All Chapters of The Billionaire's Regret: Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

The key turned softly in my palm.I stepped inside without switching on the foyer lights. Reflex. As if turning the house bright would let everything that just happened slip in with the light and stand in the middle of the rug like an uninvited guest.I kicked off my shoes by the door. The heels landed without a sound, but my heart still felt like something thrown from the tenth floor.The air inside the house was… different. Warm. There was the clean scent of fresh laundry from the linens, a hint of lavender from the diffuser Salma loved to refill, and a trace of whatever Hazel had reheated earlier. This house always smelled like someone was waiting. Even when I was alone.I walked slowly into the living room.And stopped.The thick rug, usually immaculate, had been transformed into an island. A large blanket spread out like a tent. Pillows stacked into a fortress. Poppy’s stuffed animals scattered everywhere. A unicorn. A rabbit with one ear permanently shorter than the other. A Bar

The door opens again, soft and controlled, and Luc walks back in. “Sorry,” he says, nudging the door shut with his hip. “Board call. They wanted to make sure we’re not turning Monaco into, quote, ‘a place where rich people learn how to be human.’”I lift a brow. “They’re late. That’s already the city’s unofficial slogan.”Luc laughs under his breath, then moves to the end of the conference table. He grabs a marker and writes two words on the whiteboard along the wall: Narrative and Numbers.“Next week’s presentation,” he says, slipping seamlessly back into work mode. “We have two types of investors. The ones who care about the story, and the ones who care about the math. I want our deck to speak to both without sounding bipolar.”I nod, already stepping into safer territory. This is mine while Sebastian is still in the room.He hasn’t said a word since that last sentence, but his attention clings to me anyway, a pressure along my skin like a touch that never quite lands. I try to shov

I lean my head back against the seat and let out a long breath, like my lungs are finally remembering their job. Monaco slides past the window in its annoying postcard version. Clean sidewalks. Glittering storefronts. Beautiful people carrying expensive coffee and polite little problems.I close my eyes.Poppy’s face comes first.Messy bangs. Maple-syrup mouth, even though she hadn’t had any. “MOMMY SAID I WIN.”Then those cold blue eyes.Then the silence in the conference room.Shit.“If Sebastian asks a single question about my kid,” I say, still not opening my eyes, “I will burn Monaco to the ground and call it a yacht accident. I’m serious, Dan.”Daniella turns her head, studies me for two seconds, then nods with an expression so solemn it could be carved into stone. “Noted,” she says. “I’ll prep the alibi.”I open one eye and look at her.She gives a tiny shrug. “If we’re committing crimes, we still have to be organized.”A snort escapes me, something almost like a laugh, almost

I leaned back against the headboard, bare feet on the duvet, my thin cream silk pajamas already torn a little at the sleeve, no idea when that happened. The laptop sat closed beside me, Montreux documentation abandoned.Hazel and Rhea were now in their respective guest rooms. The last thing I’d heard was them debating whether eating cheese was healthier or if surrendering to a beautiful death was the better choice. Salma had left two hours ago, the house remaining in a status I’d call “relatively not on fire.”I took a long breath and closed my eyes for a moment. I could still smell the faint white-floral perfume drifting in from the kitchen, even though the flowers were already buried in the trash. A ghost of an expensive scent. Annoying.My phone vibrated against my chest. My eyes opened.The name on the screen: Adrian. His profile photo was a candid, Poppy on his shoulders with a serious face, and him looking resigned but happy. Hazel had taken that picture, and now it lived rent-f

My office is usually the safest place in Monaco.Not because of high-end security or bulletproof doors. Just because in here, everything has shape. Lines. Measurements. Numbers. Italian marble is Italian marble. An ugly chandelier is simply ugly. A know-it-all client can still be defeated with a thirty-slide PDF and a cold enough tone.Today, even this room feels like skin that’s too tight.I walked in fast, tossed my bag onto the little sofa by the window, and went straight to my desk. The computer was already on. The screen showed the Cannes hotel lobby render—travertine walls, cream sofas, a sculptural light fixture that cost as much as a small car and maybe one therapist.I stared at it for a long moment.Then sat.Then sipped my coffee.It was cold.“Perfect,” I told the cup. “I love when everything in my life arrives at the wrong temperature.”The office door cracked open a quarter of the way, and Daniella slipped in with a tablet and a folder, her hair thrown into a messy bun t