Semua Bab The Billionaire’s Contract Wife Can't Let Go: Bab 11 - Bab 20

Dana POV: Jack Has CindyThe doctor just finished explaining, again, that with comas, no one knows. There’s no timeline or guarantees. Dad could wake up tomorrow, or he could stay like this for weeks, months, even years. I gaze through tears at my dad laying on the bed, an oxygen mask feeding him air that he used to take for free.Mom is crying, and she’s dabbing her makeup off with a napkin that has her club’s name on it: New York Boo, and every second or so, her eyes flash angrily at me. She's been going at me and my brothers. She points at me first, then swings it to Jack and Eddy slumped on the plastic chairs across the hall.“This is your fault, Dana,” she bawls. “All of it. You come back, you dragged this scandal home with you, and now look—sniff, sniff—your father’s in there because of the stress you caused.”She rounds on the boys, swiping at them with her New York Boo napkin. “And you two—sniff—flying across the country to play vigilante like some bad action movie. Making foo

Dana POV: The Internet Sensation We are back home, Jack and Eddie are sprawled on my bed, my phone screen still open to the email from Jodie's lawyer. We’ve read it three times since we got back. “Who even is this Jodie McGuire?” Jack asks.“She was there,” I mumble, recalling the painful event of that night. “The day Alex and I signed the divorce papers. Maybe she’s been waiting for this. She's going to marry him.”Eddie sits up his eyes narrowing. “What kind of lawsuit is this? What's she the one suing? Why not Alex?”“First Alex divorces you,” Jack fumes, "then he sends his new girl after you like some damn hound on a scent. What the hell is wrong with him?”I rub my temples, trying to keep my headache down. My brothers are angry again, the same hot, protective fury that got us into this mess in the first place. I love them for it, but right now it feels like gasoline on a fire I’m trying to stomp out.Jack glances at Eddie. “Bro, we messed up. We brought this on ourselves.”“Y

Dana POV: Fanny Is In New YorkI open the door, expecting the delivery guy with the art supplies I ordered, and instead Fanny Logan, Alex’s sister, is standing there, holding a crinkly paper bag bursting with bright begonias and what looks like the corner of a bakery box peeking out. Her dark hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, same as always, but her eyes are wide and uncertain, like she’s not sure she’s in the right place.“Hey, Dana,” she says. “Can I come in?”For a second I can’t move. My brain stalls and I glance past her to the street. The Uber that dropped her off is idling there, the driver tapping on his phone. She glances at the car too.“That’s my ride,” she adds quickly. “I came alone.”I step aside to let her in. Her eyes are sweeping the foyer, the high ceilings, the wide staircase that goes up to our rooms, the oil paintings on the walls that Mom insists are “investment pieces.” She gapes at the fireplace which many say is the best feature of my parent’s home.Fanny’

Dana POV: Her Brothers Don’t Like FannyFranny practically runs after me with the flier, trying to catch up as I march towards the car, angrily. The flier is making flapping noises in her hands as the strong October breeze tries to snatch it from her hand.“No way,” I snap. “I’m not having anything to do with that art event if it’s owned by Alex. That’s my ex-husband, Fanny. You don’t do stuff with an ex who dumped you five days ago. It’s too fresh.”“Well, that means you still love him,” she calls behind me. “And that’s a fine thing, isn’t it?”“What?” I stop dead and look at her. “Fanny, listen to yourself. It doesn’t matter if I still love him. He’s with someone else now. I can’t just show up at this thing he runs when Jodie’s probably going to be there hanging off his arm.”“But Alex doesn’t love Jodie.”“You don’t know that,” I reply, biting down on the urge to scream from the pain. “I know he does. They kissed right in front of me that night. He kissed her back.”Fanny rolls her

Alex POV: Invited To The Orsini HouseI hate balls. Always have. The stiff tuxedos, the fake smiles, the endless small talk that circles the same three topics of money, power, and who’s getting older faster than they’d like to admit.But Dad mandated my presence tonight, and I’m still trying to claw my way back into his good graces after the divorce headlines and the viral “street runner” fiasco. So here I am, standing in the grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Club, crystal chandeliers overhead and soft classic music in the air, listening to Alexander Byrne drone on.Byrne’s an English politician, old family friend, dark-haired and keen eyes. He’s been holding court for twenty minutes about the Club of Eight, its limitless opportunities, its quiet influence, the way it’s carried legacies across generations.His real concern, though, is the obvious one: the members are dying off.“We need younger blood,” he says, gesturing with his champagne flute. “Men who understand the future. Your