All Chapters of Priced By My Billionaire Nemesis: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

Evelyn’s hand rested lightly on my arm as we approached the reception desk, her grip gentle but deliberate. She was dressed as she always was—elegant without effort, a soft wool coat buttoned neatly, a silk scarf tucked just so at her throat. To anyone else, she looked composed, graceful, unbreakable. But I had already learned how to read the subtleties: the way she paced herself, the pauses she allowed between steps, the careful conservation of energy she practiced without ever naming it.“I’ll check us in,” I said quietly.She smiled up at me, warm and approving, the kind of smile that felt like a gift every time she offered it. “Thank you, dear.”The oncology wing carried its own atmosphere—muted voices, the soft hum of machines, the measured rhythm of people moving with purpose but without urgency. Hospitals always felt suspended in time, as if the rest of the world had been asked to wait outside. I gave Evelyn’s name and date of birth, signed where required, and accepted the clip

They didn’t take the dress from me.Instead, they treated me as if the dress had already claimed me—and I was not meant to be separated from it again.The seamstress smoothed the bodice once more, checking the line across my collarbones, the way the lace settled over my hips. Another pair of hands adjusted the fall of the skirt so it would move correctly under light. Camille stepped in close, her presence calm and precise, lifting my chin gently with two fingers.“We’ll do the styling now,” she said. “There’s no time to redo this later. With the wedding in three days, this has to photograph perfectly today.”Three days.The number thudded quietly inside my chest.I nodded once. “Okay.”They worked around me as if I were something fragile and valuable, their movements careful, reverent. Camille applied the final touches without comment—softening the blush, refining the contour, brushing highlighter across the high points of my cheeks so the light would catch me correctly from every ang

Adrian knew he was drunk the moment the elevator doors closed behind him.Not the sloppy kind. Not the kind that blurred the world or dulled his edges. This was worse. This was the sharp, reckless kind—the kind that stripped away restraint and left truth standing naked in its place.The ride up felt too short. The mirrored walls reflected a version of himself he barely recognized—tie loosened, collar open, eyes darker than usual, jaw set too tightly. The numbers climbed in silence, and with each floor his control thinned, frayed by the relentless replay of lace and light and the memory of her mouth so close to his.The doors slid open.The penthouse was dark when he stepped inside, the city lights casting thin silver lines across the floor. Quiet. Still. Too still. He loosened his tie, dropped his jacket over the chair without caring where it landed, and stood there for a moment longer than necessary, breathing in air that still felt faintly like her.The space carried her presence. S

Evelyn’s house never answered its own door.It didn’t need to.The gates opened before I reached them, silent and smooth, as if the house itself had already decided I belonged here. Inside, everything moved with quiet precision—no greetings shouted, no footsteps hurried. This was a place that anticipated rather than reacted.The butler relieved me of my coat without comment. A maid appeared at once, already turning down the corridor.“She’s in her room,” she said gently. “It’s been a tiring day.”I nodded. “Thank you.”Evelyn’s bedroom was not a bedroom so much as a contained world. A sleeping area softened by layered light. A sitting space arranged for long hours. A small table near the window that held untouched tea and carefully measured medication.She lay propped against pillows when I entered, her hair loosely braided, her skin pale but her eyes warming as soon as she saw me.“There you are,” she said softly.“I came early,” I replied, crossing to her side.“I was hoping you wou

Behind me, he moved through the kitchen with ease—pulling plates, cutlery, two containers from the fridge. He didn’t rush. He didn’t hesitate. Every movement was economical, practiced, like someone used to kitchens that obeyed him. The soft clink of ceramic sounded too loud in the bright, immaculate space.When I stood to help, he looked at me.Not sharply.Just enough.The look didn’t reprimand. It corrected. As if I’d briefly forgotten my place in the equation and he was reminding me—silently—where it was.I sat back down.He plated the food, placed a dish in front of me, then one for himself, and sat.He didn’t ask if I wanted anything adjusted. He assumed I would eat what was given. The assumption landed heavier than a command.“Thank you,” I said.He didn’t answer.We ate in silence, the kind that pressed rather than rested.The overhead lights were too bright, reflecting off steel and marble, making everything feel exposed. I became acutely aware of how he didn’t look at me—how