Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 261 - チャプター 270

The office of DarkTrace Analytics didn't look like a detective agency. It looked like a server farm inside a bunker.Located in a windowless sub-basement in TriBeCa, the room was kept at a constant sixty degrees to protect the hardware. The air hummed with the white noise of cooling fans and the faint, ozone smell of overheated processors.Liam sat on a steel stool, his elbows on a steel table. He hadn't changed his suit from yesterday. He hadn't shaved. He hadn't slept since he sat outside Aurora’s door, listening to the silence that felt like a verdict."Well?" Liam asked. His voice was a rasp.Across the table, a man named Chen—no first name, just Chen—typed on a keyboard that had no letters, just blank black keys."Patience, Mr. Cross," Chen said without looking up. "Digital forensics is like an autopsy. You can't rush the cut."On the massive wall of monitors in front of them, the photo of Liam and Vanessa in the Mercer Hotel lobby was dissected into layers.Red lines gridlocked

The brass lock was cool under her palm.Aurora stood barefoot on the hardwood floor of the master bedroom, the hem of her silk pajama bottoms brushing her ankles. The room behind her was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. The room was a sanctuary, a hospital, a fortress.But fortresses were lonely places.She rested her forehead against the mahogany door. She could hear the silence on the other side. It wasn't the empty silence of an abandoned hallway. It was a heavy, breathing silence.He was still there.Dr. Evans would be furious. Strict bedrest, she had commanded. No verticality.But Aurora’s heart was beating a rhythm that defied medical advice. It was the rhythm of the forensic report lying on the bed—mathematically impossible—and the rhythm of the baby who had kicked her ribs as if demanding she open the gate.Aurora turned the deadbolt.Click.The sound was small, mechanical, insignificant. But in the quiet penthouse, it sounded li

The study had been colonized.What was once a sanctuary of leather-bound books and silence was now a hub of high-frequency warfare. Three monitors were mounted on the wall. A whiteboard had been wheeled in, covered in Liam’s sharp, angular scrawl.Aurora lay on the chaise lounge, a duvet tucked around her legs, a heating pad at her back. She looked like an invalid queen holding court. But her mind was razor sharp, honed by forty-eight hours of terror into a weapon of precision."Release the forensic report at 10:00 AM," she said. Her voice was steady. "Time it with the market opening. Let the algorithms catch the phrase 'mathematically impossible' before the analysts finish their coffee."Liam stood by the window, phone in hand. He nodded. "Legal is drafting the cease-and-desist for the tabloid. We’re suing for defamation, libel, and emotional distress.""Don't just sue the tabloid," a rough voice said from the corner. "Sue the shell company. Name Argentum Consulting. Make the link pu

The television screen was the only source of light in the penthouse library.Isabella Voss sat in her high-backed velvet chair, a glass of Pinot Noir resting on the side table. The wine was a 1982 Burgundy—the year she had been promoted to Henry Cross’s executive assistant. The year she had thought she was winning.She swirled the dark red liquid, watching the vortex, as Liam Cross spoke on the screen.Someone with a very old grudge.Isabella smiled. It wasn't a warm smile. It was the smile of a grandmaster acknowledging a worthy opponent’s move."He didn't name me," she whispered to the empty room.It was smart. If he had named her, she would have sued him for libel within the hour. By leading the press to the breadcrumbs but refusing to point the finger, he had insulated himself while unleashing the hounds.The Times, the Journal, the bloggers—they were all currently running searches on "Argentum Consulting." By morning, her name would be everywhere."You learned well, Liam," she mu

The street below the penthouse wasn't a street anymore. It was a mosh pit of glass lenses and shouting mouths.Liam stood at the window of the living room, looking down seventy floors. Even from this height, the mass of people looked like a swarm of insects devouring a carcass. The police barricades, usually sufficient for a head of state, had been pushed back to the very edge of the lobby doors.Fifty photographers. Maybe sixty. Plus three news vans with satellite dishes extended like accusing fingers."They're not leaving," Liam said.He turned back to the room. The morning light was harsh, unfiltered by the clouds today. It illuminated the tension that had colonized the apartment overnight.Aurora sat on the sofa, clutching a mug of tea she wasn't drinking. Her face was gray. Every few minutes, she winced, her hand flying to her stomach as the noise from the street—a low, rhythmic chanting of CROSS! CROSS! CROSS!—penetrated the triple-paned glass."It’s the contractions," she whisp