All Chapters of The Billionaire's Regret: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

I open the CAD file for the accessory shelving. Gray-blue lines fill the screen. One hundred twenty centimeters, forty deep, distance between shelves, position of the hidden strip lighting. Things that can be measured. Things that can be controlled. Not like a man who sends you a photo of your child and then disappears behind a black sedan.The mouse moves almost on its own, my hand already trained. Slightly rounded corners. Change the profile. Add a note: “satin brass, no mirror finish. We are not a casino.”An email pings at the corner of the screen. A small tab starts blinking.From: the lighting supplier in Milan.Subject: “Re: Custom chandelier – Montreux Sky Lobby”Montreux wants attention too. Their investor might be busy stalking my daughter at the school fence, but his project still moves forward. Irony at its finest.I open the email. The sketch of the pendant light we discussed last night sits in the attachment: a large circle, a slim, almost invisible structure with tiny g

Our office pantry is basically a tiny kitchen with big delusions of grandeur: white subway tile backsplash, quartz countertop, a coffee machine that costs more than an intern’s salary, built-in fridge, and wooden shelves full of mismatched mugs.As soon as we step out, the office greets us with sound: keyboard clacks, the occasional ring of a phone, low voices from the closed meeting room. Poppy pulls me past the rows of desks, her crooked ponytail bouncing.“Hi, Luca!” she calls out to my architect, who’s hunched over his screen.Luca turns, hair tied back haphazardly, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows. “Oh, buongiorno, Boss P,” he greets her with a smile. “How’s the table council?”“Center,” Poppy corrects instantly. “The Center Council. We powerful.”“Of course.” Luca presses a hand to his chest in mock solemnity. “I’ll be careful when I pick the lights now.”“Do that,” Poppy fires back, then keeps walking.At the next desk, Marta, who is usually stoic, gives a small wave. “Ciao,

Morning arrives with Poppy screaming from the end of the hallway.“Salmaaa! Hazel snores like a broken tractor!”One second later, a sofa cushion floats gently through the air and lands in what I assume is the general area of Hazel’s face.“Penelope… if you throw something at my face before nine a.m. again… I’m selling all your glitter on eBay…” Hazel grumbles.Poppy laughs hysterically.I stand in the bedroom doorway, shoulder against the frame, coffee mug in hand. Hair twisted into a lazy bun, oversized T-shirt, shorts. My eyes are still heavy, but my brain has been running a marathon since dawn. The remnants of last night’s conversation with Adrian cling to the back of my neck like a kiss I never asked for.Sebastian told Adrian he met Poppy. Sebastian sent the ribbon. Sebastian sent the messages.Now Sebastian wants Montreux.Truly, the kind of ex-husband who has never learned the phrase “leave people alone, including your ex-wife.”“Jazz, I’m officially convinced this rug is as h

I step into their circle with a walk my body remembers from before I had a child, before I had trauma that could show up in the shape of a navy ribbon and a three-line text.Back straight. Shoulders loose. A small smile that doesn’t invite anyone to feel close.Luc greets me first, as usual, far too friendly for someone whose life is concrete and deadlines. “Jasmine. Great timing. We’ll start with the facade mock-up, then head up to the sky lobby to check the lighting. Façade contractor’s ready.”I nod, eyes going to the mock-up, already slipping into the part of my brain trained to see what other people don’t care about: shadow lines, joints, sealant thickness, gaps between panels.“Morning, Luc.” My voice is steady. “Dani said you already took a first look.”“Yes. And…” Luc glances to the side, toward the man standing slightly apart, like the whole room orbits him. “Mr. Romano is here as well.”Naturally. As if that needed saying.I let my gaze travel over slowly, not because I’m af

“Don’t be stupid, Jas,” he says quietly. “You think I can’t do basic math?”I step in, closing the gap until I’m close enough to feel his breath. “You want numbers?” My voice drops, sharp. “Here’s the equation: Poppy’s father is Adrian.”His jaw ticks, rough. “Adrian,” he repeats, flat. “My brother.”“My fiancé.” I lift my chin. “The man who wakes up in the middle of the night to video call because she wants a story. The man she calls ‘Daddy’ every day. The man who pays her tuition, whose name is on the school records, on the clinic forms, the one Salma writes down on every emergency contact sheet. That’s her father.”A short pause.Something shifts in his face, the tiniest movement, and I’m not going to lie, it’s… satisfying. Not because I particularly care if his life suddenly gets complicated by the version I’ve built. But because for the first time in a long time, I’m not the only one taking hits.“You told the school,” he says, voice dropping, “that Adrian is her father.”“I told