All Chapters of The Billionaire's Regret: Chapter 101 - Chapter 110

I stood beside the suite’s bed, helping Poppy push one chubby hand through the sleeve of her cream knit cardigan. She was still a little weak, her cheeks not fully back to their usual healthy marshmallow color, but her eyes were far too alive for a child who had been burning with a high fever just yesterday.“Mommy,” she said, looking up at me, her bangs falling over half her forehead, “when I’m better, can I have two bowls of dinosaur pasta?”“No.”“Why?”“Because your intestines just finished a war.”She thought about that for a few seconds. “Okay. One and a half.”I exhaled. “Your negotiator comes from my side of the family. I can smell the trail.”Poppy lifted Bunny to her chest, then held out her other hand so I could button the cardigan. I’d combed her long hair as best I could. There was still one strand stuck to her lip because she refused to stay still for more than three seconds. Her green eyes watched me with deep suspicion, as if I were an evil nurse planning to smuggle li

By evening, the house finally lowered its volume a little.Not completely. Of course not. This was a house with Poppy in it. Even the silence here usually wore glitter.But after a dinner of soup, soft bread, two spoonfuls of apple purée she deemed “moderately not offensive,” and liquid medicine she drank this time while glaring at the world, Poppy began to slow down.She had taken a bath. Her pajamas were cream-colored with tiny stars. I’d brushed her long hair until it was smooth, and then it was messy again within eight minutes because she rolled around on the sofa bed three times while saying she was “looking for the best angle for recovery.”Bunny was tucked beneath her chin. The blanket was pulled up to her stomach. The living room lights were dimmed. Salma had gone to the kitchen to make tea. Javier had left an hour ago, after receiving one kiss from Poppy on the condition that he not pinch her cheeks and not call her kartoshka for twelve hours.“Mommy.”“Yes.”“Where did Daddy

Morning was still a long way off.The house had slipped into those shapeless hours, when everything looked a little more honest: the marble too cold, the lights too soft, my thoughts too loud. I sat on a kitchen stool with one knee drawn up, my laptop open in front of me, my inbox full of emails I was reading without really absorbing. My coffee was half gone. Cold. I drank it anyway, because at this point I was no longer picky about my poisons.From the living room, the night-light spilled sideways across the sofa bed. Poppy was asleep on her side, Bunny tucked beneath her chin, one small hand open on top of the blanket like she had just lost a negotiation with her own dream. Her long bangs covered half her forehead. Her breathing was slow. Steady.I had checked on her four times in twenty minutes.Five, if you counted the fact that my eyes kept going back there like an emotional boomerang that didn’t know when to quit.The front door made a soft sound.I lifted my head.Footsteps ent

I slept like someone had pulled the power cord out of my body.Not the pretty kind of sleep, like a woman in a perfume ad who wakes up with perfectly tousled waves and naturally pink lips, that sweet little lie capitalism keeps selling. No. I slept like an aristocratic corpse finally giving up after three generations of family drama.And the dream was warm.So strange.Usually, when I’m stressed, my brain produces absurd dreams. Javier selling Theo to a museum. Poppy running for president of Monaco on an anti-broccoli platform. Sebastian standing at an altar holding a hospital invoice. Normal things, really, for a woman whose life had lost the plot a long time ago.But this time, it was just warm.My body felt heavy, comfortable, wrapped in something that wasn’t too hot and wasn’t too cold. There was the scent of clean soap, skin, a little black tea, and something deeper, older, something that had once clung to the pillows of my younger years like a fragrant sin.“…I’m with my wife.”

The private doctor arrived at seven minutes to four.Sebastian had been in the living room since three-twenty, as if those seven minutes of potential lateness could bring civilization to its knees.I was sitting on the long sofa near the window, one leg folded to the side, a champagne silk robe falling lazily over my body, my hair clipped up carelessly with a black claw clip, and an expression that, according to Salma a few minutes ago, made me look like I was ready to murder one man before lunch and still look beautiful at his funeral.I didn’t argue.On the coffee table sat the medical file.Not one ordinary thin folder. Not a folded prescription paper. No. A file. Thick. Organized. With sticky notes. Medication times. Poppy’s temperature every few hours. Meal notes. Cough times. Medication response. There was even a small page that, unless my eyes were failing me, contained a list of questions for the doctor.I stared at it, then at Sebastian, who was standing near the window in a