All Chapters of The Biker's Favorite Sinner: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

 Lila’s POV THE ESTATE changed after the gunshot. It was subtle at first. More boots on the marble floors. Radios murmuring under breath. Doors that used to stay open now closed with deliberate clicks. Men I had known for years moved differently, hands closer to weapons, eyes sharper, posture tighter. The house breathed like a body under threat, holding itself ready to flinch. I felt it in my chest before I noticed it with my eyes. No one said I was in danger out loud, but everyone behaved like I was already marked. By evening, security had doubled. Cameras were checked twice. The garden paths were roped off. The old shed was sealed like a crime scene, yellow tape glaring against ivy and stone. Every choice I made was suddenly watched. Including where I would sleep. Adrian waited unti

Lila’s POVSLEEP REFUSED me.I lay in the dark of my old bedroom, listening to the estate settle into its false quiet. The gunshot replayed in my head, not the sound but the aftermath. Jacob’s body in front of mine. Adrian’s eyes watching it happen. The way the house seemed to tilt afterward, like it had chosen a side.I turned onto my back and stared at the ceiling.My skin still remembered Jacob’s hands from earlier. The way his touch had been careful, reverent, like he was holding something that could break him if he held it wrong. That memory burned hotter than fear.I swung my legs over the side of the bed.I told myself I just needed air. That I needed to see him to ground myself. Both were true, but they were not the whole truth.The corridor lights were dimmed. The house slept around me, but it was not unaware. I moved quietly, barefoot on

Lila’s POVTHE MOMENT the car stopped at the estate, I opened the door before the driver could.Adrian didn’t follow me inside.He had leaned in, adjusted his cufflinks, and said casually, “Go ahead. I need to speak with the reporter. Find out how they found us.”I nodded. I did not argue. I did not ask questions.We both knew the truth.He had called them.The realization burned quietly in my chest as I walked through the front doors alone. The house greeted me with familiar stillness, like it had been holding its breath all evening. The staff moved carefully, eyes averted, conversations stopping when I passed.I went straight to the library.It was the only room that still felt like mine.The library smelled like paper and polish and time. Tall shelves climbed toward the ceiling, packed with books that had survived generations of power struggles and quiet rebellions. The lamps were low, casting warm pools of light that softened the edges of everything.I closed the door behind me an

Lila’s POVTHE DOORS closed behind me, but the weight of Adrian’s gaze lingered longer than the metal walls around us.“You need to understand,” he said, voice low and deliberate, “that everything I do, I do for you.”I folded my arms across my chest. My legs felt suddenly heavy, as if the floor itself were trying to remind me I was still in his house, still in his orbit. “For me?” I asked, though the words came out quieter than I intended.He took a slow step closer, the kind of measured approach that always reminded me I could walk away—or choose not to. “Yes,” he said. “Every restriction, every order, every precaution. It’s not control. It’s protection.”I wanted to scoff, wanted to tell him that protection didn’t come with cameras and press statements and public kisses. But I didn’t. Not yet. I had learned, painfully, that words alone often fell flat against the force of his will.“You make it sound like a sacrifice,” I said finally. “Like you’re giving up something for me.”He no

Lila’s POVTHE KITCHEN was the only place in the estate that still felt like it remembered my father the right way.Not as a name attached to assets or a legacy wrapped in legal language, but as a man who stood by the counter with his sleeves rolled up, reading reports while drinking coffee that had gone cold. A man who believed the kitchen was where the truth of a house lived, not in its offices or grand rooms.Carol was chopping vegetables when I came in. Her movements were slow and practiced, as if the rhythm itself grounded her. She had been with my father since before I could read. Longer, even, than some of the walls had been repainted.She smiled when she saw me.“Miss Lila,” she said. “You look tired.”I leaned against the counter. “I feel like the house is louder lately.”Carol huffed softly. “That is what happens when people bring their intentions with them.”She handed me a glass of water without asking. She always did that. As if she knew I forgot myself when my thoughts r