Todos los capítulos de THE BILLIONAIRE SUGAR BABY: Capítulo 1 - Capítulo 10

The apartment was small enough that she could hear her own breathing if she held still long enough. Which she did, sometimes. Just to make sure the breathing was still happening.Saturday came faster than expected. She’d spent most of Friday night and all of Thursday doing the things that needed doing laundry, emails to people she didn’t want to email back, the usual maintenance of staying alive. She’d also spent approximately sixteen hours staring at her closet, which contained exactly twelve pieces of clothing that were worth keeping, and none of them said I belong at a gala in Cannes.The money had arrived in the account he’d somehow obtained. Fifty thousand dollars. She’d moved it immediately to another account, the one that wasn’t attached to her real name, because keeping money in one place was how people got found. She still had maybe forty thousand left in the original account. It was sitting there like a trap that hadn’t been sprung yet.She bought the dress on Friday afterno

The light came through the windows before she woke.Nyx’s eyes opened to the Mediterranean sun so bright it felt like a weapon. For exactly three seconds, she didn’t remember where she was. Then it all came back his hands, his mouth, the way he’d said, “Let me see you,” like it was both a threat and a promise she’d already broken.She was alone.The sheets were expensive enough to feel illegal against her skin. The faint smell of his cologne lingered on the pillow, that underneath cologne smell that made her brain short circuit. On the nightstand, a coffee cup steamed gently. He’d been gone maybe five minutes.Her stomach flipped not from hunger. From last night. From the knowledge that she had obliterated every boundary she’d set for herself. She sat up. The room tilted slightly champagne, lust, or both.A note lay on the dresser. His handwriting was precise, the kind of precise born from early control: Breakfast on the terrace. Wear the robe.A robe was already laid out. Silk. Proba

The apartment was beautiful in the way that things designed to trap you usually are.Nyx stepped through the doors and felt the air change. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of space that had been prepared for her arrival, which meant someone had known she was coming before she did.Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Seine. The furniture was minimal, expensive, the kind of minimalism that cost money to achieve. But what caught her attention was the safe room door barely visible, disguised as a wall panel and the security cameras in the corners.“Welcome to Paris,” Liora said.She was standing in the kitchen like she’d been waiting, which she probably had. She was thinner than before, or maybe the cancer was just becoming visible beneath the skin. Either way, she looked like something that was burning from the inside out.“How long have you owned this place?” Nyx asked.“Since Vane was seventeen. I bought it when his father was still alive.” Liora poured a glass of wine at 3 PM like it

The penthouse in Milan was colder than the one in Monaco.Not a temperature that was perfectly controlled, always exactly 71 degrees. Cold in the way that spaces designed by people who’d learned to distance themselves felt cold. All glass and steel and the kind of minimalism that suggested emotion was clutter.Vane had brought her here three days after Paris. Three days of her agreeing to “stay,” three days of learning what staying actually meant.It meant the private jet. It meant a wardrobe arriving not from the department stores where she’d shopped for the gala dress, but from designers who came to the penthouse with portfolios and champagne. It meant being fitted for clothes while Vane watched from the couch like he was conducting an orchestra and she was an instrument being tuned.“That one,” he said, pointing at a dress in deep emerald silk.The designer, a woman named Margot who wore clothes the way other people wore armor, held it up. It was beautiful in the way that expensive

The train to Marseille left at 6:47 AM.Nyx had chosen it deliberately. Not the jet Vane could track jets. Not a car he’d have every highway monitored by now. A train meant crowds. Meant anonymity. Meant she could disappear into the spaces between people while he was still trying to figure out which direction she’d gone.She’d packed nothing. Just the clothes on her body and the key to Prague in her jacket pocket. Everything else, the emerald dress, the diamond necklace, the Valentino shoes she’d left on the bed like artifacts from a life that wasn’t hers anymore.The platform was crowded with morning commuters. Business people. Students. The kind of ordinary humans who didn’t understand that they were standing next to someone choosing between two deaths: the death of staying, or the death of going.She found a seat by the window. I watched Milan disappear.Her phone had been buzzing for the last forty minutes. Vane calling, texting, probably tracking her location through the GPS he’d