Todos los capítulos de Billionaire’s Pretend Wife To Be: Capítulo 81 - Capítulo 90

The boardroom felt cold, even under the harsh, bright lights. Two years. It had been two years since I last heard Elara’s voice, two years since I saw the blurry, undeniable image of my pregnant wife walking into a clinic alone. Two years of silence, penance, and the most agonizing, quiet search imaginable.I sat at the head of the long, polished table, ostensibly running a quarterly strategy meeting for the Conti Corporation. But my mind was a thousand miles away, or rather, focused entirely on a patch of concrete and steel across town. My chief operations officer, Mr. Reynolds, was droning on about market saturation in the Asian sector.“...and so, Mr. Conti, the projected two-year growth remains strong, despite your decreased involvement in day-to-day operations. The Leo Vance Wing has proven to be an astonishing public relations success, shifting our image from ruthless control to philanthropic goodwill. We need your sign-off on the Q4 budget for the facility’s maintenance, but be

The room was small, freezing, and smelled faintly of old linen and sea dampness. I had rented it from a reluctant landlord in a quiet residential alley two blocks behind "The Morning Grind." I paid cash, three months upfront, using money that felt shockingly, deliberately small—just enough to pass as a traveling consultant or a quiet businessman taking a retreat. I wore plain, unbranded clothes that felt like a costume against my skin.I sat on the edge of the hard bed, the newspaper clipping from the coffee shop window spread out on the worn carpet. Ella Vance. After two years of following global financial trails, I found her through a single, faded piece of local news. It was humbling, sickening, and the greatest gift I had ever received.I needed one final confirmation, one last act of corporate power, and then I had to cut the cord completely. I called Marcus on a disposable, untraceable phone, the kind of burner phone I hadn't used since my earliest, most cutthroat days of busine

The corner window of the abandoned fisherman’s supply shed gave me a perfect, unobstructed view of the back-alley entrance to the apartment above "The Morning Grind." I was positioned thirty yards away, hidden by stacks of old wooden crates and the long, trailing branches of a dusty vine. I sat on an overturned barrel, my body aching from stillness, but my mind was hyper-alert. This was not a business venture; this was survival. My survival, and the future of my son.I had destroyed the burner phone and cut all contact with Marcus. The Conti empire, for all its power, was useless here. I was alone, a stranger with a heavy heart and a simple, borrowed coat.The midday quiet was settling over Starhaven Point. I could hear the faint, muffled sound of Elara’s voice singing a simple, off-key tune from inside the apartment above the general store. It was the sound of domesticity, of safety, and it was a sound I had never once heard in the cold, echoing silence of the Manor.Around one o'clo

Alessandro’s voice, so steady and controlled, cut through the noise of the broken mug and the high-pitched ringing in my ears. “I was just hoping to get a cup of coffee.”It was the perfect lie. Simple, everyday, and devastatingly calculated. He was presenting himself as an ordinary man, ignoring the fact that he was the CEO of an empire and I was the ghost he had been indirectly searching for.Before I could force out a single, protective word, a sound that was infinitely more precious and dangerous than the shattered ceramic cut through the tension.“Mama! What was that big noise? Why did you drop the cup?”Amelia.He was out of his 'castle,' scrambling over the low wooden divider and heading straight for my legs. My hands, which were bracing against the counter, instantly dropped to scoop him up. I clutched him tight to my chest, my apron absorbing the warmth of his small body, my eyes locked over the top of his head, skewering Alessandro.He sees him. The sheer terror of that real

My stomach churned every morning when the bell chimed around seven-thirty. It wasn't the sound of a customer arriving; it was the sound of my peace being systematically dismantled. It was the sound of Alessandro Conti walking through the door.He didn’t come every day as a customer. After the confrontation in the alley, he had found a terrifying new strategy: the silent, supportive presence.He came in, dressed in those same simple, dark clothes, looking like a quiet, thoughtful architect. He would nod politely to Jenny—never looking at me, never addressing me unless absolutely necessary—and order a simple black coffee. He would sit at the small table in the corner, the one farthest from the counter and nearest the window, and he would open his financial journal. He would stay for two hours, drinking his one coffee, radiating an intense, silent energy that made every nerve ending in my body scream in frantic, protective alarm.He was respecting the rules of distance and silence, but h