All Chapters of The Billionaire's Nympho Secretary : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Teresa's POV “But you’re saying it like her pain doesn’t matter!” I cried out. “Like her broken reality is just… an inconvenient fact to be managed!”“It doesn’t matter to me,” he said immediately, his voice hardening. “Not in the way you’re implying. She is not part of my life. She never was in any real way. I didn’t choose her. I didn’t lead her on. I didn’t make a single promise to her. I do not feel responsible for her illness or her feelings.”His words were cold, clear, and logical. And they made my stomach drop.I stared at him, a slow chill spreading through my chest. “Do you hear yourself?”“I am being honest,” he continued, his tone unwavering. “She is a sad situation, but she is not my situation. My responsibility, if I have one, ended when I was a child forced to play with her. I owe her nothing. Especially not my life.”“That’s… that’s not what I meant,” I said quietly, the fight seeping out of me, replaced by a hollow ache. “I’m not asking you to be responsible for her.

Teresa's POV I came back to the hotel room much later than I had intended. The city lights had fully come on, painting the hallway in a dim, golden glow. I stood outside the door for a full minute, my hand raised, knuckles hovering an inch from the wood. I felt like a stranger, unsure if I was still allowed to enter. I hadn’t texted. I hadn’t called. I had just walked, and thought, and finally turned my feet back toward him, hoping he would still be there.The door swung open almost before I could finish knocking.Mark stood in the doorway. He looked like he hadn’t moved since I left. His shirt was slightly wrinkled, his hair looked like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly, and his eyes were dark and intense.“Where were you?” he asked.His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t gentle either. It was tight, strained, like a wire pulled too far.“I told you,” I said, my own voice quiet. “I needed air.”“You were gone for three hours and twenty-two minutes,” he said, his gaze scan

Teresa's POV I woke up slowly, not because I was well rested, but because my body ached in that quiet, warm way that was a detailed map of the night before. My back felt sore, a dull throb from being held against the headboard. My thighs felt heavy, muscles remembering the strain of holding him close. My skin felt sensitive everywhere, a phantom memory of his hands and mouth, like I’d been touched too much and not enough at the same time. The room was gray with early morning light. Not bright yet. Just enough to see shapes—the rumpled sheets, the dark shape of his suit jacket thrown over a chair, the sharp lines of his phone on the nightstand. The curtains barely moved with the conditioned air from the vent. The city outside was quiet, a low hum that hadn’t yet built into daytime roar. Mark was still asleep. That alone felt strange, like catching a predator off guard. I turned my head on the pillow to look at him. He lay on his back, one arm thrown heavily across my waist. I

Teresa's POV The blood drained from my face. My hands started to shake. This wasn’t Evelyn’s frantic, emotional style. This was cold, pointed, and far more frightening. I didn’t reply. I turned on my heel and started back toward the hotel, my pace fast, almost a jog.---Mark wasn’t in the room when I returned. The emptiness was a relief and a new source of anxiety. I paced, the cryptic messages burning in my mind.About twenty minutes later, the door opened. It wasn’t Mark. It was Anthony, holding a small paper bag. “Mr. Rexona asked me to bring you this. He said you might not have eaten.” He placed the bag on the side table—it smelled of fresh pastry and coffee. He didn’t leave immediately, his posture alert but not intrusive.“Thank you, Anthony,” I said, my voice tight.“Ma’am.” He gave a short nod. As he turned to leave, his sleeve pulled back slightly, revealing a thick, ropy scar that ran from his wrist up his forearm. A old, violent injury. Our eyes met for a fraction of a se

Teresa's POV I squeezed my eyes shut, but the past didn’t care about my defenses.High school hallway. The smell of industrial cleaner and cheap perfume. Lockers slamming. A group of girls, led by my former best friend, standing by my locker. Their laughter was sharp, meant to cut.“She thinks she’s so special because he talked to her.”“Whore.”“She’d sleep with anyone to get ahead.”The words painted on my locker in red lipstick. The stares that followed me for months.I pressed my forehead hard against my knees, my arms wrapped around my legs, and forced myself to count breaths. In. Out. One. Two. Three. The panic attack slowly receded, leaving a hollow, shaky exhaustion in its wake.After a few minutes, I stood up on unsteady legs and splashed cold water on my face. I stared at my reflection in the mirror. I looked normal. A little pale, maybe. But fine. I didn’t feel fine. I felt scraped raw.When I returned to my seat, the two women were gone. My half-finished coffee was cold.