Semua Bab I Married the Man My Ex Could Never Compete With : Bab 1 - Bab 10

Adrian POV She doesn’t look back at the chapel. Good. Most people do. The doors close behind her. The noise dulls instantly, swallowed by tinted glass and engineered silence. The orchestra fades into something faint and pathetic. She stands there for half a second on the pavement, veil shifting in the wind, cameras exploding around her. She doesn’t flinch. Interesting. I open the rear door myself. She looks at me once. Measures. Then slides inside without asking permission or destination. Good. The door shuts. The chaos becomes distant. Manageable. “Driver,” I say calmly. “Penthouse.” The car moves. She sits straight despite the weight of silk and humiliation. Hands folded in her lap. Back unbent. Chin level. The bouquet is gone. Marcus left with urgency. She left with control. There’s a difference. Ten seconds pass.”Explain.” No tremor. No crack. “You need protection,” I say. She turns slowly. “I need honesty.” “That too.”Her eyes study me openly now. Not emotio

Lydia POV “Good.” The word leaves my mouth quietly, but it doesn’t soften anything between us. Adrian doesn’t smile. He doesn’t step closer. He steps back instead, and that restraint feels far more dangerous. “Rest,” he says evenly. “Tomorrow will be worse.” He says it like weather. Like rain is coming and we simply need umbrellas. I hold his gaze a second too long before turning down the hallway. I don’t look back, but I can feel his eyes on me, steady, measuring. Not protective. Not romantic. As if I’ve become an asset he’s still calculating the value of. The guest suite door shuts behind me, sealing in a different kind of silence than the one at the chapel. That silence had been public humiliation. This one feels suspended, like something waiting to snap. I sit on the edge of the bed, still wearing his shirt. It brushes mid-thigh, crisp cotton that smells faintly of starch and something colder beneath it. Controlled. Like him. My phone lights up again. Marcus: 12 missed ca

Adrian POV I wake before the sun. Not because I slept well. Because control requires preparation. The city outside the penthouse windows is still dark, towers reduced to silhouettes against a slow gray horizon. For a moment, everything is quiet enough that last night almost feels theoretical. Almost. The clinic report sits open on my tablet where I left it. 99.9% probability. Paternity confirmed. Data. Verified. Irrefutable. Emotion has no role here. Confirmation removes uncertainty. And uncertainty is inefficiency. I stand, already dressed, and move toward the kitchen as market alerts begin lighting up my phone. Our marriage announcement has rewritten the morning cycle. Cole Industries: rising. Hale Global: unstable. Media headlines scroll across the screen. Strategic Marriage Shocks Corporate World. Adrian Cole Secures Political Advantage. Abandoned Bride Reemerges as Power Player. Narratives are forming exactly as predicted. Except now there is a variable none of

Adrian POV Marcus chooses my office. That tells me everything before he even walks in. Not neutral ground. Not a restaurant. Not a private club where reputation softens behavior. He comes to my territory. Angry people always do that when they want control back. They believe proximity equals leverage. It doesn’t. I finish reading the quarterly projections before acknowledging his arrival. Timing matters. Power is often nothing more than deciding who waits. My assistant’s voice comes through the intercom. “Mr. Hale is here.” Of course, she still uses his surname. The old hierarchy dies slowly. “Send him in.” The doors open immediately. Marcus doesn’t hesitate. He walks in like he still owns spaces built by our family name. Same confident stride. Same tailored arrogance. But anger ruins precision. His movements are sharper than usual. Less controlled. Good. He stops across my desk. We don’t shake hands. “We need to talk,” he says. “We are.” His

Lydia POV The café is deliberately ordinary. That’s the first thing I notice when the car stops outside. No photographers. No velvet ropes. No elite clientele pretending not to stare. Just glass windows, warm lighting, and people who don’t recognize me immediately. Neutral ground. Carefully chosen. Adrian’s security team protested when I approved the meeting. I approved it anyway. Not because I trust Selene. Because I refuse to hide. I step out of the car, aware of the discreet distance maintained by security. Close enough to intervene. Far enough to pretend privacy exists. Inside, the air smells like coffee and citrus polish. Selene is already there. She sits near the window, one hand resting lightly over her stomach, posture composed in a way that looks natural until you realize how intentional it is. Fragile. Soft. Sympathetic. She looks up as I approach and smiles gently, as if we are acquaintances meeting for lunch instead of rivals standing in the wreckage of the