Semua Bab Pregnant For My Ex-Husband’s Billionaire Best Friend: Bab 61 - Bab 70

Patricia’s POV.The afternoon tea tasted bitter.I sat in my private drawing room in the West Wing, the velvet curtains drawn against the sun. The house was quiet. Too quiet.Cole and that... girl... had left over twenty four hours ago. Napa. A "babymoon."It sounded plausible. Cole was sentimental, and the girl was clearly milking the pregnancy for all it was worth. But something nagged at me.The clothes.Cole was wearing boots. Not the Italian leather loafers he wore for leisure, but heavy, dusted work boots. And the girl... she had looked too alert. Too sharp.I set my cup down on the saucer with a sharp clink.I picked up the phone."Get me the concierge at The Vineyard Estate in Napa," I ordered my assistant. "The one Cole usually uses."A minute later, the phone buzzed."I have the manager on the line, Madam.""Put him through.""Mrs. Lander," the manager’s voice was smooth, obsequious. "Whatever a pleasure. How can we serve you?""I’m just checking on my nephew," I said casual

Zara’s POV.The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed midnight. The sound was heavy and mournful, echoing through the empty, overheating house like a death knell.I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan which was spinning lazily, barely moving the stagnant air. Beside me, Leon was snoring—a wet, congested sound fueled by cheap whiskey and self-pity.I sat up slowly, testing the mattress springs. Leon didn't stir. He was out cold.Good.My heart was hammering against my ribs, a frantic rhythm of adrenaline and terror. The image of Henry at the grocery store—leaning against the firewood, smirking, two fingers to his temple—burned behind my eyelids. He wasn't going to wait. He was hungry. And if I didn't feed him, he would eat me alive.I slipped out of bed, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. I grabbed my silk robe and wrapped it tight around my swollen belly.I’m doing this for us, I told the baby. I’m doing this so we can leave.I crept out of the bedroom and down the grand

Leon’s POV.The silence in the Adams estate was deafening. It wasn't the peaceful quiet of a home, it was the stagnant, heavy silence of a mausoleum.I sat at the kitchen island, staring at a stack of unpaid bills. The electricity was due. The water was due. The landscapers had already quit, leaving the once-pristine hedges to grow wild and unruly, a perfect metaphor for my life. The marble countertops, usually gleaming, were dulled by a layer of dust because we couldn't afford the cleaning service anymore.I poured cheap whiskey into my coffee mug. It was 11:00 AM, but time didn't matter when you were watching your empire crumble. The liquor burned my throat, a familiar and necessary pain."I’m going out!" Zara called from the foyer.I looked up, my eyes narrowing through the haze of alcohol.Zara breezed into the kitchen. She looked impeccable. She was wearing a new floral dress—silk, by the look of the drape—and her hair was blown out perfectly. She smelled of expensive perfume, a

Cole’s POV.Forty-eight hours.That’s how long we sat in the penthouse, watching the monitors, waiting for the inevitable strike.The waiting was excruciating. Sabrina tried to keep busy sketching designs, but I saw her hand trembling every time a phone rang. I spent the time coordinating with Vance, turning the Santa Barbara safe house into a fortress.It was Tuesday night when the call finally came.The secure line on the desk lit up. VANCE - PRIORITY ONE.I grabbed it instantly. "Talk to me.""They’re here," Vance’s voice was clipped, breathless. Background noise—shouting, the pop of suppressed gunfire—filtered through the line."Status," I barked, my heart leaping into my throat. Sabrina dropped her pencil and rushed to my side."Three bogies," Vance reported. "Professional. Night vision gear, suppressed weapons. They breached the perimeter fence at 0200 hours. They bypassed the silent alarms like they weren't even there. Kane’s best guys.""Did they get to the house?""They tried

Zara’s POV.The heat in the Adams Estate was unbearable. It was a physical weight, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on my chest like a judgment.With the bank accounts frozen and the bills unpaid, the electric company had finally made good on their threat. At exactly noon today, the low, comforting hum of the refrigerator died. The central air conditioning sputtered into silence. The smart-home system blinked off, leaving the control panels dark and useless.The estate, once a palace of climate-controlled luxury and infinite comfort, was now just a stifling box of stagnant air. The smell of rotting fruit began to waft from the kitchen, sweet and sickly.I sat on the edge of the master bed, fanning myself with a glossy Vogue magazine I had stolen from the dentist’s waiting room last week. Sweat trickled down the valley of my spine, ruining my silk blouse—one of the few clean ones I had left since the dry cleaners stopped taking our credit."This is hell," I whispered to the empty r