All Chapters of Slaving the Lady Billionaire: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The private jet cut through the night sky like a blade honed to perfection, its engines humming with a low, unrelenting authority. Inside the cabin, everything was controlled luxury—cream leather seats, polished wood panels, muted gold lighting designed to soothe nerves that refused to be soothed.Celeste Montaire sat by the window, her posture immaculate, her expression carefully neutral. The city lights below had long disappeared, replaced by endless clouds illuminated faintly by the moon. She watched them drift by, untouchable and distant, and thought bitterly that they mirrored her own life perfectly.Across from her sat Arrow De La Vega.Not beside her. Across.The distance between them was deliberate, engineered like every other aspect of their marriage. Space could be calculated. Boundaries could be enforced. At least, that was the lie they both told themselves.Arrow had removed his suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing the sharp lines of muscle beneath pri

Arrow De La Vega’s mother did not announce her arrival.She never had.The penthouse knew before Celeste did—the subtle shift in atmosphere, the tightening of space, the quiet sense that something sharp had entered the room. Celeste felt it as she reviewed documents at the dining table, the words blurring slightly on the screen as unease crept up her spine.Then came the sound of heels.Measured. Unhurried. Certain.Celeste looked up just as Margaret De La Vega stepped inside, her presence commanding without effort. She wore a navy suit tailored to precision, pearls resting at her throat like armor. Her silver hair was swept into a flawless chignon, her expression cool and unreadable.No assistant. No warning.“Celeste,” Margaret said, voice smooth as polished steel.Celeste rose slowly, setting her tablet aside. “Mrs. De La Vega.”Margaret’s gaze swept over her with clinical efficiency, as though assessing a potential acquisition rather than a daughter-in-law. “You look tired.”“It’s

Celeste sensed it before the meeting even began.The Montaire boardroom had always been her battlefield—long glass table, floor-to-ceiling windows, the city spread below like something she owned by right and blood. Today, however, the air felt wrong. Tighter. Too still. The kind of silence that preceded a controlled detonation.She took her seat at the head of the table, spine straight, tablet placed precisely in front of her. Faces looked back at her—some familiar, some guarded, one or two already avoiding her gaze.That was new.“Let’s begin,” Celeste said calmly.The presentation started smoothly enough. Projections. Timelines. Market expansion figures she had personally vetted the night before. For the first ten minutes, everything aligned.Then the cracks appeared.“Excuse me,” one of the board members interrupted, sliding a document across the table. “These supplier contracts—why are they missing the final signatures?”Celeste frowned. “They were signed two weeks ago.”Another v

The penthouse was too quiet.Not the calm kind of quiet, but the kind that pressed in on Celeste’s ears until every breath sounded too loud, every thought too sharp. The city below glittered through the windows, indifferent to the war unfolding behind glass and steel.Celeste stood in the kitchen, fingers curled tightly around a glass of water she hadn’t touched. Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened window—composed, immaculate, furious.She hated this part.The waiting. The pretending that what they were doing didn’t matter.Arrow stood across the room, jacket discarded over a chair, sleeves rolled, posture taut. He had been pacing in controlled lines for the past ten minutes, every movement restrained like a caged instinct.“You’re angry,” he said finally.She let out a short laugh. “You think?”“No,” he replied quietly. “I know.”She turned to face him. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch your life be rewritten in real time? To have strangers decide who

The wanting becomes a constant ache.Not sharp enough to scream, not dull enough to ignore—just always there, pressing against Celeste’s ribs until breathing feels like work. It settles in the spaces between conversations, in the careful way Arrow avoids touching her when they’re alone, in the way his hand still instinctively reaches for her back before stopping short.They live on opposite sides of the same bed now.Not physically—neither of them has crossed that line again—but emotionally, there’s a chasm where something fragile used to live. Distance was supposed to save them. Instead, it’s stretching the tension until it hums.They fight less.That’s how she knows it’s worse.Arguments at least released pressure. Silence only compresses it.One evening, Celeste finds Arrow in the kitchen, jacket discarded, tie loosened, staring at his phone like it’s delivered bad news he’s been expecting. The city outside the windows glows cold and distant.“You’re home late,” she says.He doesn’