Todos los capítulos de Sold to the Disfigured Billionaire: Capítulo 61 - Capítulo 70

Vance Tower. The Penthouse Office. 5 Minutes Later.The helicopter landed on the helipad amidst a swirl of black smoke and sparks. Liam kept the rotors spinning. "I can give you ten minutes, boss! Then the roof melts!""Five is enough," Sebastian unbuckled his harness. He grabbed his cane. He grabbed a heavy duffel bag. Harper checked the magazine of her pistol. Her hands were steady.They kicked open the roof access door. The heat was intense. The fire alarm was deafening. They walked down the stairs to the top floor executive suite.The door to Victoria’s office was locked. Sebastian didn't knock. He fired two shots into the lock. Bang. Bang. He kicked the door open.Inside, the air conditioning was still humming, fighting a losing battle against the heat.Victoria Vance stood by the window, watching the chaos below.Richard Vance sat in a chair, head in his hands, surrounded by shredded documents."You're late," Victoria turned around. She held a glass of scotch. Her makeup was perfe

The Atlantic Ocean. Off the Coast of West Africa. Day 3 of the Escape.The storm hit at midnight. The cargo ship The Rusty Bucket groaned as thirty-foot waves crashed against its hull. Inside the cargo hold, crates were sliding and smashing into the walls.Sebastian was unconscious. His fever was burning him from the inside out. He was thrashing, mumbling about "Julian" and "The Key." Harper had tied him to a heavy pipe with a rope so he wouldn't be thrown around by the ship's violent pitching."Hold on, Sebastian," Harper shouted over the thunder, wiping his forehead with a wet rag. "Just a little longer."Suddenly, a different sound cut through the roar of the storm. RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. Machine gun fire.The ship's alarm blared. "PIRATES! PIRATES BOARDING! ALL HANDS TO DECK!"Harper’s blood ran cold. Pirates. In the middle of a hurricane. These weren't desperate fishermen. These were professionals.She looked at Sebastian. He was defenseless. If they found him—a man in a ruined expensi

Casablanca. The Old Medina. Rue des Anglais, No. 7. 7:00 AM.The sign was barely visible under layers of dirt and graffiti: [ Veterinarian ]. Harper stared at it. A vet? Sebastian hung on her shoulder, his breathing shallow and rattling. He was burning up, his skin grey and clammy."This is it," Harper whispered. She kicked the door. Thud. Thud.A slide-slot opened. A pair of suspicious eyes peered out. "Closed. Come back tomorrow for the cat food.""I'm not here for cat food," Harper said in English, holding up the soggy piece of paper with the address. "I'm here for Dr. Braun. Louis sent me."The eyes narrowed. The slot slammed shut. Locks clicked. One. Two. Three. The heavy steel door creaked open.A man stood there. He was huge, bald, with a thick grey beard. He wore a stained butcher's apron over a surgical scrub top. Dr. Braun. The disgraced German surgeon who fixed people the world forgot.He looked at Sebastian. "Junkie?" Braun asked, seeing the tremors."Genetic withdrawal,"

The Strait of Gibraltar. 14 Kilometers of Darkness. 3:00 AM.The boat was a coffin with an engine. It was designed for twenty people. There were fifty crammed inside. Syrians, Sub-Saharan Africans, families with nothing but the clothes on their backs. And three fugitives: A doctor, a maid, and a fallen king.The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, diesel fumes, and fear. Waves smashed against the wooden hull, each impact sounding like a gunshot. Crack. Boom.Sebastian sat squeezed between Dr. Braun and a young mother clutching a crying baby. His legs were screaming in agony from the cramped position. The damp cold was seeping into his bones. But he didn't complain. He couldn't. Not when he looked at the woman next to him. Her feet were wrapped in plastic bags. She had walked across a continent to get here."Water..." the woman whispered, her lips cracked.Harper, sitting across from them, immediately handed over her canteen. "Here," she said gently. "Drink slowly."The wo

"Der Bunker" Nightclub. The Lab. 2:15 AM.The dust from the explosion hadn't even settled when the first Cleaner stepped through the breach. He was a mountain of a man, encased in black tactical armor, holding a suppressed submachine gun. He didn't speak. He just raised his weapon.Target acquired: Sterling.Sebastian didn't think. He didn't plan. His body moved before his brain could process the threat. It was a sensation he hadn't felt in years—fluidity. No pain in his knees. No stiffness in his spine. He lunged forward, closing the distance in a blur.The Cleaner fired. Phut. Phut. Sebastian side-stepped. The bullets shattered a glass beaker behind him. Sebastian grabbed the barrel of the gun with his left hand and drove his right fist into the Cleaner’s throat.CRACK. The sound of crushing cartilage was audible even over the muffled bass. The Cleaner dropped the gun, clutching his throat, gagging. Sebastian spun around and kicked him in the chest. The 250-pound man flew backward t