reading a novel, but mostly just watching. Watching them, watching him.“Papa, the buttresses must be wider!” Clara commanded, poking the side of the

I drove the car myself, a rare indulgence. The security detail was trailing far behind, invisible and instructed to maintain distance. This moment required absolute privacy. Beside me, Elara was completely confused, laughing quietly as the familiar, manicured streets of our district gave way to older neighborhoods—streets lined with trees that were too tall and houses that were too close together.“Alessandro, where are we going?” she asked, turning to me, her hand resting lightly on my arm. “This is… this is my old neighborhood. We haven’t been here in years.”“Patience, mia stella,” I replied, my voice steady, though my heart was hammering a rhythm against my ribs that felt entirely too loud. “Just a slight detour down Memory Lane. I had an urgent errand to run.”I took the turn onto the street where her grandmother, Nana Lena, had lived. Where we had lived, at least in the fragile, secret moments of our childhood. I felt a wave of profound nostalgia wash over me, the memory of my t