Todos los capítulos de Billionaire’s Pretend Wife To Be: Capítulo 131 - Capítulo 140

The Leo Conti Observatory wing at the hospital was the quietest place on earth. The air was cool, sterile, and smelled faintly of ionized metal and dust motes. Tonight, the dome was open, revealing a breathtaking, perfect sweep of the winter sky, and the silence was only broken by the hushed movements of our family.I stood beside the massive, gleaming telescope, watching Alessandro. His profile was sharp in the dim, red-hued safety light, completely absorbed in adjusting the intricate mechanism. The gravity of the structure, built from his grief and penance, never failed to move me. It was a cathedral to a kindness that was lost too soon.Amelia, eight years old now and fiercely dedicated to facts, was perched on a step stool, his small hands gripping the railing, his concentration intense.“Papa, are we looking at the Andromeda galaxy?” Amelia asked, his voice low and serious. “The data projections I saw online said it takes two point five million years for that light to reach us. I

Fifteen Years Later (MAJOR TIME JUMP)The house was enormous, airy, and flooded with the west coast light we’d insisted on during the design phase, yet it often felt quieter than the cramped, noisy apartment I had once shared with Mia and a newborn Amelia. It was the quiet of young adulthood—the quiet that comes when children are no longer physically present but remain vast, looming presences in the space they once occupied.I was in the kitchen, making a ridiculously large pot of tea, when the front door chime announced Amelia’s arrival. He was the only person who ever used the chime; Alessandro and Clara simply barged in.“Hello, Mom,” Amelia said, stepping into the kitchen. He was twenty-five now, a polished, immaculate echo of his father in a tailor-made suit. His posture was perfect, his briefcase was leather, and his greeting was delivered with the pleasant, detached warmth of a highly competent subordinate reporting to his superior.“Amelia. You’re early. I thought you had the

The air in my father's study always smells the same: expensive leather, faint cedar, and control. I was standing in front of the window, trying to frame the city skyline in a way that made it look less like an oppressive grid and more like a chaotic, beautiful mess—the way I prefer the world to be.My father, Alessandro, was sitting behind his enormous desk, meticulously polishing his eyeglasses, a sign that he was preparing for a serious, measured discussion. He hadn't raised his voice since the Milan incident, which only made his disapproval feel heavier.“Clara,” he began, placing the glasses on the desk. “I understand your need for independence. I really do. Your mother and I prize it above everything. But dropping out of the economics program entirely? That’s not independence, that’s just impulsive self-sabotage.”I turned from the window, leaning against the cold glass. “It’s not self-sabotage, Dad. It’s choosing my life. I went to the Econ lecture yesterday, and all I could hea

The conference room was exactly the shade of neutral gray I specified—a calming, non-distracting canvas for serious thought. I was fifteen minutes early, reviewing the architectural firm’s proposal for the new Leo Conti Foundation Community Center. The project was meant to be a showcase for ethical, community-focused building, spearheaded by my mother’s foundation work.The proposal itself, submitted by a boutique firm named Isabelle Vega Design, was… infuriatingly impractical.I had circled the same line three times: “The main atrium must utilize reclaimed timber and locally sourced glass for structural support, prioritizing natural light infusion over cost-efficiency.”“Prioritizing natural light infusion over cost-efficiency,” I muttered, tapping my pen on the margin. It was pure artistic fluff. This project had a hard budget ceiling set by the board. Her design, while visually stunning, was eighteen percent over budget and added a projected nine weeks to the timeline due to the be

The scent of dust and fear still clung to me, even as I violently zipped up the oversized backpack that held my entire future. I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, surrounded by camera equipment and rolls of film. My father’s final, cutting words—"You are willfully throwing away hundreds of thousands of dollars"—echoed in my head, not as financial advice, but as a deep, painful rejection.I was afraid. Terribly afraid. My hands were shaking not just from anger, but from the sudden, terrifying reality that I had actually burned the bridge. But I was more afraid of being wrong—of settling for a life designed by spreadsheets—than of being broke.The door opened quietly, not with a bang or a tense entrance, but with a gentle, considered click. Mom. She didn't say anything; she just knelt beside me on the thick rug, picking up a loose filter for my macro lens. Her presence was immediate, warm, and entirely non-judgmental.“Your father is currently downstairs, attempting to track your