Lahat ng Kabanata ng HER BILLIONAIRE’S SECRET SON.: Kabanata 31 - Kabanata 40

Larry’s POVThe sun began to dip lower in the sky, bleeding hues of bruised purple and burnt orange across the horizon before casting long, soft shadows deep into the nursery. The room was warm, the golden hour light catching the dust motes that danced in the air, creating a scene that felt disconnected from the cold, clinical reality of the rest of the mansion. It was filled with the scent of lavender from the evening bath and the quiet, rhythmic hum of a house that was finally learning how to breathe. For years, this estate had been a machine, efficient, silent, and devoid of soul. Now, it felt alive.Liam was starting to tire. The frantic, joyful energy of the afternoon had begun to ebb away. His movements were slower now, his small hands fumbling with the last of the wooden blocks, his eyelids drooping as he sat amidst the colorful wreckage of our final, ambitious tower. We had spent the last hour building structures far too tall to stand, only to watch them tumble with a clatte

Megan’s POVI needed to see Liam. I needed to see the living, breathing reason I had stood my ground against a man who looked like he was carved out of prehistoric ice. I needed to remind myself what I was fighting for, and that the "history" Richard Trent spoke of was just ink on paper compared to the life I was protecting.When I entered the room, the soft glow of the nightlight casting long, gentle shadows, I found Larry there. The sight caught me off guard. He had clearly just returned from his meetings; his charcoal wool coat was tossed haphazardly over the railing of the crib, a rare sign of disarray for a man so meticulously composed. He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, watching Liam sleep with an intensity that bordered on the sacred.The sight of him, this powerful, complicated man, a titan of industry who could move markets with a phone call, reduced to a quiet, solitary sentinel, made the air finally return to my lungs. The crushing weight of Richard’

Megan’s POVI looked up at Larry. He was standing over us, his face a mask of practiced calm, but I saw the flicker of tension in his jaw. He hadn't expected me to break the choreography.But as I held my son in the middle of that storm of light, I didn't feel like a queen or a bakery girl. I felt like a mother. And for the first time that night, the smile I gave the cameras wasn't for the press. It was a baring of teeth.The interior of the museum was an expanse of cold marble and echoing vaulted ceilings, filled with the scent of lilies and expensive perfume. It was a "Black and White" gala, a sea of monochromatic elegance that made my emerald dress feel like a deliberate act of defiance.We moved through the crowd like a royal procession. People parted for Larry, their faces masks of polished sycophancy. They whispered as we passed, their eyes darting to the diamonds at my neck and the way Larry’s hand never left the small of my back."The girl is stunning," I heard a woman mu

Megan’s POVThe aftermath of the gala felt like a hangover, but the headache wasn't from champagne; it was from the sheer weight of the lie we were living. I sat in the dim light of the nursery, the emerald dress, a crumpled heap of silk on the floor, looking like discarded skin. I was back in my old, gray Seattle sweatshirt, the one with the frayed cuffs and a faint bleach stain near the hem. It was the most honest thing in this room.Larry had retreated to the armchair in the corner. He looked shattered, the razor-sharp confidence of the "Big Man" dulled by the coldness of our walk back to the suite. He tried to speak, but the words died in his throat every time I looked at him.The silence was broken by a sound that made my blood turn to ice.It wasn't a cry. It was a shallow, rhythmic wheeze. I was at the crib in a heartbeat. Liam was tossing fitfully, his cheeks a deep, bruised crimson. When I pressed my palm to his forehead, I gasped. He wasn't just warm; he was radiating he

Larry’s POV I sat in the dark of the security hub, the room illuminated only by the glow of twenty different camera feeds. Dominic was standing behind me, his posture military-stiff. "I’m sorry to be the one to bring this to you, sir," Dominic said, his voice a practiced monotone. "But the perimeter breach on Tuesday was confirmed. Ms. Clarke spent twenty minutes with the subject before returning through the west garden entrance." "And you have a name for this subject?" I asked, my eyes fixed on a screen showing Vivienne leaving the kitchen wing. "Caleb Miller. A former associate from her time in Seattle. We’ve traced a series of encrypted messages between them going back to the gala." "Encrypted messages," I repeated. "On a phone I provided?" "She must have obtained a secondary device, sir. It’s a common tactic." I stood up and turned to face him. Dominic was a tall man, built like a wall, with eyes that never quite settled on anything. He was a professional, but I had