บททั้งหมดของ The Billionaire's Regret: บทที่ 1 - บทที่ 10

The chicken hissed like it was laughing at my life. I sat on the barstool, my chin resting on the back of my hand, staring at the frying pan as if it held the solution to my three–year marriage that was inching toward a cliff.The smell of hot oil drifted up, wrapping our too-expensive penthouse kitchen in a haze far too dramatic for a simple fried chicken dinner.“God, you’re going to burn in a second,” I muttered to a chicken that clearly didn’t care.I lowered the heat. Then sank right back into my thoughts, which felt like an empty fridge: cold, bright, and reflecting everything I didn’t want to deal with.The afternoon tea party was still floating in my mind like a poorly chosen scented candle. It should’ve been sweet, elegant, full of pastel–clad women pretending to like each other.But Sebastian… he’d vanished into the circle of his male friends like I was catering staff, not his wife.He laughed. With his eyes narrowing just a little. With that smile. The smile that once made

MONTE CARLO, MONACO - FIVE YEARS LATERMonte Carlo feels way too quiet for a house this big. The sun is just starting to peek up, its light slamming into the floor-to-ceiling windows that for some reason always make me feel like I live inside an expensive aquarium.The formal dining room with its twelve-seater table, which sits 90% empty most of the time, sounds even louder than usual because of one tiny creature who thinks normal human volume is boring.“I told you I don’t like eggs! Its looking at me like it wants to eat me back!”I stare at the four-year-old girl in the high chair giving the plate a dramatic glare, arms crossed, hair a total disaster, bangs covering half her face like a failed ninja.“Poppy,” I chew my toast, “that’s a boiled egg. Not a Dementor.”“Dementors are bad, Mommy.” She narrows her green eyes (my eyes) and pulls that crinkled-up expression she uses whenever she disapproves of something... which unfortunately... is copy-paste from one person whose name alon

One Week Later – Gala NightThe dress hung in front of the mirror like a threat. Black. Skimming the floorboards of my bedroom. The neckline dipped low enough to make Grandpa Belsky cough into his fist, but still safe for any glossy magazine spread. Daniella nailed the brief: slim, dangerous, maybe capable of hiding a pocketknife.I stood before the wall mirror, the tiny chandelier overhead scattering light across the satin clinging to my body. The gown hugged my waist, fell clean over my hips, and split along one leg in a way that promised headlines if I ever misstepped: Some Belsky Accidentally Flashes Monaco Society.“Nice,” I muttered at my reflection. “If I die tonight, at least the outfit won’t haunt me.”The room had gone still. Eight o’clock blinked on the nightstand clock.Salma had slipped in half an hour earlier, her hair twisted up without a plan, her shirt sparkling from Poppy’s craft session. She hovered in the doorway and whispered, “She’s out, Jazz. Three storybooks, o

Air filled my lungs and decided to stay there.The room shrank into three things: the chaotic thud of my heartbeat, the new ring on my finger, and the man whose name the world had just spat back into my life.Sebastian.The skin at the back of my neck tightened, like someone had just yanked an invisible zipper straight up my spine. My fingers went numb. My heels glued themselves to the carpet as if there were premium-grade adhesive beneath my stilettos.My face stayed calm.Years of surviving Belsky family parties had not been wasted. The same muscles I once used to smile sweetly at guests who wanted to stab me in the back were now working overtime.I blinked once. Just once. Then the corner of my mouth lifted with precision that was almost irritating.“Sebastian,” I said. My voice sounded… normal. Good. “Nice to meet you.”The word “again” hovered on my tongue, bitter, but never escaped. God still loved me. Or He was watching with a bowl of popcorn.Something flickered in those dark

I folded my legs at the end of the sofa, laptop open on my thighs, the screen crowded with emails from three different time zones. A revised contract for a boutique on Rue d’Antibes. A renovation budget spreadsheet for a small hotel in Nice. A reply from last night’s gala committee, overflowing with congratulations and painfully short on anything useful.The new ring on my finger tapped softly against the edge of the trackpad every time I clicked. Tap. Tap. Tap.Like a small, irritating reminder. ‘Hey, congrats. You just agreed to repeat the institution that almost killed you five years ago.’I opened the draft reply to the first email. The first two sentences flowed easily. The third started to sound like I was proposing to a piece of furniture. I closed it again.The phone beside me vibrated once, then lit up. Adrian’s name filled the screen, followed by the FaceTime icon.“I haven’t replied to a single email and this man is already asking for premium access,”I tapped the green but