All Chapters of His contract Bride, His secret child : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Amara’s POV The boarding house room felt smaller than I remembered, the walls closing in like the sides of a wooden crate. I sat on the edge of the bed, my breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches. The taxi ride had been a gauntlet of potholes and sharp turns, each one feeling like a serrated blade across my midsection. I looked at the sewing machine. It sat under the single window, a cold, iron silhouette against the gray Belvidere sky. It was my only weapon, my only hope of paying the first installment of the crushing debt I had just signed my life away to. "One stitch at a time," I whispered, the words trembling. I forced myself to stand, my legs wobbling like a newborn’s. I reached for the bolt of midnight-blue velvet. I had three orders to finish—three women out there were waiting for "The Hidden Stitch" to deliver a piece of beauty. They didn't know the designer was currently

Amara’s POVThe fluorescent lights of the hospital hallway had become my sun, my stars, and my horizon. For weeks, I had measured time not in hours, but in the milliliter markings on a plastic syringe and the rhythmic hiss-click of Noah’s respiratory monitor.I stood at the billing window of Belvidere Memorial, my hand cramping as I clutched a worn leather purse. Inside was every cent I had earned from the midnight-blue gala gown and three smaller cocktail orders. It was a thick stack of bills, smelling of the lavender sachet I kept in my sewing kit to ward off the scent of the boarding house’s damp walls."This is four thousand," I said, sliding the envelope through the small gap in the plexiglass. My voice was a ghost of itself, thin and frayed. "It’s the first installment for the neonatal care."The woman behind the glass, whose name tag read Brenda, didn't look up as she counted the money with mechanical speed. Her fingers were yellowed from old habit, her movements devoid of the

Amara’s POVThe digital world is a strange, breathless place. It can turn a secret into a sensation in the span of a heartbeat, all while the person behind the screen is sitting in a room that smells of steam and iron.I sat on the floor of my boarding house room, leaning my back against the side of the bed. Noah was asleep, his chest rising and falling with a steady, rhythmic strength that made my own heart feel lighter. He was off the oxygen now, the portable concentrator sitting in the corner like a retired soldier. He was five months old, filling out with a healthy, soft roundness that I traced with my fingertips every morning just to be sure he was real.On my lap, my laptop was a window into a world I had once been cast out of.The Gilded Thread had officially launched the "Hidden Stitch" collection at midnight. I had watched the countdown timer hit zero with a hollow feeling in my stomach, expecting a shrug from the industry. Instead, I had witnessed a wildfire."Who is the gho

Amara’s POV The morning air in the coastal village of Oakhaven was crisp, scented with the sharp brine of the Atlantic and the sweet, yeasty aroma of Mrs. Higgins’ bakery. It was a town where people minded their own business, a quality I had paid a premium for when I chose this sanctuary. "Stay close, Noah," I said, my hand instinctively tightening on his. "I am, Mom. I’m a shadow, remember?" He looked up at me, his amber eyes dancing with mischief. He had his hood up, a habit I had encouraged since he was a toddler. To the world, he was just another local kid. To me, he was a walking lightning rod. We were in the village to pick up a special shipment of silk thread from the local courier office. Usually, I had everything delivered to the cottage, but a logistical error at the warehouse meant I had to sign for this particular crate in person. As we walked throug

Amara’s POV The bus to Philadelphia smelled of wet wool and industrial floor wax, a sensory assault that grounded me in the harsh reality of our flight. I sat in the penultimate row, the engine’s vibration rattling through the soles of my boots. Noah was slumped against my side, his small head bobbing with every pothole the driver hit. He was clutching his backpack—the one containing his rock collection and a single, battered picture book—as if it were the only tether he had left to the world. He didn't ask why we had left the cottage. He didn't ask why Mommy’s hands were shaking as she shoved clothes into duffel bags. At five, Noah possessed a terrifyingly intuitive grasp of shadows. He knew when the "Invisible Game" became real. "Mom?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the highway. "Yes, baby?" "Is the ocean going to miss us?"