All Chapters of Billionaire Boss? Nah, Just A Possessive Husband!: Chapter 281 - Chapter 290

Mum watched me, seeing the way I couldn’t quite meet her eye.She sighed, a sound that was equal parts disappointment and relief. ‘Oh, Hyacinth. Well, if you know it’s impossible, that’s… good, I guess. I just worry you’ll get one of your ideas in your head and charge ahead, no matter what anyone says. Like before.’She was talking about Cary. I knew, with a certainty that ached, that if she hadn’t been so desperately ill back then, she would have physically barred the door to stop me marrying him.To this day, she refused to believe I’d married rich, charming Cary Grant because I’d fallen stupidly in love. She was convinced I’d done it as a transaction, to get the money for her heart transplant.I didn’t want to dig up that graveyard. It was done. And given the same choice, I’d do it again to save her. ‘Mum, I’m not going to be stupid again,’ I said, my voice quiet.‘Look.’ She came over and took my hands. Her own were warm and slightly damp from the shopping. ‘Mr Hastings is exceptio

‘Nothing,’ I said, straightening up and smoothing my skirt. ‘We shouldn’t be talking about this at work. It’s against the rules. I’ve got to get back to it.’I gave his shoulder a patronising pat, picked up my tablet, and walked out.The rest of the morning passed in a tedious cycle. I buzzed in and out like a worker bee.He never brought up the dinner again.Jaclyn, however, was politely insistent.In the end, I simply texted her his direct number, which I was ninety-nine per cent sure she already had, and wrote: [I’m not in charge of Mr Hastings’s private social schedule. It would be best to contact him directly.]Then came the business dinner. A special circle of hell populated by three older investors who seemed to believe a deal couldn’t be consecrated without a blood sacrifice of vintage claret.They were monstrously, relentlessly fond of the bottle, toasting everything from the weather to the decline of the high street with grim, ritualistic enthusiasm.Kai and I exchanged a gla

He smoothed a strand of hair behind my ear. ‘They won’t. So stop worrying. If anyone gives you trouble, you tell me. I’ll handle it. You don’t need to be afraid of any of it.’I looked up at him, at his earnest, handsome face in the dim light. ‘Alright. Okay.’I stood up from the swing, closed the small distance between us, and wound my arms around his neck. I went up on my toes and kissed him.I put everything I had into that kiss. All the pretended faith, the manufactured confidence, the willingness to believe his pretty promises. I kissed him like I was all in.He responded instantly, his arms locking around my waist, pulling me flush against him. The kiss deepened, turning hungry, relieved, almost fervent with a kind of victory.See? Easy. He just needed to feel he’d reassured me, that he’d secured his ground.We broke apart at the sound of someone’s footsteps, breathing unevenly, foreheads touching.‘Change of venue.’ I scooped up my discarded shopping bags, took his hand, and led

Mum answered for me.‘Ah.’ He nodded slowly, as if confirming a profound theory. ‘And the month?’‘April.’‘April…’ he repeated, the word drawn out into a sigh of deep significance.‘Why do you ask, Mr Lockwood?’ Mum’s voice was steady, but I could see the pulse fluttering in her throat.Aaron just looked wistful, lost in some private archive of memory.I looked at him, then looked at my mother.Oh, god. A horrific, soap-opera-worthy idea slammed into me.Did Aaron Lockwood think I was his secret love child?No, wait, that didn’t fit the ‘you look like my dead wife’ bit.Unless… his dead wife looked like my mother?Was this some twisted ‘you remind me of my lost love’ scenario?Was he here for me or my mum?Ding-dong!The doorbell chimed, a cheerful sound that felt violently out of place.I moved like an automaton to answer it.On the step stood Rhonda Higgins, resplendent in a floral explosion that could have caused seizures, and beside her, Andre.‘Hyacinth, pet! You are home!’ Rhond

As I got into my car, I thought about calling Grandma Alison.She loved a good gossip and had a memory like a steel trap. She’d know the real story.But would she tell me? Or was this one of those family secrets everyone agreed to bury?As I turned out of my parents’ street, a glint of silver caught my eye.A sleek, anonymous-looking sedan was parked a few houses down. It looked familiar in that vague, expensive way. The windows were tinted to oblivion, giving nothing away.Probably nothing. I pushed it out of my mind.Given the complete train wreck my morning had been, and the fact I was already catastrophically late, I figured another half hour wouldn’t tip the scales from ‘fired’ to ‘merely crucified’.I drove straight to a 24-hour jet wash, shoved a small fortune in coins into the machine, and gave my poor Fiat the most thorough, vigorous, almost punitive scrubbing of its life.No one needed to know what those seats had witnessed just a few hours before dawn.I slunk into the Velos