Lahat ng Kabanata ng Runaway Heiress: The Billionaire’s Forgotten Bride: Kabanata 331 - Kabanata 340

The penthouse living room, once a showroom of Italian minimalism and architectural rigor, had been conquered.The victor was twenty-six inches long, weighed fifteen pounds, and was currently covered in smashed avocado.Aurora sat on the floor, a linen napkin in her hand, laughing as Hope slammed her palms onto the tray of her high chair. Splat. Green mush flew everywhere—onto the Persian rug, onto the glass coffee table, and onto the nose of the billionaire CEO of Cross Industries."I think she likes it," Liam said, wiping guacamole from his cheek with a solemn dignity that only made it funnier."She doesn't like it," Ethan corrected from his perch on the sofa armrest. "She's attacking it. It's a texture war.""It's exploring," Aurora said. She reached out and wiped a glob of green from Hope’s chin. "It's sensory integration."Hope looked at her mother. Her dark blue eyes—Cross eyes—sparkled with a mischief that was entirely her own. She grinned, revealing two bottom teeth that had er

The sun was different here.In New York, the sun was a spotlight. It glared off glass towers, exposing every crack in the pavement and every flaw in the foundation. It demanded performance.Here, on the private island of Parrot Cay, the sun was a blanket. It was warm, heavy, and golden, pressing down on Liam Cross’s shoulders like a physical command to stop moving.He lay on a teak lounge chair under a white umbrella. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was wearing swim trunks—navy blue, because old habits die hard—and a linen shirt unbuttoned to his chest. His phone was in the villa safe, locked away with his watch and his anxiety.He looked down the beach.The sand was white powder, blindingly bright against the turquoise water. And playing at the edge of the surf were the only three people in the world who mattered.Aurora was sitting in the shallow water. She wore a black swimsuit and a wide-brimmed hat. She was holding Hope, who was now six months old and covered in sand.Ethan was stan

The café was called L’Artusi. It was tucked away in the West Village, a slice of Paris dropped onto a Manhattan corner. It smelled of espresso, almond croissants, and secrets.Sophia Laurent sat at a small marble table near the window. She was wearing a trench coat the color of honey and sunglasses that cost more than the rent of the apartment above them. She was tapping her fingernails—painted a daring, vibrant coral today—against the porcelain cup.Aurora walked in.She looked... good.That was the first thing Sophia noticed. For months, Aurora had looked like a sketch of herself—faint lines, gray shading, easily erased. Today, she looked like a finished portrait. She wore a simple white shirt and jeans, but she wore them with authority. The iron ring on her finger glinted in the afternoon sun."You're late," Sophia said, checking her watch. "Two minutes.""I was negotiating," Aurora said, sliding into the chair opposite her. "Hope wanted to wear her pajamas to the park. We settled

The penthouse was filled with balloons.Not the tacky, primary-colored kind. These were tasteful, pearlescent balloons in shades of cream, blush, and a soft, shimmering gold. They floated against the ceiling like giant, festive pearls.Aurora stood in the center of the living room, holding a cake.It was a smash cake. Vanilla sponge, white buttercream, and a single, perfect strawberry on top. It wasn't a masterpiece of architectural design. It was lopsided. The frosting was uneven.It was the most beautiful thing she had ever made."Is it time?" Ethan asked. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, wearing a party hat that was slightly too small for his eight-year-old head. "She's awake. I heard her babbling.""It's time," Aurora said.She looked at Liam.He was standing by the stereo, cueing up the playlist. He wore jeans and a t-shirt that said * Dad of the Birthday Girl *. He looked tired—he always looked tired—but his eyes were bright."Ready?" he asked."Ready," Aurora said.The

The photography studio in Chelsea was a cavern of white. White walls, white floor, white cyclorama curve that made the space look infinite.It was the same kind of space where Isabella had forged the deepfakes. But this wasn't a forgery. This was the truth.Aurora sat in the makeup chair. She wasn't wearing armor today. She was wearing a deep emerald silk dress that draped softly over her body, highlighting the strength in her shoulders and the ease in her posture."Chin up, Mrs. Cross," the photographer said. He was famous. He shot covers for Vogue and Time. "Catch the light."Aurora lifted her chin. She looked into the lens.She didn't see a camera. She saw the millions of people who had read her medical files. She saw the commenters who had called her broken.And she smiled.It wasn't a defiant smile. It was a serene smile. The smile of a woman who knew exactly where the floor was because she had hit it and bounced back."Perfect," the photographer murmured. Click."Okay, bring in