His contract Bride, His secret child のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 41 - チャプター 50

Amara’s POV The silence in the sunroom was heavy, thick with the scent of lilies and the cold, sharp edge of a blade. I was back in the chair, my body feeling like it was made of lead. Eleanor Wolfe hadn't moved. She sat there, as elegant and terrifying as an ancient goddess of war, waiting for me to break. Mr. Harrison stood by the glass door, a silent sentinel in a charcoal suit. He wasn't a man; he was a machine that processed human lives into legal paragraphs. "The ten minutes are up, Amara," Eleanor said. Her voice was lower now, almost a whisper, which made it ten times more frightening. "The clock has stopped. Now, you tell me. Are you going to be sensible, or are you going to be a martyr for a child that will never know its father's name?" "I won't kill my baby," I said. My voice was raspy, but it didn't shake. I clutched the arms of the wicker chair until my knuckles were white. "And I

Adrian’s POV The interior of the Maybach was as silent as a vacuum, but the air inside felt heavy, like it was saturated with the coming storm. Outside, New York was a smear of grey rain and neon lights, a city that didn't care about the boardrooms or the empires being dismantled within its glass towers. I leaned my head against the cool leather of the headrest, closing my eyes. My temples throbbed with a rhythmic, dull ache. The board meeting had been a bloodbath. The Sterling-Wolfe merger was officially on the table, but the price had been my dignity. Julian Sterling had sat across from me, smiling that oily, triumphant smile, knowing he had me backed into a corner. "The liquidity bridge is ready, Adrian," Julian had said, sliding a pen toward me. "All we need is your signature on the final execution order. And, of course, the confirmation that the 'Amara variable' has been removed." I hadn't

Amara’s POV The salt-heavy wind of Cape Haven usually felt like a lullaby, but tonight, it sounded like a funeral dirge. I didn't turn on the lights in the shop. I didn't need them. I knew every inch of this cramped, thread-scented space by heart. My hands, swollen and trembling, moved with frantic precision. I shoved the few pieces of clothing I owned into a canvas duffel bag, my breath coming in short, jagged hitches that hurt my ribs. Miller knew. The thought looped in my head like a broken record. Miller had seen my face. He had seen the life I was carrying. And if the Alpha’s lead security guard knew, then the wall I had built around my life was already crumbling into the sea. I paused, leaning my weight against the cutting table as a sharp, pulling sensation radiated through my lower back. I was seven months pregnant—heavy, exhausted, and physically vulnerable. Running wasn't

Amara’s POV The bus hissed to a stop at three in the morning, the air brakes screaming like a dying animal. When the doors folded open, the smell hit me first. It wasn't the metallic, suffocating heat of the New York subway. It was salt. Cold, sharp, and biting salt air that tasted of the Atlantic and old wood. I stepped onto the cracked pavement of the Cape Haven station—which was really just a lean-to shed next to a closed-down gas station. The bus didn't linger. It roared back to life, its red taillights bleeding into the thick coastal fog until I was standing in absolute, crushing silence. I was alone. I clutched my duffel bag to my chest, my fingers so numb they felt like frozen sticks. My back was a dull roar of pain, and my stomach felt heavy, the baby settling low as if he, too, was exhausted from the flight. "We’re here," I whispere

Amara’s POV The rhythm of the sewing machine was the only thing that kept the ghosts at bay. Whir-clack. Whir-clack. For this past days, I was able to afford a small shop to continue my seam in cape Haven. I watched the silver needle pierce the heavy navy wool, trailing a thin line of white thread behind it. My back ached with a dull, insistent throb, a constant reminder that I was no longer carrying just my own weight. I shifted on the hard wooden stool, trying to find a position that didn't compress my lungs, but at nearly six months, "comfortable" was a word that had vanished from my vocabulary. "Rose? You okay, dear? You’ve been staring at that hem for five minutes." I blinked, looking up at Mrs. Lyra. She was a bird-like woman with spectacles that hung from a beaded chain, the owner of the tiny alterations shop that had become my fortress. She didn't know I was a