All Chapters of Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The "art of survival" was not a masterpiece. It was a daily, brutalist sketch.It was the 5 AM alarm on her burner phone, a jarring, digital sound that ripped her from a few hours of shallow, restless sleep on the lumpy attic mattress.It was the wave of acidic, sour nausea that greeted her before her feet even touched the cold, wooden floor. This was her new companion, the undeniable, physical proof of the life she was protecting.And it was the walk, in the blue-black, pre-dawn chill, across the slick, rain-wet cobblestones of the Marais, to a small, steamy-windowed café where she was not "Ariane Rousseau."She was just "l'Américaine."She had found the job on her third day, her forty-three dollars almost gone. She’d walked into the back alley, seen the mountain of dirty crates, and asked the owner, a gruff, flour-dusted man, for travail.He’d looked at her—the black, hacked-off hair, the cheap sneakers, the desperate, haunted eyes, and the one thing she couldn't hide: her hands, wh

Elias Ward’s card sat on the wobbly table for three days.It was a thick, cream-colored rectangle of heavy cardstock, a stark, elegant contrast to the cheap, peeling veneer of her attic room. It was a lifeline she was too terrified to grasp.He saw her. He had looked past the black dye, the cheap coat, and the haunted eyes, and he had seen the design. He had seen the fear.To call him was to step out of the shadows. It was to admit she was more than "Ariane Rousseau," the plongeuse. It was a risk.But staying invisible was a different kind of risk.She was in her fourth month. The nausea, which had been her constant, acidic companion, was finally receding, but it was replaced by a new, undeniable reality.She was sitting on her lumpy mattress, her back aching, her sketchbook open. She was trying to solve the problem of a pocket on a wool coat, when she felt it.It was not a flutter. It was not a whisper.It was a small, distinct, alien thump from within.Aurora’s pencil clattered to t

The adrenaline of the birth, the fire and the screaming, had evaporated.It left a silence in its wake, heavy and absolute, broken only by the sterile hum of the hospital lights and the distant, polite squeak of a nurse's shoes in the hallway.Aurora was hollowed out. She was a raw, aching, exhausted shell. Every part of her body throbbed with a dull, bruised pain.She was in a small, private room, the one Elias had arranged and paid for in cash, all under the name of Madame Ariane Rousseau.He was asleep in the chair by the window, his tweed coat still on, his silver hair a mess, his mouth slightly open. He looked ancient, a frail, paper-thin guardian who had wept himself into exhaustion.And in a clear, plastic bassinet by her bed, under the harsh fluorescent light, was the baby.Ethan.She had not held him since that first, shocking moment. After the midwife had placed him on her chest, after she had seen his eyes, she had flinched. A small, involuntary, violent recoil.The midwife

The new apartment was not a home. It was a workshop, a fortress, and a nursery, in that precise order.Elias had, as promised, "handled it." He had used Aurora's grandmother's money to lease a sprawling, light-filled apartment in his own building, all under the legal, paper-thin identity of "Ariane Rousseau."But the grand, empty rooms, with their high ceilings and herringbone floors, had been colonized.The living room was now a studio. Bolts of wool and silk were stacked against the walls like firewood. The floor was a minefield of pins and chalk marks. A single, pristine white rack stood in the center, holding the "Phoenix Rising" collection.It was no longer a sketch. It was an arsenal.And in the corner, by the tall, sunlit window, was the bassinet.Aurora’s life had become a rhythm of two heartbeats. There was the silent, frantic, obsessive beat of the designer, her mind lost in the architecture of a sleeve, her fingers bleeding from the needle.And then there was the sound of E

Her new life was measured in two sounds: the high, frantic whir of the Bernina sewing machine, and the soft, rhythmic breathing of her son.Nine months had passed since Elias had carried her, a broken, triumphant, terrified mother, from the hospital. Nine months since he had installed her in the new apartment in his building.The apartment was no longer a sanctuary. It was a factory.The living room, with its grand, light-filled windows, was a cocoon of creation and chaos. Bolts of wool and silk were stacked to the ceiling. A massive oak cutting table dominated the center, permanently dusted in chalk. Three dress forms, her silent, headless assistants, stood guard by the cold, marble fireplace.And in the corner, a fortress of his own, was Ethan.His world was a small, blanket-padded playpen, surrounded by a mountain of sketches, fabric swatches, and the silent, ever-present hum of his mother's work.Aurora, now "Ariane Rousseau" to the world, was a ghost in her own machine.She worke